SIX YEARS AGO

The apartment was darker than it should have been at three in the afternoon. Sixteen-year-old Roarke Daveson had stopped opening the curtains weeks ago. What was the point? Sunlight didn't make anything better. It just illuminated the emptiness, the decay, the slow dissolution of everything that had once been his life.

He sat on the threadbare couch, one of the few pieces of furniture left, staring at his phone. No new messages. No missed calls. His mother hadn't contacted him in five days. Before that, it had been three days. Before that, a week.

The pattern was clear. She was disappearing, piece by piece, slipping away like water through his fingers.

His stomach growled, a hollow ache that had become familiar. There was half a loaf of bread in the kitchen, some peanut butter that was probably expired. That would have to last until he got paid from his shift at the corner store tomorrow. Twelve dollars for six hours of work under the table, because no one wanted to officially hire a sixteen-year-old dropout.

Dropout. The word still stung.

He'd loved school. Had been good at it, even. Teachers had said he was smart, that he had potential. But potential didn't pay rent. Potential didn't buy food. So he'd left, quietly, without telling anyone, and started working whatever jobs would take him.

His phone buzzed, making him jump. A text from his mother: Won't be home tonight. Maybe not tomorrow either. There's money in the drawer.

There was never money in the drawer.

Daveson, he'd started going by his middle name after his father died, unable to bear hearing "Roarke" because it sounded too much like his father's name, typed out a response: When are you coming back?

The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Then: I don't know, baby. I'm sorry. I just can't be there right now.

Can't be there. As if the apartment was the problem. As if the walls themselves were what was unbearable, and not the crushing weight of grief and loss that had swallowed them both whole.

He wanted to type back something cruel, something that would make her hurt the way he was hurting. Instead, he wrote: Okay. Be safe.

She didn't respond.

Daveson set the phone down and walked to his father's room, their room, technically, but his mother hadn't slept there since the funeral. The door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing a space frozen in time. His mother hadn't touched anything. Hadn't packed away his father's clothes, hadn't cleared the nightstand of his reading glasses and the mystery novel he'd been halfway through before his arrest.

It was like a shrine to a ghost.

Daveson had been avoiding this room, but desperation had brought him here. There had to be something, anything, that could explain what had happened. His father had been a good man. Everyone had said so. Neighbors, coworkers, friends. Roarke Mark had been honest, hardworking, devoted to his family.

And then, overnight, he'd become a criminal.

The arrest had been brutal in its efficiency. Their tenth wedding anniversary party, his parents laughing and dancing in their small living room while Daveson watched from the kitchen, smiling at how happy they were. And then the knock on the door. The flash of badges. The cold reading of rights.

Roarke Mark, you're under arrest for embezzlement, fraud, and conspiracy to commit financial crimes.

His father's face had gone white. "There's been a mistake," he'd said, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes. "I haven't done anything wrong."

But they'd taken him anyway. Handcuffed him in front of his wife and son, led him out while neighbors watched from their doorways, while his mother sobbed, while Daveson stood frozen, unable to process what was happening.

The trial had been swift. The evidence overwhelming. Bank records showing massive transfers. Falsified documents with his father's signature. Testimony from coworkers who claimed to have seen suspicious behavior. His father's lawyer, a public defender who looked exhausted before the trial even began, had tried his best, but it hadn't mattered.

Two years in federal prison.

Daveson had visited when he could, taking three buses to get to the facility, sitting across from his father in a room full of other broken families. His father had aged a decade in months. The vibrant, confident man he'd known had been replaced by someone hollow, someone haunted.

"I didn't do it, son," his father had said during that last visit, gripping Daveson's hand across the table. "I swear to you, I didn't do any of it. But no one will listen. No one cares about the truth."

"I believe you, Dad," Daveson had whispered, his throat tight. "I'll always believe you."

Three months later, his father had been released on appeal. New evidence had come to light, or so the lawyer had said. The charges were being reviewed. There was hope, finally, after two years of darkness.

Daveson had gone to the courthouse steps to meet him, his heart soaring with a joy he hadn't felt since before the arrest. His father had walked out into the sunlight, blinking like someone emerging from a cave, his face breaking into a smile when he saw Daveson waiting.

"Hey, kiddo," he'd said, opening his arms.

Daveson had run to him, and for one perfect moment, everything had been okay again.

