Eleonora hit the pavement of the alley hard. The impact jarred her spine, shooting a bolt of pain up from her ankles to her skull. Muddy water splashed up, soaking the hem of her trench coat.

Chloe landed next to her, crashing into a stack of cardboard boxes. A stray cat hissed and bolted into the shadows.

Above them, the fourth-floor window was just a dark, empty square against the rainy sky.

"This way," Eleonora gasped. She grabbed Chloe's hand and pulled her toward the mouth of the alley.

The rain was a torrential sheet now. It blurred the streetlights into streaks of neon. Eleonora's lungs burned.

They burst out of the alley onto the main street. It was gridlock. Horns blared.

A sleek black SUV was idling at the curb, its hazard lights flashing.

"Is that our ride?" Chloe yelled. "Did you call a car?"

"Something like that," Eleonora said, not breaking stride. She yanked the back door open and shoved Chloe inside. She dove in after her, slamming the door shut.

The interior of the car was silent. It smelled of expensive leather and cedarwood. It was warm.

"Drive!" Eleonora yelled at the partition. "Just drive!"

The car didn't move.

Eleonora slapped the glass divider. "I'm on a schedule. Go!"

"Are you?"

The voice came from beside her. It was deep, baritone, and vibrated with a terrifying calmness.

Eleonora froze. She turned her head slowly.

Sitting in the shadows of the backseat, legs crossed, was a man.

The streetlamp outside cast a slice of light across his face.

It was the face from the photograph. The face she had just stamped with "SCUMBAG."

Kristopher Schaefer.

He was looking at her with an expression that was hard to read. It wasn't anger. It was curiosity mixed with disdain.

Eleonora's breath hitched. She pressed her back against the door, trying to put as much distance between them as possible.

"You," she whispered.

Kristopher didn't answer. He looked out the window.

He pressed a button on the armrest. The tinted window rolled down three inches, revealing a second black SUV pulling up behind them, effectively blocking the alley's exit.

He didn't need to look for a non-existent pursuer. He was the one doing the hunting.

Kristopher rolled the window up.

"Drive," he said to the driver.

The car glided forward, smooth as silk.

Chloe, huddled on the other side of Eleonora, whispered, "This is a really nice car service."

Eleonora reached over and pinched Chloe's leg. Hard.

"Ouch!"

Kristopher pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it out to Eleonora. She was dripping wet. Her hair was plastered to her skull.

"Take it," he said.

Eleonora stared at the white square of fabric. "You know who I am."

"You are the woman who just announced to the world that I am a parasite," Kristopher said. His tone was conversational, which made it worse. "And you are also my wife."

Chloe choked on her own spit. "Wife?"

Kristopher ignored Chloe. He kept his eyes on Eleonora. "An interesting career choice, Eleonora. I wasn't aware the trust fund was insufficient."

"It was a calculated market correction," Eleonora said. Her voice shook, but she lifted her chin. "Your stock was overvalued."

Kristopher leaned in. The scent of cedarwood intensified. He was too close. "A mistake? You called me a scumbag. To a million people."

"I was speaking about a pattern of corporate malfeasance."

"The court of public opinion doesn't care about context," Kristopher said. "And neither do my shareholders."

"I'll issue a retraction."

"A retraction won't fix the stock price." Kristopher sat back. "You are coming with me."

"I'm not going anywhere with you. I want a divorce."

Kristopher laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. "A divorce? No. That would be too easy. You owe me, Eleonora. And I intend to collect."

The silence in the car was heavier than the rain outside. Eleonora tried to check her phone, but the signal bars were empty. A jammer. Of course.

She looked at Kristopher. He had his eyes closed, his head resting against the leather seat. He looked peaceful, which was infuriating.

The car slowed. They passed through a massive wrought-iron gate. A long, winding driveway lined with ancient oaks led up to a house that looked more like a museum than a home.

The Schaefer Estate.

"Is this a hotel?" Chloe whispered.

Arthur, from the front seat, turned slightly. "This is the Schaefer family residence, Miss."

Eleonora felt a cold knot in her stomach. She was trapped.

The car stopped under the portico. A phalanx of staff with umbrellas waited.

Kristopher got out. He didn't look back. He walked up the stairs with the easy arrogance of a king entering his castle.

A footman opened Eleonora's door. "Madam."

Chloe's eyes went wide. "Madam?"

Eleonora gave her a look that said later. She stepped out into the humid night air.

They entered the foyer. It was cavernous, with a chandelier the size of a small car.

"Well, well. If it isn't the internet sensation."

The voice was sharp, cracking like a whip.

