"You serious?" Portia Pierce asked for the nth time in twenty minutes.

"Yes."

"You're really dumping that playboy?"

"I am."

"Are you still the High C I know-or did aliens possess you?" my best friend yelled down the line. "Whoever you are, get out of High C's body! By the power of Christ, begone!"

I frowned, lying on the couch in my new apartment, and moved the phone slightly away from my ear. "Have you been watching The Exorcist again?"

"You being able to name my favorite movie proves you're probably still the original High C." Portia quickly accepted my decision to divorce and immediately switched gears. "Then we have to celebrate! The Verve, eleven tonight. Put on your sluttiest dress and your tackiest makeup! I won't leave until I've introduced you to the sexiest man in the club tonight!" She hung up before I could refuse.

Which was fine-I wasn't going to refuse.

Clubs weren't really my scene anymore, but if I wanted to cut Cary Grant out of my life cleanly, the divorce papers alone weren't enough. Marrying a billionaire required corporate compliance and board-level approvals, or so Cary's mother had told me.

She needed time to make sure my exit wouldn't rattle the family business-and that took thirty days.

Anyway, I'd already got two signed copies of the agreement. For the last thirty days, pretending to be a compliant wife wasn't that hard.

After I left Cary, I'd need to find a new job. No rush-the settlement would keep me comfortable.

What I worried about most was how to tell my parents I was divorced.

They were conservative. When I told them I'd married suddenly three years ago, they disapproved-convinced I had sold myself to a billionaire to pay for my mother's illness.

Cary's attention had eased their worries back then, even if it had all been an act.

No point fretting over things that hadn't happened yet. For now, I wanted to enjoy a little freedom.

I got up at Portia's command and smeared on heavy eye makeup, applied lip gloss so loud it practically screamed "come get me," but I ignored the instruction to wear my sleaziest dress.

Of course I had miniskirts-yes, some of them were short enough to almost show a cheek back when I was younger-and sky-high heels. But I wanted any trust-fund boys I might meet at the club to think I was a woman with curves and brains, not a cheap slut willing to trade a business card for a quickie in a restroom.

When I arrived, Portia nearly stripped me down to lingerie-she wanted me in something that would have suited a charity gala.

I grabbed her. "I want to taste the expensive drinks first, then find a dick to fuck."

She relented reluctantly, though her eyes promised she'd make sure that happened tonight.

She dragged me up to the mezzanine. The thick walls and soundproofed carpet finally muted the bass so I could hear myself think.

"The handsome crowd won't show up until midnight," she said as she settled onto a velvet booth. "That means we've got an hour. You can tell me everything, down enough drinks to flush Cary's toxins out of your system, and then be ready to celebrate with the first man who makes you want to kiss him."

A handsome waiter holding menus cleared his throat awkwardly, reminding us to order.

Portia winked at him, ordered a French martini for herself, a cosmopolitan for me, and popped a bottle of champagne. When he left, she turned back.

"All right, spill," she said.

So I did. Portia was the perfect listener-gasping when appropriate, cursing the other woman with no mercy, and saving the fiercest fire for Cary.

"Probably the tits," she concluded. "Nothing's wrong with your face-any guy with eyes can see that. So it must be the tits."

I rolled my eyes. "Are you trying to persuade me to get a boob job?"

"Hey, I own Seraphina Clinic. I'm proud of our world-class results." She cupped her chest and pushed up, like a TV-shopping demo.

I laughed. "Don't push too hard-your babies will pop out."

"That's a win for you, right? And profit for him." She flirted with the waiter who'd just brought another round; he blinked back at her.

Afraid Portia might go off and have sex with the waiter right here, I waved him away. Then I heard my name.

Our booth wasn't fully enclosed; a screen separated us from the next table, so it was easy to overhear.

"Really?" a young man's voice said-high and floaty, as if drunk or drugged.

"Really. I have a source-on the floor with the boss's office. He said he saw a woman go into Cary's office and not come out for half an hour. When Hyacinth went in, the woman was still inside." Another voice, raspy and smoky, at least in his twenties, added.

Portia glanced at me, eyes sharp. I shrugged.

"Oh my God-office sex. Cary's a legend!" the conversation continued.

"No surprise. We all know Cary doesn't respect his-what's the term-peasant wife. She should accept it quietly. Sure, she lost her dignity, but she got gold, right?"

"Tonight she watched her husband fuck someone live. That's different," the drunk one said with schadenfreude. "Bet she's at home crying buckets. Poor thing-I feel like hugging her."

The smoky-voiced man sneered. "Hug? Or fuck?"