Then his father had stumbled. His hand had gone to his chest. His face had contorted in pain.

"Dad?" Daveson had caught him as he fell, his father's weight suddenly too heavy, too real. "Dad! Someone help! Please!"

The ambulance. He was rushed to the hospital. The doctor's grim face. The flatline sound that had echoed in Daveson's nightmares ever since.

Massive cardiac arrest. His heart just... gave out. I'm so sorry.

Now, standing in his father's room, Daveson felt that same helpless rage that had consumed him in the hospital. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. His father had been innocent, and he'd died anyway. Had died thinking he was a criminal, that the world believed he was a thief.

Daveson moved to the closet, pulling down boxes from the top shelf. His father had kept meticulous records of everything, receipts, documents, letters. Somewhere in here had to be an answer.

The first box was full of work documents. Performance reviews, all glowing. Commendations. A bonus letter from five years ago, praising his father's dedication to Heyden Industries.

Heyden Industries. The ink production company where his father had worked for nearly fifteen years, climbing from entry-level accountant to senior financial analyst. He'd loved that job, had talked about it at dinner, excited about new contracts and expansion plans.

Daveson dug deeper, finding his father's personal notes. Ledgers filled with numbers in his careful handwriting. And then, tucked at the bottom of the box, a flash drive with a sticky note attached: Original records - backup.

His hands shook as he pulled out his old laptop, one of the few things that hadn't been sold, and plugged in the drive.

The files opened, revealing spreadsheets dating back years. Daveson wasn't an accountant, didn't understand half of what he was looking at, but even he could see the discrepancies. Highlighted cells. Notes in the margins in his father's handwriting: Doesn't match company records. Where did this money go? Need to investigate further.

There were dozens of flagged transactions. Millions of dollars, moving through accounts that shouldn't exist, disappearing into offshore holdings. And every single one of them had been signed off by the same person.

L. Heyden.

Daveson stared at the initials, his heart pounding. He opened another file, this one a scanned letter. His father's handwriting, but never sent.

To whom it may concern:

I am writing to report serious financial irregularities at Heyden Industries. As a senior financial analyst, I have discovered evidence of systematic embezzlement and fraud occurring at the highest levels of the company...

The letter went on, detailing everything his father had found. The offshore accounts. The falsified records. The money laundering scheme that had been operating for years. And at the center of it all: Lissa Heyden, CEO and majority shareholder.

Daveson's breath caught. His father had known. Had discovered the truth. And instead of being able to report it, he'd been framed for the very crimes he'd been trying to expose.

He kept digging, finding more evidence. Emails his father had saved, carefully documenting his attempts to go through proper channels. A meeting with the company's internal auditor that had been mysteriously canceled. A scheduled appointment with the SEC that his father never made it to because he'd been arrested the night before.

The timeline was damning. Lissa Heyden had known what his father had discovered, and she'd destroyed him to protect herself.

Daveson found one more document, a draft of a letter addressed to him.

Daveson,

If you're reading this, then something has happened to me. I'm writing this because I'm scared, son. I've discovered something terrible, and I don't know who I can trust anymore.

I work for Lissa Heyden at Heyden Industries. She's one of the most powerful women in New York, brilliant, charming, ruthless. Everyone loves her. She's on magazine covers, she does charity work, she's considered a role model for women in business.

But it's all a lie.

She's been stealing from her own company for years. Millions of dollars funneled through shell corporations and offshore accounts. She's good at it too, the paperwork is nearly perfect. If I hadn't been reviewing records going back five years for an audit, I never would have caught it.

I tried to do the right thing. I tried to report it quietly, through proper channels. But every door I knock on seems to close before I can get through. I think she has people in her pocket, auditors, lawyers, maybe even law enforcement.

I'm going to keep trying, but I want you to know the truth in case something goes wrong. I love you and your mother more than anything in this world. Everything I do, I do to protect you both.

If something happens to me, please don't try to fight her. She's too powerful, too connected. Just live your life, be happy, and know that your father loved you.

Dad

Daveson's hands were shaking so badly he nearly dropped the laptop. Tears blurred his vision, hot and angry, spilling down his cheeks as the full weight of what had happened crashed over him.

His father had tried to do the right thing. Had tried to expose corruption, to seek justice.

The rage that filled Daveson in that moment was unlike anything he'd ever felt. It burned through his grief, his fear, his helplessness, leaving behind something hard and cold and unbreakable.

