One sexy assignment leads to off-the-charts passion in USA TODAY bestselling author Cara Lockwood’s latest sizzling DARE novel!

Playboy billionaire Wilder Lange is 100 percent sex. Women probably stand in line to worship him. But sex columnist and expert Harley Vega isn’t one of them. Especially since he eliminated her publishing job. Living in New York City takes stamina—and a lot of cash—so she has to find a new job. Fast.

Enter Wilder with his broad shoulders and almost jet-black hair. The gorgeous man has a very unusual request. He needs her expertise, and it must remain confidential. He also wants Harley—a woman with brains, sensitivity and a beauty she hasn’t noticed until he makes her look in the mirror.

Now Harley finds herself in close confines with the sexiest man on earth, one she should detest. He has her questioning her own knowledge of a topic she has studied for years: unbridled passion. She’s the one who’s supposed to uncover his secrets, not the reverse. Their crazy chemistry defies logic and soon Wilder shows her pleasure that makes her forget her own name. Is it even crazier to think they could bring this connection beyond the bedroom?

Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

Four new Harlequin DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!

CARA LOCKWOOD is the USA TODAY bestselling author of more than twenty-six books, including I Do (But I Don’t), which was made into a Lifetime Original movie. She’s written the Bard Academy series for young adults and has had her work translated into several languages around the world. Born and raised in Dallas, Cara now lives near Chicago with her husband and their five children. Find out more about her at caralockwood.com, friend her on Facebook, Facebook.com/authorcaralockwood, or follow her on Twitter, @caralockwood, or Instagram, Instagram.com/cara_lockwood.

The Sex Cure

Cara Lockwood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09938-7

THE SEX CURE

© 2020 Cara Lockwood

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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For the Benoit and Lockwood clans.

I couldn’t do what I do without you!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

WHY WAS SHE even here? Harley Vega had been asking herself this question ever since the butler had let her into Wilder Lange’s private office inside his massive multi-level Manhattan penthouse. Maybe she was just a glutton for punishment. Maybe she was a masochist and didn’t know it. How else to explain why she accepted a one-on-one meeting with the man responsible for tanking her career?

She knew why. She was going to give the asshole a piece of her mind.

Harley didn’t know what his agenda was but hers included letting the corporate shark know that he’d made the biggest mistake of his professional life, axing her sex advice column from Femme, a glossy women’s magazine that had been in production for the better part of fifty years. She’d been called the world’s most famous sexologist (had a PhD in human sexuality, for goodness’ sake) and had been writing the sex advice column for more than seven years.

And then there was Wilder Lange, who bought her magazine for a song, gutted the thing, put his name on it and declared himself the savior of yet another publication with a long and storied history. Yes, saving, she thought bitterly. Saving by cutting the page count in half and laying off two-thirds of its staff.

And what the hell did he even know about publishing? As far as Harley could tell, he was a full-time playboy. He seemed to spend all his time dating and dumping models and pop stars. A poster boy for an unhealthy sex life, a type-A commitment-phobe. One of them had even written a song about him. It was called something ridiculous like “Sex God.” The dumbest song title she’d ever heard in her life! She paced, anger thrumming in her veins. She glanced around the study to get her bearings and tried to calm down. She noticed the chrome shelves in his study lined with antique books and first editions that at a glance seemed heavy on Dickens: Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, Tale of Two Cities. Not exactly the light reading she expected from a would-be sex god. She sniffed. They were probably all for show. Somebody probably told him that having antique books in his library would make him look sophisticated.

