Trapped by the Tycoon

Sinclair could turn down a lingerie model without looking up.

Me, he wanted in a slept-in T-shirt and three-day hair.

Same man. Both true.

She came first. Red dress, draped over him at the bar, asking if he wanted company. He didn't glance up from his glass.

You're itching, he said. Go take a cold shower.

Then me. Three days without washing my hair. Zero makeup. The T-shirt I'd slept in.

I shuffled into the lobby looking like something the storm spat out, and the second he saw me, his throat worked like he was swallowing something with edges.

"Stop seducing me," he said, low.

A beat.

"But I'm free tonight."

Another beat.

"Your place, or mine?"

Chapter 1

My best friend booked a birthday night out. Just us, I thought.

Halfway through, she took a call and lit up.

"Ohh. My old crew's coming to celebrate too."

Sloane's an heiress. Her "old crew" is old-money boys who summer in places I can't spell. Not my world.

I reached for my bag. "Don't you dare," she said, squeezing my shoulder. "Stay, they're sweet. I have to grab someone at the door. Sinclair. My whole family basically bows to the man."

Then she paused in the doorway, grinning like a cat with a secret.

"Oh. I also booked us a treat. A male model. One of those cold, gorgeous types, here to feed us fruit. Two grand for the night." She winked. "He'll be up any minute. Enjoy him before the crowd shows."

Gone.

A few minutes later the door opened.

I looked up, and stalled.

Because the man was, objectively, a lot.

Heavy-lidded, languid dark eyes. Shoulders that took up room. A black shirt, a thin diamond-cut chain at his throat that probably out-priced my rent.

Two grand a night. You get what you pay for.

Also, good for him. Easy money.

He looked me over, unbothered, and spoke in a lazy drawl.

"Sloane's room?"

Sloane's my best friend. "That's the one," I said.

"Mm." He turned toward the far end of the couch.

"Wait."

He lifted his eyes. "What?"

I patted the cushion beside me. "Sit here instead."

He looked at me like I'd said something in a language he half-recognized.

"There's a crowd coming," I explained, kindly. "You'll be more comfortable over here."

His expression did something I couldn't name. He looked me up and down, one brow ticking up.

"Sure."

He sat. Didn't bother with small talk. Just picked at the fruit plate and scrolled his phone, profile sharp, radiating do-not-approach.

Cold gorgeous type. Right on the label. But Sloane already paid, and a job's a job.

For instance, he could quit hogging the plate and feed me a piece.

I poked his arm. "Um. I want some too."

He went still. Nudged the plate my way. "Sorry."

I didn't move. I just looked at his hand.

His eyes narrowed. "You want me to feed you."

I nodded, shy about it. "Is that okay?"

Might as well try the luxury service while it's quiet. Once the room fills up, I'll lose the nerve.

Chapter 2

The look he gave me shifted, slow, like he was watching a bad pickup line unfold in real time.

Then he let out a short breath that was almost a laugh.

"You're not like the ones who throw themselves at me," he said. "You're Sloane's friend?"

"Yep."

"Name?"

"Wren."

Weird. Do male models vet the guests now?

"She didn't tell you who I am?"

"She did."

"And?"

"She said you're the"

The words hired male model never made it out of my mouth.

The door banged open and a crowd poured in. Sloane spotted us and her whole face went bright.

"Sinclair! I was waiting for you at the door. How are you already up here?"

Beside me, the "model" set down his drink.

"Too loud out there," he drawled. "Came in for the fruit. Got acquainted with your friend." A pause. "She's entertaining."

I looked at Sloane. I looked at him.

Somewhere behind my eyes, the power went out.

The party roared. Two people didn't.

One was Sinclair. He didn't touch the drinking games, just lounged against the couch while every rich boy in the room angled toward him, deferential even mid-joke, like the temperature in the room set itself by his mood.

The other was me. Head down. Mute. If the floor had cracked open I'd have climbed in. I did not look left.

Sloane leaned in, baffled I wouldn't even eat the fruit the "model" kept sliding my way.

"What's wrong? Did his whole aura scare you? Did he say something?"

"No."

"Then what?"

I put my lips to her ear and confessed the whole disaster.

She clamped her mouth shut. Fought it. Nearly lost.

"Should I go apologize right now?" I whispered, dying.

"God, no."

"Why not?"

"Apologize, and he finds out you took him for hired help. That, he remembers. And a man like him can end you with one call and a smile." She patted my knee. "Say nothing, and you're just a girl who flirted badly. Worst case, you lose a little face. Which do you want?"

I'm not an idiot. I picked losing face.

Do the math. An apology buys a permanent enemy with a private jet. A bad flirt buys one cringe I never revisit.

I took the cheaper option and breathed.