Don't try to fight her, his father had written.

But his father was dead. And Daveson had nothing left to lose.

FOUR MONTHS AGO

Daveson's fingers flew across the keyboard of his ancient laptop.

He'd been tracking Lissa Heyden's movements for months now, piecing together her schedule from social media posts, society page articles, and carefully monitored patterns. The woman was predictable in her vanity, she loved being photographed, loved being seen, loved the attention that came with being New York's darling businesswoman.

Tonight, he'd finally found what he was looking for.

A society blog had posted about upcoming charity galas and exclusive events. Buried in the third paragraph was a casual mention: And of course, everyone who's anyone will be angling for an invitation to Lissa Heyden's 45th birthday celebration in December. Sources say the guest list is already at 300, with security tighter than Fort Knox.

December. That gave him four months.

Daveson leaned back in his chair, mind already racing through possibilities. He couldn't just walk up to the front door. Couldn't buy his way in, he barely had enough money for rent and food. But there was always another way in.

Security.

If he could get hired as part of the security detail for the party...

He pulled up a new browser window and started searching. High-end security firms New York. Elite bodyguard training. Private security for wealthy clients.

Most of the results were useless, companies that required years of experience, military backgrounds, connections he didn't have. But then he found it.

Armando's Security Depot: Elite Training for Elite Protection

The website was slick, professional. Photos of intimidating men in tactical gear. And most importantly: Intensive two-week certification program. Limited spots available. Graduates guaranteed placement with top-tier clients.

The cost made his stomach drop. Five thousand dollars.

He had eight hundred to his name.

Daveson closed his eyes, fighting the wave of despair that threatened to overwhelm him. So close. He was so goddamn close, and money stood in his way.

Unless...

He pulled up his email and scrolled back three months to a message he'd been ignoring. Raymond Drake. His old friend, if you could call him that, before Raymond had tried to use him as a patsy in an embezzlement scheme that had nearly gotten Daveson arrested. Raymond had gone to prison instead, and when he'd gotten out, he'd sent one message: I owe you one. You kept your mouth shut when you could have buried me. If you ever need anything, call.

Daveson had deleted the message immediately. Raymond was toxic, dangerous, the kind of person who left destruction in his wake. But desperate times...

He pulled out his burner phone and dialed the number he'd memorized before deleting it.

Raymond answered on the second ring. "Well, well. Didn't think I'd ever hear from you, Daveson. Or are you going by something else these days?"

"I need money."

A low chuckle. "Straight to the point. I always liked that about you. How much?"

"Five thousand."

"That's a lot of cash for someone who supposedly wants nothing to do with me."

"It's not a loan. It's a job offer." Daveson forced the words out, hating himself even as he spoke. "I need someone who can create a distraction. Someone who knows how to handle a weapon and won't lose their nerve."

Silence on the other end. Then: "You planning something stupid?"

"I'm planning revenge."

"Ah." Raymond's voice changed, became thoughtful. "The Heyden woman. I heard about what happened to your old man. Nasty business."

"Can you do it or not?"

"Depends. What's the play?"

Daveson outlined his plan, the birthday party, the security job, the staged assassination attempt that would make him a hero. Raymond listened without interrupting, and when Daveson finished, he whistled low.

"That's either brilliant or insane. Maybe both."

"That's not an answer."

"I'll do it. But not for money, I want in on whatever you're planning after. That woman has a lot of enemies, Daveson. A lot of people who'd pay good money to see her taken down a few pegs."

"This isn't about money."

"Maybe not for you. But I'm a practical man." Raymond paused. "I'll front you the five grand for the security training. Consider it an investment. When you're on the inside and you need help, you call me. Deal?"

Daveson's jaw clenched. He was making a deal with the devil, but what choice did he have? "Deal."

"Smart boy. I'll have the money to you by tomorrow. And Daveson? Don't fuck this up. I don't like my investments going sideways."

The line went dead.

The training at Armando's Security Depot was every bit as brutal as advertised.

Daveson showed up on the first day to find fifteen other candidates, all of them bigger, older, more experienced-looking than him. They sized him up with barely concealed contempt, this skinny kid who looked like a strong wind would knock him over.

He let them underestimate him. It would make what came next easier.