"Who says I can't do both?" the drunk grinned. "I've got her number. Maybe I'll call her later. Her ass is the tightest in SoHo-I've wanted to fuck her since the first day I saw her."

I leaned back, found the control panel, and pressed a button. The wall to our right flashed and turned transparent. Drunk Rick Hatchett froze mid-sentence, dumbfounded.

Portia slid me a can of pepper spray.

"No," I shook my head, hit the call-waiter button, and stood. I walked straight into their booth. Four men stared-fish-eyed, mouths open.

I went up to Rick. "Hi, Rick."

When we'd first met last year at a charity ball, he'd played the perfect gentleman. Turns out his so-called dancing had been foreplay for groping my "perky ass."

"Oh-hi, Hyacinth. Didn't expect to see you here. I hadn't heard Cary was around." His smile was brittle; he kept glancing at the transparent wall, probably hoping it would become soundproof.

"Of course he's not here," I said, smiling back. "But isn't that the best part?"

"What?!" Rick gaped.

"I mean-you just said you've been dying to fuck my ass." I repeated his words.

"No, I was joking." Rick jumped up, flustered. "I can apologize."

"You serious?" I cocked my head, smiled sweetly. "Since you're so interested in my ass-why don't you buy me a drink?"

His eyes widened, but my tone inflated his ego. "Of course. Anything you want," he said, grinning.

"Perfect." I reached behind the bar, picked the most expensive whisky on the shelf, and walked toward him with a smile that would make anyone kneel.

"Let me-" he began, trying to be the faux-gentleman.

Without hesitation, I smashed the bottle over his head. Glass shattered; the golden liquid mixed with his blood as it rained down his suit.

Everything happened so fast and so shockingly that everyone watched, stunned.

I was perfectly calm. I turned to the nearest waiter and smiled. "Put this on his tab. He insisted on buying it for me."

Rick snapped back to himself. "You bitch!" He lunged at me.

I realized there was a window behind me-but before he could reach me, a voice rumbled through the room: "You just called my wife a bitch?"

Everyone froze as if turned into ice, not daring to make a sound. They would never dare mock me in front of Cary.

I knew Cary-he could humiliate me, but that didn't mean anyone could, not even his mother. I summed it up as a chauvinistic, perverse possessiveness.

Cary was tall; even in a suit his presence made the air hard to breathe. He filled the space like a beast. Rick's face had gone the color of the dead.

"Cary, I was drunk. It was just a joke-" the man stammered.

"Cary? I don't remember knowing you," Cary's voice vibrated from his chest, and Rick immediately dropped to his knees.

"Mr. Grant, I apologize. I was stupid, pathetic; how dare I humiliate your wife." Rick begged.

"Apologize to my wife, not to me," Cary said coldly.

"Mrs. Grant, I'm sorry. Will you forgive me?" Rick looked at me; the wound on his head needed attention. I didn't press him further.

"Just go," I said.

But Cary grabbed Rick's collar again. "Listen. This is the last warning. From today on, I don't want to see your face in this city. Do you understand?"

Rick nodded frantically and stumbled backward until he almost ran out.

Seeing Rick like that, nobody else was in the mood to party; everyone was frightened and left. Portia gripped my arm-she knew about my separation from Cary and that it couldn't be made public for another thirty days. She couldn't just drag me out.

"Do you want to go?" she asked, looking at me.

I nodded and then turned to Cary. "Thank you. I'll go home now," I said gratefully. Cary was an asshole, that I knew, but he also helped when needed. If I hadn't fallen in love with him, this would have been the perfect ending.

"What are you doing here?" Cary grabbed me, then glanced at my outfit. "Why are you dressed like this?"

Dressed like this? I looked down-just a tight dress, shoulders and arms exposed. The only excessive thing was the way my curves showed, like a second skin. Portia had even teased that it wasn't proper club attire.

"I don't recall signing a curfew agreement," I said sarcastically. "Everyone else in this club is more revealing than I am."

"You're my wife. You shouldn't be at a club," Cary said coldly.

"Newsflash-we have an agreement. I'm your secret wife; no one knows me except your high-society friends," I shot back.

Cary tightened his grip on my wrist. I frowned at him. Suddenly I didn't want to give in. I knew if I told him, "Okay, I was wrong," he would let me go, and I'd get my payout faster.

That thought left a hollow in me. I hated that feeling. "Or do you want to make me publicly your wife?" I ground out.

The flame in Cary's eyes could have burned me to ashes.

"Cary, what's going on? My brother is waiting for you." A gentle female voice suddenly cut through the tension.

