1
Drew
Iwalk into the most important job interview of my life knowing every word out of my mouth will be a lie. The résumé and references in my bag are all fake, but thanks to one of my close friends, a white-hat hacker, no one will ever know.
I will get this job. I will get my answers. There’s no other acceptable alternative.
I repeat those vows to myself as I leave my security escort behind with a smile and push open the heavy carved wooden door to the Upper Ten, the most exclusive cigar club in Manhattan. Instead of smoke hanging in the air, the luxurious interior reeks of money and secrets.
Perfect.Secrets are exactly why I’m here.
“Can I help you, miss?”
A man with no neck in a tailored suit approaches me as soon as the door leading to the club foyer slips shut behind me with a whoosh of air that blows my skirt into a flutter around my legs. His bald head shines under the recessed lighting of the impressive room.
Through the thick glass wall to my left, I can see what brings some of the richest men in the world into this insanely expensive, members-only club—a massive humidor containing row after row of wooden boxes filled with fat cigars. From my research, I know that sources estimate the value of the stock in that large humidity-controlled room atmillions of dollars.
Hefting my bag and swinging the tresses of my long blond wig over my shoulder, I give him a sweet smile. “I’m here for an interview, actually, with Mr.—”
“She’s with me.” A voice, deep and smooth like the thousand-dollar-a-glass cognac they no doubt serve here, comes from behind the bull guarding the door.
My gaze darts around the doorman and catches on an imposing figure in a bespoke suit with subtle navy pinstripes. The lines hang perfectly on his tall, rangy frame.
It’s him.My target ... and hopefully my new boss.
Except the man in person is worlds apart from the man on paper. I thought I was prepared to come face-to-face with him, but mere ink on a page can’t convey his powerful presence. In the high-ceilinged antechamber, his authoritative posture commands more attention than the bulk and muscle of the doorman beside him, and with nothing more than the sound of his voice.
A voice I recognize.
Not because we’ve ever been in the same room before, but because I went through dozens of hours of audio and video before applying for this job at the Upper Ten. I’ve read article after article and unearthed every available public record that hasn’t been erased on this man and his family.
As I tense, I force myself to visualize him behind bars, wearing an orange jumpsuit. The exercise helps me regain my calm.
I can do this. I’ve done it dozens of times. Deception isn’t new to me. It’s my job.
As soon as I’m centered, I look up, pinning an eager, yet slightly nervous smile to my face. It’s a mask, but he’ll never know.
There’s only one problem. When his rich hazel eyes, a mix of whiskey and bright green, collide with mine, an unwelcome bolt of heat slams into me in pure female appreciation.
No. No. No.That’s not supposed to happen. Truly, this is theoppositeof what’s supposed to happen. I’m supposed to be cold and indomitable, because I knew he’d be intimidating as hell. I promised myself I’d be immune. Unaffected. It doesn’t matter to me that he’s the bastard son of the most infamous mob boss in the city. But my denial doesn’t help, because I dismissed a seriously important fact when I was prepping for this day.
Cannon Freeman is a god among men.Shit.How is that even possible? Especially knowing what he has to be involved in?
I try to shove the annoying awareness of him aside, but it’s nearly impossible while he’s standing there, staring at me with those enthralling eyes.
His suit jacket clings to the sleek, strong lines of his broad shoulders and nips in to accentuate a slim waist, before his slacks hang perfectly off his hips.
Goddammit.Not fair.
Randi warned me I was underestimating him. My across-the-hall apartment neighbor told me that looking at Cannon would make my nipples peak, my thighs clench, and my brain fill with images of him bending me over the nearest flat surface or pinning me up against the closest wall. I chalked that up to Randi being ... well, Randi. A.k.a.Everyone’s Slept with Downtown Randi Brown. She’s the kind of woman who gets men drunk so she can fuckthem. She says her guy friends call her a dude with tits, and I can’t disagree, even though she’s one hundred percent female.
But the last thing I expected was for her to be absolutely right about this.
Cannon tilts his head to the side and waits for me to reply. “Unless you’re not Drew Carson?” he asks with a lilt of humor underlying the question.
His rising eyebrow and questioning smirk nearly put me over the edge.He’s supposed to be a villain. A monster. How can he look like he’s trying not to laugh at me in my stunned silence?
Snapping myself out of my temporary stupor, I widen my smile and force everything aside except my goal.