Marco Spinelli, the head instructor, was a mountain of a man with a shaved head and scars that told stories Daveson didn't want to know. He looked them over like a drill sergeant inspecting fresh recruits.

"Most of you won't make it through the first week," he announced, his voice like gravel. "This isn't mall cop training. We provide security for some of the wealthiest, most powerful people in New York. They demand perfection. So do I."

He wasn't lying.

The days started at 5 AM with brutal physical conditioning, runs that left Daveson's legs screaming, circuit training that made him vomit behind the gym on day two. Then came hand-to-hand combat training, where he learned how to disable an attacker twice his size, how to read body language, how to turn someone's strength against them.

By day three, two candidates had dropped out. By day five, four more were gone.

Daveson pushed through the pain, through the exhaustion that made his bones ache. Every time he wanted to quit, he thought about his father dying in that hospital bed. Thought about Lissa Heyden's smug face on magazine covers. Thought about justice.

The tactical training was where Daveson started to shine. Threat assessment. Situational awareness. Reading a room and identifying potential dangers before they materialized. Marco noticed.

"Roarke," he called out during a simulation exercise. They were practicing protecting a VIP in a crowded space, with instructors playing the roles of potential threats. "What do you see?"

Daveson scanned the mock crowd, his mind processing dozens of variables at once. "Three potential threats. Guy in the blue jacket, left side, hands in pockets, eyes tracking the principal's movement. Woman at two o'clock with the oversized purse, wrong season for that coat, could be concealing a weapon. And the server approaching from behind, wrong uniform, doesn't match the other staff."

Marco's eyebrows rose. "Good eye. Fast assessment. What's your play?"

"Position myself between the principal and blue jacket, signal partner to intercept the woman, verbal challenge to the server to verify credentials before he gets within arm's reach."

"And if all three move at once?"

"Principal's safety is priority one. Put myself between them and the most immediate threat, create distance, call for backup, be prepared to engage."

Marco nodded slowly. "Where'd you learn to think like that?"

"Survival," Daveson answered simply.

Something shifted in Marco's expression, a flicker of understanding, maybe even respect. "Yeah. I know that look. Alright, Roarke. Let's see if you can walk the walk."

He could.

By the end of the first week, Daveson had proven himself capable of holding his own against opponents with twice his mass. His smaller frame became an advantage—he was faster, more agile, harder to predict. He learned to use leverage and momentum, to target pressure points and vulnerable areas with surgical precision.

The other candidates stopped looking at him with contempt. Now they watched him with wariness, and a few with something like grudging respect.

On day ten, Marco pulled him aside after training. "You've got potential, kid. Natural instincts. But I need to know, why are you really here?"

Daveson had prepared for this question. "Need work. Need to make something of myself. This seemed like the best option."

"Bullshit." Marco's eyes were sharp. "I've trained hundreds of guys. Most of them are here because they like the adrenaline, or they couldn't hack it in the military, or they think protecting rich people is easy money. You? You're here for something else. I can see it in your eyes. You're hunting something."

Daveson held his gaze, not flinching. "Does it matter? I'm good at the work. I'll do the job."

Marco studied him for a long moment. "As long as whatever you're hunting doesn't interfere with protecting the client, I don't give a damn. But if it does, if you compromise someone's safety because you've got a personal agenda, I'll bury you myself. Clear?"

"Crystal."

"Good." Marco handed him a folder. "You've made it further than I expected. Keep this up, and you'll be one of the few who actually graduates. And I might have some work for you when you do."

Daveson graduated from Armando's program with the highest marks in his class. Marco offered him a spot on his permanent roster, assignments protecting visiting dignitaries, corporate executives, minor celebrities. Daveson accepted, knowing he needed to build his reputation, prove himself trustworthy.

He worked every assignment like his life depended on it. Showed up early. Stayed late. Never complained. Built a track record of reliability that Marco noted approvingly.

"You're good, Roarke," Marco told him after a particularly grueling week protecting a paranoid tech CEO. "Real good. I'm putting you on the rotation for high-profile events. You keep performing like this, you'll have your pick of assignments."

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me. You earned it." Marco paused. "There's a big one coming up in December. Private birthday party for Lissa Heyden.

Daveson's heart stuttered.

CHAPTER FIVE: DANGEROUS ATTRACTION

Daveson stood in the marble foyer of the Heyden estate, his hands clasped professionally behind his back, his face a careful mask of neutrality. Around him, five other security personnel waited in similar poses, all of them hoping to be selected for the permanent detail.

