Her Dirty Little Secret. JC Harroway

sir. We’ve already completed those checks,’ Trent reminded him.

      ‘Double check.’ He wouldn’t make the same mistakes his father had made. If Harley’s business, her foundation, was tied up with Hal Jacob, he’d ensure the Morris deal stayed dead.

      He hadn’t lied to her. There were irregularities with the contract that required ironing out. But he’d been handed a gift, one he’d take full advantage of if he discovered she could be as deceptive as her father.

      ‘Employ an industrial investigator. I want it ironclad.’ One luxury of being head of your own multinational was the enviable position of being able to cherry-pick your business associates and clientele. A luxury that satisfied his need for control. He’d worked too hard to be led by his dick.

      Fuck, perhaps he needed to get laid. He’d neglected himself in recent months, building up his New York contacts, renting offices, finding the right apartment to renovate as a showpiece for his architecture clients.

      And he hadn’t spent the past nine years living like a monk. His life was full—personally and professionally satisfying. He’d made good on his promises to himself, his business going from strength to strength and the women in his life taking a gratifying but always temporary back seat.

      ‘Mr Demont,’ Trent interrupted, ‘Mr Lancaster is in town. He’s sent over a ticket to a function tonight. He’d like you to join him and Ms Noble.’

      Perfect. That was what he needed. A night out with his cousin and his fiancée, somewhere glamorous with the distraction of plenty of gorgeous women. Women beautiful enough to chase away the memory of Harley’s pert breasts pressed against his chest, her heartbeat thundering against his.

      ‘Send the ticket over, Trent. And let Mr Lancaster and his fiancée know I’ll be attending.’ It didn’t matter the nature of the function. He needed a diversion. Fast. It had been months since he’d had a woman in his bed. Too long.

      The thought of sex flooded his mind with imaginings of Harley. Her blond hair fanned out over his pillow, her naked body wrapped in his sheets, her delectable scent clinging to the bed linens long after she left...

      At this rate he’d have to bang one out before he left his apartment for the evening. He scrubbed his hand through his hair. Why hadn’t he prepared himself for the sight of her? He should have guessed she’d take umbrage at him stalling the sale while his team investigated the error they’d unearthed at the eleventh hour. An error, it turned out, that originated with her.

      Typical Harley. She’d breezed over that fact. And her family already owned half of Manhattan—of course she’d charge in and simply demand what she felt she deserved.

      But he’d be damned if he’d give it to the pampered princess, no questions asked. He wouldn’t trust Hal Jacob to the end of the street and he wouldn’t make the same mistakes his father had made by becoming embroiled in a Jacob Holdings deal.

      He’d witnessed the devastating fallout of that decision—his father’s confidence, all his future enterprises and even his marriage fell victim to his miscalculation.

      Jack credited his own business success to his determination to step out of his father’s shadow, even shucking his father’s name, literally reverting to his mother’s maiden name to keep their businesses distinct, untainted by association with Hal Jacob.

      No way would he allow his dick to lead him back into that viper’s nest. No. This time, he’d keep Harley Jacob where he wanted her—under contract or under him, if she wanted a sample of what she’d missed.

      The car pulled up to the kerb outside his Midtown apartment building and he strode inside, impatient for a shower to wash away the memory of Harley and her lingering scent on his clothing.

      When he exited his private elevator on the top floor, his feet skidded to a halt and his heart bucked against his ribs.

      Harley.

      How had she beaten him here? She sat on the loveseat beside the doors to his penthouse, her eyes trained on the elevator and trained on him.

      In seconds he was back to rock hard.

      ‘How did you know where I live?’

      She stood, her long eyelashes fluttering on a series of blinks.

      ‘Some people would call this stalking.’ Damn if her persistence didn’t ramp up his interest. Was she keen for more than her precious building?

      ‘I looked you up and tipped the doorman.’ She shrugged. Clearly she’d grown up her father’s daughter, not above bending morals to suit her personal needs.

      But, man, had she grown up. And damn if he didn’t want to drag her inside and give her the guided tour, starting with his bedroom. Fuck the bedroom. He’d unwrap her from that sheath of expensive wool, splay her over the minimalist slate-topped console table he’d imported from France in his foyer and go down on her until she sobbed out his name and forgot her own. That would be difficult for her to dismiss.

      ‘I’m on my way out. Make it brief.’ Swiping his key card through the reader, he ushered her inside, ahead of him, his innate good manners accepting nothing less, regardless of their past.

      She paused in his entranceway, her gaze flitting around his space as if she’d been invited here and had every right to touch his home with her beautiful, perceptive eyes.

      He used the time wisely, his stare tracing her curves, lingering on her luscious ass, which, despite the demure dress concealing it, was high and toned. He groaned inwardly, his cock twitching with renewed enthusiasm.

      With a flick, she tossed the swathe of silver, silky hair over her shoulder and lifted one brow in question. He dragged his mind away from her naked on all fours in front of him and led the way into the living space, throwing his suit jacket over the back of the sofa.

      Knowing she stood behind him, no doubt assessing his choice of décor or the views from his windows, his shoulders tensed. He was proud of his home. The five-thousand-square-foot apartment dated to pre-war, but he’d renovated it with a flair for modern, while keeping some of the original features, a look that worked if his growing clientele were any judge.

      ‘Drink?’ Why was she here? Did she think he’d change his mind so easily? Sign a flawed contract just because she came from real-estate royalty? Or perhaps she thought he was still the love-struck sap he’d once been, willing to give her anything she desired.

      ‘No, thank you.’

      He selected a frigid bottle of still water from the fridge, unscrewing the cap and finishing it in three swallows, wishing for a split second it were Scotch. But the last thing he needed around Harley was any lowering of his physical inhibitions. He was close enough now to showing her what she’d been missing all these years.

      And the way she looked at him, as if she wanted the lesson, made it increasingly difficult to ignore the hormones raging through his blood. But hadn’t she been engaged? He vaguely recalled something in the society pages. Surely she’d found some Jacob-approved yes-man to show her a good time.

      The water sloshed inside him, bitterness lingering in his throat. He checked her ring finger, finding it bare before his eyes flicked away. Not his problem. If she was here for sex, who was he to deny her the ride of her life?

      ‘You changed your name.’ She hadn’t moved from her spot just inside the doorway, her back only centimetres from the wall as she eyed him warily. They were, after all, strangers.

      Nine years ago, she’d made no attempt to let him down gently, stay friends, or keep in touch. And he’d channelled his dislike of her ruthless father and his impotence at his crumbling family into determination, driving his own success. Forgetting all about the Jacobs and that tumultuous time of his life. Forgetting about Harley.

      He shrugged, his eyes raking her immaculate appearance. How would the heiress look undone by pleasure, rumpled and replete?

      ‘I went to university