The woman came over and slipped her arm through Cary's. Her gaze paused on my face with a hint of puzzlement.

"She's nobody important-just my secretary. I saw her being bothered and came to help," Cary said, releasing me.

I felt Portia's look could kill. I met her eyes. I suddenly didn't want to be an invisible wife anymore.

I collapsed into Cary's arms. "Boss, I'm dizzy. Can you take me to the hospital?"

I saw the warning in Cary's eyes, but boldly shoved that woman aside. I recognized her-not a gold digger, but Vanessa, the sister of the lead on a major project our company had recently partnered with.

She was an important client.

I buried my face in Cary's chest. "Really-I need emergency care."

I figured Cary would push me away the next second, but unexpectedly he pushed Vanessa aside and held me instead. "Tell your brother I need to take my secretary to the hospital."

"What?! No! Cary?!" Vanessa shrieked. "You know how important this cooperation is!"

But Cary ignored her and led me into the elevator. His heart pounded fast; I didn't know what he intended.

I was frightened; I rarely angered him. As soon as we were in the elevator I struggled to get down.

Cary slammed me against the elevator wall in anger. "Listen, I know you're still sulking about the office incident. I can allow it-let's call it a little kink between us."

He bit my ear as he spoke. I didn't dare move; I curled my body as small as possible. Then, suddenly, Cary pushed my skirt up.

"Are you crazy? There's surveillance!" I screamed and grabbed his large hand. Although I knew Cary would handle the surveillance, public exposure still terrified me.

"You're the crazy one. You stalk me and then come here to catch me in the act," he sneered.

What? I was just here to indulge with Portia. How was I to know he would bring his new mistress here? I shouted, "I didn't! Why would I do that? I don't love you."

The air went suddenly silent. Cary's gaze turned ice-cold, different from his earlier fury-like my words had wounded his pride.

I don't love him-wasn't that what he wanted?

Suddenly the elevator dinged and the doors opened again. Cary blocked me; I looked down and saw a pair of well-made black leather shoes, black suit pants wrapping long straight legs, big hands hanging beside pockets. Cary nodded politely at him. "I have to go ahead."

Clearly a big shot-someone of equal standing.

I kept my head down and followed Cary out. I didn't dare linger, but I still felt the man's contemptuous gaze, as if I were nothing but a cheap whore.

I was indeed-no man would humiliate his wife in an elevator.

Once inside Cary's car, the driver discreetly raised the partition. I folded myself up as small as possible, as far from Cary the bastard as I could.

The quiet was broken only by my breathing. I refused to speak.

Cary suddenly sighed. "I'm going to discuss the project. You storming into the club and making a scene doesn't help-you look especially foolish, ugly, like a shrew, don't you think?"

I wanted to retort, but I thought of the divorce pending. No need to explain. "Anything else?" I asked, wanting to know what other insults he had lined up.

"If you want to stay with me long-term, stop these unnecessary suspicions. I don't have time to care for your emotions," Cary said, frowning.

"Okay. Anything else?" I continued to play obedient.

Cary lunged forward, grabbed my chin, and said coldly, "Hyacinth, do you know how unbearable you look right now?"

It felt like a bullet to the heart. Tears almost spilled. I clamped my palms together hard. A tiny smile curved my mouth. "You know, there's a way to make you not find me unbearable."

"What?!" Cary's dangerous eyes narrowed again.

"Divorce me." I looked up and met his gaze.

"Divorce me." Her words hit me like a bullet.

I'd never felt this kind of panic. I was a man with assets worth tens of billions-I could do anything. If I wanted something, I could get it.

But at that moment I went through shock first, then anger, and finally an almost unbelievable sense of loss. Even if I lost a few billion in contracts, it wouldn't faze me.

Hyacinth's eyes were swollen and red; she stared at me stubbornly like a wounded little rabbit.

It was the first time I'd seen her like that. We'd been married three years; she'd never thrown a tantrum. She had dutifully upheld our agreement-no kisses, only sex-but I had to admit our sex was the best I'd ever had. I wanted to taste her soft lips, but every time I restrained myself. A kiss meant love, and damn it, I didn't want love. I needed the marriage to help me get the CEO position.

International convention: a married man was more trustworthy to investors. A single man looked risky-desire, scandals, emotion could sink him at a key moment. They wanted a man who appeared stable, who could hold an empire together, not a ticking gambler liable to explode.

Of course I wanted to make my mother explode. She wanted a decent wife; my life had been controlled by her, and I was her masterpiece. I wasn't saying I hated her. I just wanted, when I had the means to strike back, to announce something to her. For now she only needed to sit quietly at a few charity dinners.