Marco had gotten him this far, an interview, a chance to prove himself. The rest was up to Daveson.

"Remember," Marco had told him that morning, "Mrs. Heyden is particular. She wants people who are competent but invisible. Professional but personable. You do your job, you don't ask questions, and you definitely don't stare."

Daveson had nodded, committing every word to memory. He couldn't afford to mess this up. This was everything he'd been working toward for six years.

The sound of heels clicking against marble made everyone straighten. Lissa Heyden swept into the room like a force of nature, tall, elegant, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun that somehow made her look more beautiful rather than harsh. She wore a cream-colored suit that probably cost more than Daveson had made in the last year, and her cold blue eyes swept over the assembled candidates with the detached interest of someone inspecting livestock.

Daveson's hands clenched behind his back. This woman. This monster who had destroyed his father, who had smiled for cameras while his family fell apart, who lived in obscene luxury built on lies and stolen money.

He forced his breathing to remain steady. Forced his expression to stay neutral. Forced himself to meet her gaze when it landed on him without flinching, without showing the hatred that burned in his chest like acid.

"Marco speaks highly of you all," Lissa said, her voice smooth and cultured. "But I only need three for my personal detail. My head of security will make the final selections, but I like to meet potential hires personally." Her lips curved in what might have been a smile. "I find that first impressions are rarely wrong."

She moved down the line, asking brief questions, making small talk that felt like an examination. When she reached Daveson, she paused, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"Roarke Daveson, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am." His voice came out steady. Professional.

"You're young for this level of work."

"I'm good at what I do, ma'am."

"Confidence. I like that." She studied him for another moment. "Marco says you have excellent situational awareness. That you can read a room better than men twice your age."

"I pay attention to details."

"Good. Details are what keep people alive." She stepped back, addressing the group. "You'll be working a trial period over the next month. Various events, different situations. At the end, we'll make final selections for who stays on permanently. My son will be joining us shortly to meet you as well. He'll be requiring security for some upcoming travel, so you'll need to work well with him too."

Daveson's stomach tightened. Her son. He'd researched Leonard Heyden, of course, 26 years old, vice president of operations at Heyden Industries, master's degree from Columbia, considered a rising star in the business world. But research was different from meeting someone face to face.

The double doors at the far end of the foyer opened, and Daveson's entire world tilted on its axis.

Leonard Heyden walked in with the easy confidence of someone who'd never questioned his place in the world. He was taller than Daveson had expected, at least six-two, with a lean, athletic build evident even beneath his expensive charcoal suit. But it was his face that made Daveson's mouth go dry.

Sharp cheekbones. A strong jaw. Lips that were somehow both firm and soft-looking, curved in a slight smile as he greeted his mother. And his eyes, violet, an unusual shade that seemed to shift between blue and purple depending on the light, were striking enough to stop Daveson's breath in his throat.

And his hair. God, his hair. Golden yellow waves that fell just past his collar, the kind of hair that made you want to run your fingers through it, to see if it was as soft as it looked.

Daveson stared.

He couldn't help it. For a moment, all his careful planning, all his controlled rage, all his focus on the mission, it all vanished under the weight of pure, physical attraction that hit him like a freight train.

This is Lissa Heyden's son, his mind tried to remind him. The enemy. Off-limits. Dangerous.

But his body wasn't listening. Heat was pooling low in his belly, his pulse accelerating, his pants suddenly feeling too tight. He was getting hard, right here in the foyer, surrounded by other candidates and the woman he'd sworn to destroy, because her son was the most beautiful man he'd ever seen.

He forced himself to look away, to stare at a point on the far wall, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Get control. Now.

"Everyone, this is my son, Leonard," Lissa was saying. "Leo handles most of our international operations, so some of you may be traveling with him to Europe and Asia over the next year."

Leonard moved down the line, shaking hands, making polite conversation. His voice was deeper than Daveson had expected, warm and rich, with a hint of something darker underneath that made Daveson's skin prickle with awareness.

And then Leonard was standing in front of him.

"Roarke, is it?" Leonard extended his hand.

Daveson forced himself to meet those violet eyes, and the impact nearly knocked him sideways. Up close, Leonard was even more devastating, the faint smell of expensive cologne, the way his suit jacket stretched across broad shoulders, the slight curve of his lips that suggested he smiled easily.

