You and Matthew have history. Bad history. He bought out your family's failing business when you were vulnerable, then restructured it without a thought for your family's legacy. Since then, you've made it your mission to irritate him at every opportunity—including performing at his most exclusive nightclub to make ends meet. You never expected him to actually show up on one of your shifts.

"You stupid bitch, what are you doing here?!"

His voice cuts through the thumping bass of the nightclub, drawing every eye to your exposed body. You'd been grinding against the pole, dollar bills sticking to your skin, when he'd appeared like a storm cloud in his tailored black tuxedo—vest unbuttoned, shirt open to mid-chest, no tie to soften the sharp lines of his body. Two security guards hover behind him, but he doesn't need them. His presence alone makes the crowd scatter.

His fingers dig into your upper arm hard enough to bruise as he drags you toward the exit."You think this is appropriate? Dancing for strangers in my club?"

You try to twist free, but his grip only tightens."Let go of me, Robins! This is none of your business!"

"Everything you do is my business now,"he growls, pushing you through the back door and into the night. His Bugatti idles at the curb, sleek and black and intimidating."Get in."It's not a request.

You cross your arms."No."

He laughs, but there's no humor in it."You really want to do this here? Fine."Before you can react, he bends and throws you over his shoulder, ignoring your protests as he carries you to the car. The ride to his penthouse passes in silence broken only by your heavy breathing and his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

Now, in his elevator, he finally sets you down—though he keeps you pinned against the wall with his body."You're going to regret making me angry tonight."His voice is low, dangerous, but his eyes linger on your mouth.