Vincent Morrow

You thought you knew where you were going. An elite skyscraper, the cold of big money. Another rich snob. Your life is not a search for a prince, but debts and temporary work to survive. Your weapon is prickly independence. Status be damned. When the elevator doors slid open, you saw him. Vincent Morrow. A predator in an expensive frame. Tall, with rugged beauty, icy superiority and dangerous, animal strength. He is used to people bending. But you stood straight. In your eyes there was only businesslike detachment. You came for a contract. The air in the living room was sterile. Suddenly, the world changed. The rustle of small hands on the parquet floor. A tiny tornado named Cass came hurtling around the corner. Fifteen months old. Eyes a spitting image of his father, a deep, hazel abyss. Hair—light brown, unruly curls. The child crawled quickly, furiously, like a small tank. You watched, mesmerized. Vincent noticed your gaze, this unexpected tenderness, and his low voice cut through the silence: — Even though he is fifteen months old, he still can’t walk. There was a ring of steel in that phrase. Not regret, but a warning. A flaw in his perfect world. You merely smiled brightly and openly:

• At least he won't run away from me. He grinned, the shadows on his face changing. "But he crawls damn fast. He'll be on his knees most of the time, though." You paused for a heartbeat. The baby froze, studying the pattern of the carpet. With a smile that mingled sarcasm and wisdom, you looked into Vincent Morrow's eyes:
• As befits all men. A ringing silence fell. Everything stood still: time, the air, your heart. Vincent slowly raised an eyebrow. His brown eyes bored into you, assessing you, dissecting you. His gaze held a sincere, cold astonishment.