Two drinks later, Sloane, as the birthday girl, launched a new game. Secret dares. Everyone but Sinclair drew a card. Finish it before the night ends, or buy the whole tab.

I looked at the wall of liquor that cost more than a year of my salary. Then at my card.

Get the number of the person on your left.

On my left.

Chapter 3

Sinclair.

I gripped my phone and stole a glance left.

He looked up from his screen. "What?"

"N-nothing."

I turned back, guilty. Peace held. For a minute.

I snuck another look, opened my mouth, lost my nerve.

"You need something?"

"Nope."

Peace held. Then he almost laughed under his breath, and my whole spine went to wire.

How do you ask a man like this for his number without making it a thing? On the third peek my face went hot and blotchy, and that time our eyes met dead on. He'd been watching me for who knows how long.

He clocked the color in my cheeks and arched a brow.

"If you want my number, just ask."

He'd read the dare right off my face.

I fumbled my phone up and flashed my profile. "Um. Is that okay?"

"It's fine." He followed me back. "But next time you flirt, be direct."

Who flirted?

Whatever. Dare complete.

After I followed him, I didn't dare bother the man, and I definitely didn't dare unfollow him. I just let him sit in my following list, untouched. Him deciding what came next. Me deciding to keep my head down.

The next day I was off. My niece, who's in grade school, came over and immediately confiscated my phone. I handed it over and went to make her lunch.

"Auntie, I wanna play match-three."

"Download whatever you want, sweetheart."

"Auntie, your Instagram doesn't even auto-like. That's so uncool."

Figuring auto-like was some new game, I didn't look up. "Download that too, then."

"Okay!"

She went back to the phone, thrilled. After she left I didn't touch the apps she'd installed. Save them for next time.

One week passed. Two.

Then, over dinner, Sloane squinted at me.

"Wren. You got a lot of free time lately?"

"No, I'm slammed."

"Then explain this. Every single thing I post, you're the first like. I post at 3 a.m., first like. Instantly. Like you live on my page. If I didn't know you, I'd think you were in love with me."

"What?"

"I haven't opened Instagram in two weeks. How am I liking anything?"

"Weird. You install one of those auto-liker bots?"

Auto-like.

The word my niece kept saying.

Oh.

Not a game, then.

"My niece was on my phone. She must've set it up. Killing it right now."

I opened the app and shut the bot off. No more liking every soul alive at 3 a.m.

Two days later, the man who'd been lying quiet in my following list all this time sent me one cryptic little line.

Him: [So this is the play?]

I held my phone and stared. Not a clue what it meant.

I didn't reply. Figured the rich boy had just texted the wrong person.

But at dinner with Sloane after work, there was one extra chair filled.

Sinclair.

Dressed down, and already watching me.

Chapter 4

Black tee, cargo pants, all sharp bones and easy swagger. Like something that stepped off a billboard.

Except his face was set to thunderstorm, like the world owed him an apology, and my polite hello earned nothing but a cold sound in his throat.

Sloane leaned in, low. "He called and insisted on dinner. Babe, my dad has to give up his seat when this man walks into a room. I couldn't exactly say no. Bear with it, I'll take you somewhere amazing tomorrow to make up for it."

"It's fine. I don't mind."

She relaxed and waved us both to eat.

The food was expensive and mostly not my thing. The one dish I wanted, a flaky little pot pie, sat right in front of him. Reaching across that glare with my fork felt like a genuinely bad idea.

Then it hit me. While he and Sloane talked, I stood, casual, and swapped two plates. The pot pie came to me. The pan-seared fish in front of me went to him.

Mid-sentence, Sinclair stopped. Looked at me. Dark eyes, and the flat line of his mouth curving up.

Somehow the storm that had sat on his face all night broke clean.

His whole expression said one thing: I knew it.

I have never seen a man look that vindicated over a piece of fish.

As he speared a bite of the fish, Sloane leaned to my ear, suspicious. "Babe. How'd you know Sinclair likes fish?"

I blinked, equally lost. "I don't. I just wanted the pie."

She let it drop. So did I. But his mood turned, visibly. He ate well, even split a drink with Sloane.

I ate happy too. Nice night.

After, everyone headed out. One snag.

Sinclair and Sloane had both been drinking. No driving. Sloane's driver swept her off; Sinclair dropped straight into the driver's seat of his own car.

That scared me. You see the news. Drunk driver crashes, and the friends from dinner get sued into oblivion.

Not happening. I bolted over and grabbed his door.

"S-Sinclair. Are you driving home?"

"So?"

"Let me. I have a license, I can drive. You've been drinking, it's not safe alone."

He'd only sat down to rest until his driver came. Now he just looked at me, eyes full of something I couldn't read. Amusement. And a kind of helpless, indulgent surrender.

