Chapter 2

Adrianna’s POV

Instinctively, I pick my purse up and attempt to stand. His hand on my knee stops me cold.

“Sit.” He commands curtly. “Don't cause a scene.”

I shove his hand off my knee, ignoring the wave of dizziness that hits me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Your assistant damn near stalked me to get my location.” He says conversationally. “You mean to tell me you didn't expect to see me?”

No. Because you’re not a French Marquis.

“So go on and tell me.” He says. “Why did you seek me out with…” I feel his gaze roam over me and my cheeks heat up. The dress was a mistake. “…all your most desirable assets on full display?”

“You… you’re …” I stutter. I didn't know he was out of jail already. How has he managed to convince everyone that he's the heir to a Marquisat?

Lance had had all his assets seized and his house sold off. Even if he got out of jail, he should be broke, not possessing an aristocratic title.

“Out of jail, sweet? That's pretty obvious, isn't it?” He says, his face close to mine. His eyes search my face in the dim light. “Disappointed?” he asks softly. “Should I have stayed behind bars a bit longer? Five, ten years, maybe?”

I stare at him, registering the new coldness of his manner. His voice is deep and sultry, but possessing a clipped arrogance that wasn't there give years ago.

“I’m right.” He says.

“No.” I manage to say.

“No?” His fingers trace my jaw from my ear to my chin. My blush spreads to my neck. “If I didn't know how good of a liar you were, I’d be tempted to believe that.”

“You want to bid for the vineyard, don't you?” He continues, his fingers trailing a path down my neck. My focus zeroes in on his fingers against my bare skin, making my thoughts sluggish. I feel heat pooling in my belly and I resist the urge to press my thighs closer together.

“What… how did you…?”

“You’re still so breathtakingly naïve.” He mutters. “What makes you think your secretary would have had a snowflake’s chance in hell of finding out my itinerary if I didn't want her to find me?”

His fingers dip even lower, brushing the top of my breasts. I feel my nipples harden and I bite back a gasp, brushing his fingers off me. He sighs and turns away.

“This is getting boring.” He says, his voice reflecting this sentiment. “You will receive a formal invitation via email. Bid ten million.”

With that, he stands, leaving me glued to the chair, my heart pounding.

“Wait! Lance!”

I have done a lot of ill-advised things and running after Lance is probably one of those things. I should be going home. Abandoning the winery project. Cutting off every connection to Lance.

Yet I'm running to catch up with him before he can get in his car. He freezes as he hears me, turning. His black hair is slightly wind tousled, contrasting with the cool elegance of the black tailored suit he wore and the black loafers. His grey eyes are cold and focused. He looks harder than he had five years ago and it's something I can't quite place my fingers on. In the corner of my eye, I can see his bodyguard advancing discretely and I stop. Lance waves him away.

“Miss Houston.”

“Are you serious about the bidding? You'll let me bid for the vineyard?”

His head tilts to the side, remaining silent.

“How do I know you’re not trying to use this to get back at me?” I continue. “Why should I trust the words of someone who can so easily let me win a closed bid?”

He chuckles. A deep, smooth laugh that made his shoulders shake slightly. He walks slowly, covering the space between us. I force myself to stand my ground and not to step back. Not to show him any weakness.

“How unimaginative would I be if I simply made you lose a bid? I want to destroy your family, yes, but I find I'm the “all or nothing” type. This bid is merely a reintroduction for us.” His gaze holds mine captive. “When I truly begin ruining your lives, you won’t have to ask.”

As I sit in the cab, I close my eyes, hugging my cost close to my body. Unbidden, memories I have spent years trying to suppress flood my head.

(Five years ago)

When I first met Lance, I was a college student on the summer break. I was interning at Houston investments as his interim secretary because his secretary had taken a maternity leave. I knew everyone expected me to be a train wreck at work because I was “the boss’s daughter” so I put in more effort. I tried to juggle school essays and deadlines as well as managing his hectic schedule.

I tried to ignore his looks—I didn't want to be like the other co workers who talked about how hot he was in the restroom while reapplying lipstick. I didn't want him to see me as unprofessional. I failed.

Lance wasn’t the kind to be ignored. Not with his jet black hair and grey eyes. Not with his chiseled jawline and aristocratic nose. Not with his tall, lithe body. Not with his voice, deep and seductive. Not with the perfect way he filled out his tailored suits. It wasn't just his looks, either. He was the type that could fill a room we own his presence alone. He had an air of self confidence that made him instantly likeable. He had a way of speaking to business partners so they both admired and felt comfortable around him.

He was Daddy’s protégé and mentee. Daddy called him Houston’s “Time Machine” because of his uncanny ability to recognize the potential of a project and the future market value of a business. Even if I wanted anything with Lance, I was sure Daddy would never approve of it.

To me, Lance was like the moon. Beautiful to look at, but totally unattainable.

And looking was okay for me. I looked for two months. I stared at him even reading him his schedule. I noticed when he got himself a new tie or what his favorite clothing brand was. I resisted the urge to get him a shirt or a pair of cuff links each time I browsed the mall because I was so sure he wouldn't appreciate getting clothes from his boss’s daughter and that everyone would think I was trying to use my family and money to get closer to him.

I knew what cologne he wore, its scent was clean and evasive. I could only catch a whiff of it when he leaned in behind me to show me something on my computer or when we worked late together and had to catch the same elevator ride.

We never spoke about anything but work. I didn't know any of his actual preferences. I wanted to know what movies he liked, what music he listened to when he would put on his air pods at lunch time and lean back in his chair.

(Present day)

I lock the door to my apartment behind me and look around. The whole place screams neglect. My potted plants are dying, dust is gathering on my shelves and tabletops. I say a prayer of thanks that I have very little stuff. Just a bit of furniture and decorative paintings that mean nothing to me. The kitchen is well equipped, but the pantry is empty.

My phone rings and I get it out of my purse, tapping the “answer” button without bothering to check the ID.

“It's Daddy.”  I hear Genevieve, my sister say. “He had another heart attack.”