An elderly woman in a wheelchair rolled forward. Her silver hair was coiffed to perfection. She held an iPad in her lap.

"Grandmother," Kristopher said, pausing. "You should be asleep."

Beatrice Schaefer tapped the screen of her iPad. Eleonora's voice tinny and distorted, echoed in the marble hall. "This is a man who relies on other people's money..."

Beatrice cackled. "I haven't laughed this hard since your grandfather fell into the koi pond in '98."

Kristopher sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "She is destroying the company image, Grandmother."

"Oh, pish," Beatrice waved a hand. "The stock took a nosedive, but the trading volume is through the roof! People think you're relevant again. They think you have a scandalous personal life. It makes you human."

Eleonora stood there, dripping water onto the priceless rug. She didn't know whether to bow or run.

Beatrice beckoned her. "Come here, child."

Eleonora walked over. Beatrice grabbed her hand. Her skin was paper-thin but her grip was iron.

"You have guts," Beatrice said. "Kristopher needs someone with guts. He's become a bore."

"Grandmother," Kristopher warned.

"She's soaking wet!" Beatrice shouted at the staff. "Get her to the master suite. Draw a bath. Use the rose oil."

" The guest room," Kristopher corrected. "She is staying in the guest room."

Beatrice clutched her chest. She let out a dramatic gasp. "My heart... the palpitations... knowing my family is estranged under my own roof..."

Kristopher gritted his teeth. His jaw muscle jumped. He looked at the butler.

"Fine," he snapped. "The suite. The adjoining room."

Beatrice winked at Eleonora.

Eleonora was ushered up the grand staircase. She glanced back. Kristopher was watching her.

His eyes were dark. Predatory.

This isn't over, his look said.

Eleonora shivered, and it wasn't from the cold.

The bathroom was larger than Eleonora's entire safe-house apartment. Steam filled the air, carrying the scent of expensive roses.

Eleonora turned off the shower. She felt scrubbed raw. She reached for the towel rack.

Empty.

The maid had taken her wet clothes. There was nothing left. Just one large, fluffy white towel on a hook, and...

She looked at the vanity. Beatrice had sent up a "nightgown."

It was a slip of vintage silk and lace. It was translucent. It was something a bride would wear on her wedding night in 1950.

"Old bat," Eleonora muttered. "She's trying to set us up."

She wrapped the towel around herself, tucking it securely over her chest. She would find her suitcase. Arthur had said he would bring it.

She opened the bathroom door and peeked out.

The bedroom was dim.

She stepped out, her bare feet sinking into the plush Persian rug. She made a break for the door leading to the hallway.

The door handle turned.

Eleonora skid to a halt.

Kristopher walked in. He was on the phone, his tie undone, the top buttons of his shirt unfastened.

He stopped.

Eleonora stood there, clutching the towel. A droplet of water ran down her neck, over her collarbone.

Kristopher slowly lowered the phone. He didn't speak. His eyes traveled down her legs, then back up to her face.

Eleonora squeaked. She took a step back, tripped on the edge of the rug, and flailed.

Kristopher moved. It was a blur of motion. He caught her by the waist before she hit the floor.

His arm was hard, unyielding. He pulled her flush against him.

The towel slipped an inch.

Eleonora's hands slammed against his chest to steady herself. She could feel the heat radiating through his shirt. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, mixed with that cedarwood scent.

For a second, nobody breathed.

Kristopher looked down at her. His eyes were dilated. He wasn't looking at her like a nuisance anymore. He was looking at her like a man who had been starving and didn't realize it until he saw a feast.

Eleonora's heart hammered against her ribs. Thump. Thump. Thump.

She pushed him away. "Pervert!"

Kristopher stumbled back a half-step. He regained his composure instantly, masking the hunger with a sneer.

"This is my room," he said. "And you fell on me."

"Where are my clothes?" Eleonora demanded, pulling the towel tighter. "Your grandmother is insane."

"She's romantic," Kristopher corrected. He walked to his walk-in closet. He disappeared for a moment and came back holding a white dress shirt.

He tossed it to her.

"Wear this. That lace thing... it's not appropriate."

"Appropriate?" Eleonora caught the shirt.

"Just put it on," Kristopher said, turning his back. He walked to the mini-bar and poured himself a drink. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the glass.

He watched her reflection in the darkened window as she ran back to the bathroom.

He took a long swallow of the scotch. It burned, but not as much as the image of her bare shoulders.

The bathroom door opened.

Eleonora stepped out. She was wearing his shirt. It engulfed her, the hem hitting mid-thigh. She had rolled up the sleeves.

She looked small. Vulnerable. And incredibly sexy.

Kristopher gripped the glass until his knuckles turned white.