"I'll give you one shot, then."

Like he was granting me a favor. I was trying to save his life. I do not understand how rich boys' brains work.

I got him settled in the back, buckled him in, and slid up front. The car was a G-Wagon. First time behind the wheel of anything with seven figures on the sticker, and even quiet, careful me got a little giddy.

I took a slow breath. Stay calm.

From the back, half-lidded, he laughed, soft and low and a little hoarse.

"Wren. You seem excited."

"N-no."

Chapter 5

"Yeah?"

"Um. Sinclair, where do you live?"

"You don't know?"

I blinked. Was I supposed to?

"Nope."

He laughed again, for reasons I couldn't follow. "Ashcroft Manor. I posted the location."

I scratched my cheek, small-town and sheepish. Ah. He'd flexed it online. Shame I'd been too buried in work to properly admire the flex.

I drove him carefully back to a house that cost more than a zip code. The liquor was catching up; he walked in like the floor had a slope to it. Nothing for it but to prop him up myself.

Rich people. Even the front door ran on an iris scanner.

I played human crutch all the way to the bedroom and got him lying down. He dropped off fast, breathing shallow. Scared he'd be sick in his sleep and choke, I wedged a second pillow under his head and rolled him onto his side.

By the time I finished I was sweating through my shirt, red to the ears. He looks lean. He is not. All that muscle is dense and heavy, and my arms were done.

I wiped my face to go, and caught his shoes still on. Fine. In for a penny. A six-figure mattress shouldn't take a shoe to it. I pulled them off and dragged a blanket over him.

There. Nobody dies tonight.

Pleased with myself, I headed for the door, and short-circuited.

The scanner worked both ways. I couldn't get out either.

Trapped, I curled up on his couch, which was bigger and softer than my actual bed. Slept great.

I woke on my own the next morning and nearly launched off the cushions.

Sinclair sat across from me, watching, eyes dark. No telling how long he'd been there. He looked like a man working out what to do about the stranger squatting in his living room.

I scrambled to explain. "So, last night I drove you home, and then I tried to leave, but the door"

"I know," he cut in. And his voice had gone slow, low, the edge sanded off it. "You don't have to explain. Thank you. For the pillow. And the shoes." A beat. "Go clean up."

I read it as get out and nodded fast. "Right, yes."

Except once I'd washed up, he insisted on driving me home to change. I'd lose my attendance bonus if I clocked in late, so I didn't fight it. Then he drove me to the office. Then he asked me to dinner. I had to work late, so I passed, gentle.

He didn't bristle. Just nodded. "No problem. When you're free, then."

The whole thing was eerily, impossibly calm.

A coworker peered over. "Wren, is that your boyfriend? He's gorgeous."

I shook my head. "No. Friend of a friend. He drank last night, I looked after him, he's just saying thanks by driving me in."

She let it go. I didn't give it a second thought. Head down, back to work.

Then, mid-morning, Sloane called. There was a strange thrill in her voice.

"Babe. Sinclair just asked me what color roses you like."

"Roses? For me?"

"Yes. Confess. When did you two start sneaking around behind my back?"

I was lost. "We didn't. We barely know each other."

Chapter 6

"You don't send a stranger flowers. Not a whole wall of them."

"To say thanks," I said.

I told her about driving drunk Sinclair home.

Sloane wasn't sold. "That's not him. I've known the man twenty years. He does not do gratitude bouquets."

"Then what does he send bouquets for?"

"Chasing someone." Her voice jumped. "Wren. I think Sinclair wants to date you."

That evening a wall of red roses landed at my door, the absurd, too-many kind you'd need a second set of arms to carry. A card tucked in the middle, one line, in English.

The intent was not subtle.

I didn't get it. When exactly had he decided he was into me?

For the first time, I opened our chat myself. Nothing there but the follow notification and that one baffling line from days ago: So this is the play?

I typed a thank-you.

Me: [Thank you. The flowers arrived.]

He fired back instantly.

Him: [You like them?]

Me: [I do. But please, don't send more. I don't even own a vase. It's a waste.]

He apparently did not hear the no.

Him: [Fine. No more flowers. I'll pick you up after work instead. Take you to dinner.]

Me: [That's not really appropriate.]

Him: [Where's the problem?]

I gathered my nerve and got blunter.

Me: [I'm just some nine-to-five nobody. You're not. We don't really fit.]

A silence on his end.

Him: [So this is why you never say it straight. You'd rather reel me in on the quiet.]

Him: [All those moves, and still too scared to cast the line?]

Reel him in?

Who reeled anyone in?

Who had any moves?

I started typing a demand for answers. Sinclair settled it in one shot.

Him: [Relax. My turn to chase you now.]

Sinclair chased in broad daylight, at full volume, like something in him had been unsealed