Chapter 2

I expected him to be driving a beat-up Toyota, or maybe some crappy Uber.

But the vehicle parked behind the hotel was a blacked-out, unmarked heavy-duty SUV. The windows were unnaturally thick, like they were bulletproof.

The man, who still hadn't told me his name, opened the passenger door for me like a gentleman.

The interior smelled faintly of cedar and leather, mixed with the scent of expensive tobacco. That was not how a waiter was supposed to smell.

He slid into the driver's seat, rested one hand on the steering wheel, and asked, "Where to?" He unbuttoned his fitted black vest and tossed it into the back seat.

His sleeves were rolled up, revealing toned forearms with a faint scar running across the skin.

I leaned back against the leather seat, completely drained from everything that had just happened, and muttered, "Anywhere. Just not Dravon."

He glanced at me through the rearview mirror but didn't ask any questions. He just stepped on the gas.

The engine roared low and powerful, and the car shot into the night like a bullet.

Half an hour later, we pulled up outside a hidden jazz bar in Tribeca. It was more like a private club, really. There was no sign out front, just a single, understated bronze door.

He got out and opened my door for me. "It's quiet in here," he said. "Good place to talk business."

We stepped inside, and under the dim lighting, the bartender spotted him and started to call out a greeting, but one look from him shut that down immediately.

We settled into a corner booth. He ordered a whiskey for himself and a warm glass of milk for me.

He slid the milk across the table. "Drink something warm," he said. "Your hands are shaking."

I wrapped my fingers around the cup, letting the heat seep in, and studied that impossibly handsome face of his. "Who are you?" I asked. "A regular waiter doesn't drive an armored car."

"Ryan Foster," he said, taking a sip of his whiskey. His voice was low and smooth. "I wait tables on the side. My real job is basically being a kept man. The car's on loan from my boss."

He was lying. But I didn't care.

I took a deep breath. "Ryan," I said, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from my bag. It was a copy of my mother's will. "I want to make a deal with you."

Ryan raised an eyebrow and tapped his long fingers against the table. "You mean that ten-grand tip?" he said. "That's already mine, sweetheart."

"No. Something bigger." I locked eyes with him. "I want to hire you to be my husband."

Ryan's fingers went still. He looked at me like he'd just heard the funniest joke of his life. "Ms. Williams," he said, "I may be broke, but I haven't sunk low enough to sell myself."

"Not a real marriage!" I blurted out. "A contract marriage. According to my mom's will, I can only access the trust fund if I'm married.

"That money is my only shot at starting over. Once I get it, I can walk away from the Williams family and build something of my own."

"You need money, right?" I pressed on. "After one year, we divorce, and I pay you 500 thousand as a severance. During that time, we play the happy couple in public. Other than that, I stay out of your personal life."

Five hundred thousand dollars. For a waiter, that should have been a fortune.

But Ryan didn't jump at it. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, and his expression was completely unreadable.

"What if I say no?" he asked.

"Then I'll find someone else," I said through gritted teeth. "I'll grab a random homeless guy off the street if I have to."

Ryan let out a low chuckle. "A homeless guy wouldn't pass the Williams family background check, sweetheart," he said. "And besides, none of them are as good-looking as me. You wouldn't be able to make that Alex jealous with anyone else, would you?"

I was speechless.

But he was right. He had this effortless elegance about him, the kind that made even a plain white dress shirt look like it belonged on a magazine cover.

Ryan leaned forward, and the heat of his cologne hit me like a wave. My pulse spiked as he murmured, "And for the record, I don't need the five hundred grand, Anna."

I swallowed hard. "Then what do you want?"

He stared at my lips, his voice low and rough. "I need a shield. The old guard back home is breathing down my neck about an arranged marriage. But if I marry a disgraced heiress with a ruined reputation?"

A slow grin spread across his face. "That ought to give them a collective heart attack. Sounds like fun to me."

He held out his hand, palm open, broad and warm. "So we have a deal. City Hall, Monday morning. Don't stand me up, future Mrs. Foster."

I looked into those eyes, dark and deep enough to drown in, and before I knew what I was doing, I took his hand.

I had no idea, in that moment, that I had just signed a contract with the most dangerous man in the city.