"Yes, sir." Daveson took his hand, and the contact sent electricity shooting up his arm. Leonard's grip was firm, confident, his palm warm against Daveson's.

They held the handshake a beat too long.

Leonard's eyes flickered with something Daveson couldn't quite read, surprise, maybe, or recognition of the same pull Daveson was feeling. His gaze dropped briefly to Daveson's mouth, then back up, and his pupils dilated slightly.

He feels it too.

The realization should have terrified Daveson. Instead, it made his blood run hotter, made him hyper-aware of everywhere their skin was touching, made him imagine what those lips would feel like pressed against his own.

"Marco speaks highly of you," Leonard said, his voice slightly rougher than it had been a moment ago. "Says you have good instincts."

"I try, sir."

"Leo. Just Leo is fine." Leonard's thumb brushed against Daveson's wrist, so quick it could have been accidental. But the heat in his eyes said otherwise. "I look forward to working with you."

He finally released Daveson's hand and moved on to the next candidate, but Daveson could feel him. Could feel Leonard's attention like a physical weight even as he talked to someone else. And when Daveson risked a glance sideways, he found Leonard looking back at him, that same intensity in his violet gaze.

Fuck.

This was bad. This was so incredibly, monumentally bad.

Daveson had spent six years planning this. Six years preparing, training, building himself into someone who could infiltrate the Heyden family and destroy them from the inside. He couldn't afford distractions. Couldn't afford to feel anything for Leonard Heyden except perhaps strategic manipulation.

But his body had other ideas. Even now, standing at attention while Lissa concluded her remarks, he was painfully aware of Leonard across the room. The way he stood, the way he moved, the occasional glance he sent Daveson's direction that felt like a caress.

By the time the meeting ended and they were dismissed, Daveson was wound so tight he thought he might shatter. He made it to the bathroom down the hall, locked himself in a stall, and pressed his forehead against the cool metal door, trying to breathe through the chaos in his head.

This doesn't change anything, he told himself firmly. So what if Leonard is attractive? So what if there's chemistry? It's just biology. Just hormones. It doesn't matter.

But he knew he was lying to himself.

Because the way Leonard had looked at him, like Daveson was something precious and dangerous all at once, that wasn't just attraction. That was interest. Real interest.

And God help him, Daveson wanted to explore it. Wanted to know what would happen if he pushed back against that interest. Wanted to feel those hands on him, that mouth against his, wanted to discover if Leonard kissed as intensely as he stared.

His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: You impressed my mother. Good work. - L

Daveson stared at the message, his heart hammering. Leonard had gotten his number somehow. Was texting him privately. That was... unprofessional. Forward. Exactly the kind of boundary-crossing that could get complicated fast.

He should delete it. Should maintain professional distance.

Instead, he found himself typing back: Thank you. I hope to prove myself worthy of the position.

Three dots appeared immediately. Then: I'm sure you will. You have good hands. I noticed.

Daveson's breath caught. That was definitely flirting. No mistaking it.

He could shut this down. Should shut this down. Send back something neutral and professional that established clear boundaries.

His fingers moved across the screen: I notice things too.

The response was immediate: Oh? Like what?

Daveson hesitated, teetering on the edge of something dangerous and exhilarating. Every instinct screamed at him to pull back, to remember why he was here, to not complicate the mission.

But then he remembered the way Leonard had looked at him. The heat in those violet eyes. The slight flush on his cheeks when their hands had touched.

Like the way you looked at me, Daveson typed. Like you were trying to figure me out.

A longer pause this time. Then: Still trying. You're... different. Interesting. I'd like to know more.

That could be arranged, Daveson sent back, his pulse racing.

Good. We'll be seeing a lot of each other, Roarke. I look forward to it.

Daveson pocketed his phone and stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His pupils were blown wide, his lips slightly parted, his cheeks flushed. He looked like someone who'd just been thoroughly kissed, not someone who'd exchanged a few text messages.

"Get it together," he muttered to himself. "This is just a complication. You can use this. Turn it to your advantage."

But even as he said the words, he knew he was in trouble.

Because the way his body had responded to Leonard, the immediate, visceral attraction that had made him hard and needy and desperate, that wasn't something he could fake.

That was real.

And that made Leonard Heyden the most dangerous person in this entire operation.