I loved my mother, but I needed room to breathe. The thought of living in the same space as the wife she'd picked for me made me want to pull the trigger on my throat.

I'd only gone to the hospital that day to see an investor, and in a quiet corner there I'd seen a desperate college student-Hyacinth. The first time I saw her I knew she would be my wife.

Her eyes were stubborn; her slyness made me realize she wasn't an emotional fool. She knew how to tell reality from dreams.

I stepped forward and offered her my proposal.

She didn't panic-she simply scrutinized me, making sure I was serious. I figured she needed time to think, so I left her my business card.

But she spoke up. "Sir, can you pay the hospital bill now?"

Her words hit me like a bullet. She was young; she ought to have expectations about love and marriage. But she accepted.

I remember smiling the biggest smile I'd ever shown. "Of course-if you agree to my terms."

She waited for me to continue, as if nothing I might say mattered; all she cared about was whether her mother's medical bills would be paid on time.

"I'm not spending money for a partner, but for a trophy wife. You will attend necessary events, remain silent and graceful; the rest of the time you are my secretary, unknown to the public. You may not reveal our marriage, question my private life, be jealous, nor indulge in any form of love-no declarations, no fantasies of fidelity, not even a kiss. A kiss implies emotion, and emotion is not part of this agreement. You'll get money, a house, cars, security-but always remember you are the quiet prop in my marriage game. If you fall in love, you breach the contract, and everything goes to zero."

She didn't hesitate. She agreed immediately.

We made love on our wedding day. I admit it was the best sex I've ever had-I didn't want other women. I tried other women, but when they approached I only felt boredom. They were soulless shells, thinking only how to get more from my wallet.

But I refused to break my rules-I was certain it was Hyacinth's body that obsessed me. I was her first man; I trained her to fit my needs. That was why I wanted her.

I continued dating many women, merely to convince Hyacinth I was still the playboy, unchanged. But after marrying her, I didn't sleep with any other woman.

How could I ever fall in love with a woman? The universe would have to explode for that to happen. But divorce? Why would she do that?

I opened the car door and took her into my arms. She wouldn't cooperate. "Portia's clinic address? I think it's ripe to develop into a slaughterhouse," I threatened.

She wanted to kill me; a satisfied smile crept into me. I used to hate that her little kitten claws had come out, but now I found her adorable.

My cock twitched in my trousers as I strode toward our bedroom.

I threw the door open and pinned her against it, biting her lips. God-her lips were unbelievably soft, her taste better than I imagined.

Her lips stayed tightly closed. My hand slid into her underwear; my fingers found her sensitive spot. With a gentle press she couldn't help but moan.

"Ah." she cried out.

I seized the chance and drove my tongue deep, tasting every corner of her mouth. When her tongue tried to retreat I chased it, playing in her mouth. I tasted her saliva and, damn it, swallowed it.

She forgot to breathe. I moved my lips to her earlobe and breathed hot air into her ear; she shivered, her body going pliant, small hands clinging to my arm. "Cary, don't." she protested, but now it was almost an invitation.

"You sure?" I asked, looking into her eyes full of desire. I smiled as I undid her bra. Her nipples were already hard; with one hand I pinned her wrist to the door. My other hand seized her left nipple and took it into my mouth. I began to suck, pulling out, then traced it with my tongue.

"Cary! Don't do this! I can't take it!" Hyacinth pleaded.

"What do you want me to do?" I stopped and asked softly.

Her eyes were dreamy, struggling yet wanting. She bit her lower lip; her voice trembled, "Cary.don't stop."

My Adam's apple bobbed. My palm moved slowly toward her most sensitive place. She threw her head back, fingertips digging into my arm as she breathed rapidly: "Just.hurry."

I smiled-so familiar with her body, every touch elicited her deepest response. She arched, almost offering herself to me.

In the next second I scooped her up and strode to the bedroom, laying her on the bed. Her arms wound around my neck, urging softly, "Now-don't make me wait."

I stopped holding back, leaned down, and drove into her amidst her burning cries.

I exhausted her, bringing her to climax three times. When I'd seen her in that black strapless dress at the club, I'd wanted to tear it off. Hyacinth rarely dressed to show her curves-she was my secretary, usually in a white shirt and a loose black skirt. Why was she so uncharacteristic now?

It must've been that office incident that had gone too far-I'd never humiliated her to her face.

I knew I had to soothe this little rabbit. She collapsed into my arms, exhausted. I stroked her cheek and murmured, "This weekend we'll go out to sea for two days-just the two of us."