She glanced around the sleek modern library in the penthouse of this mirrored building on Fifth Avenue, as they sat far, far above the street noise and traffic, and marveled at the very vastness of the place. Everything seemed to be white and chrome, modern and sleek, except for the traditional paintings hung in various places and the antique pieces of furniture that complemented the room. The place felt like a bundle of contradictions that somehow worked: old and new, antique and modern. Either Wilder Lange was broadcasting hidden depths, or he’d hired an interior designer to do just that. Most likely the latter. Harley was sure the man never lifted a finger to do any real work his whole life. Hadn’t he inherited the company from his wealthy daddy? Harley glanced outside the huge glass windows overlooking the whole of Central Park and the buildings surrounding it. Impressive view, she’d give him that. But that was all she’d give him.

Harley glanced at her watch. The man wasn’t even on time. He was ten minutes late. Was reading him the riot act even worth the wait? Or was he assuming that because she’d been let go of her job, she had nothing but time on her hands? Well, she didn’t, as a matter of fact. Since she couldn’t write her column anymore, she’d need to work on drumming up more life-coaching clients, more people in need of sex advice to pay her bills. And, maybe, at long last, she could finally finish that couples’ therapy book she’d been dabbling with over the last few years. Maybe if she finished it sooner rather than later, she might be able to land an advance. Maybe. She needed the cash. Her Brooklyn apartment sure as hell wouldn’t pay for itself.

Forget this, she thought. She’d waited long enough. She grabbed her purse from the nearby burgundy leather chair and made her way to the door. Just then, the massive oak study door cracked open and Harley jumped, backing away from it only to see Wilder Lange stride in, all six foot four of him, oozing confidence and an easy charm. His broad shoulders seemed to brush the door frame as he passed and Harley Vega felt rooted to the spot. She wasn’t short, at five six, herself. But he was so...tall. And...damn sexy in that well-tailored light gray suit. Since when were billionaire communications magnates so hot? She took him all in: his carefully combed dark almost jet-black hair, rolling back from his forehead in waves, strikingly dark eyes framed with thick lashes, his athletic build telling her that the rumors that he hit triathlons in his spare time weren’t rumors at all. She seemed to remember one of her Google searches of the man told her he had Irish, German and Armenian heritage, but the combination right at this moment made her head spin.

“So sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, easily, with just the right amount of contrition, and for a full second she just stood there, probably mouth agape like an idiot. What was wrong with her? As if she’d never seen a good-looking man before. She’d almost completely forgotten she was supposed to hate him.

Wilder flashed her his famous dimpled smile and she felt her stomach lurch. This could not be happening. Why hadn’t any of the online photos of him done him any damn justice at all? He was just 100 percent sex, his charisma like an ocean wave crashing over her and temporarily stunning her senses. Now that damn song didn’t seem so ridiculous after all. Women probably stood in line for their chance to worship him.

He closed the minimal distance between them, hand out for a shake. She took his massive paw and felt her own delicate hand enveloped by his. What was it they said about a man with big hands? Although, she knew hand size had very little to do with other parts of the anatomy. Still, her mind couldn’t help but wonder. His hands seemed to be too strong for a businessman’s. He exuded a raw kind of power, something primal, something that didn’t belong in the expensive suit he wore. He looked the part of a rich tycoon, but the bent of his sensual mouth told her that looks were deceiving. Her hand felt tiny in his, and she was distinctly aware of the power dynamic, of how he held back his strength when he clasped her palm gently. She realized that she hadn’t said a word so far, as she’d been too focused on the man’s eyes. Sharp, mesmerizing and so very, very dark that she could only barely make out the outline of his pupils. “So nice to meet you. Thank you for coming.”

Why was he being so nice to her? That was the shocking part. Why on earth did he seem pleased to see her when he’d just fired her from the job she loved? He had to have read her columns and found them lacking. Why else hadn’t she made the cut? But he seemed damned pleased to see her, like maybe the man was flirting with her. He was, after all, known to be a famous womanizer. But then she thought better of it. Get a grip on yourself, Harley. This man might be sex on a freakin’ stick, but he wasn’t any friend and he certainly wasn’t interested. Harley wasn’t his usual model type. That was just her projecting her want on him. Stop thinking with your clit and try using your brain.

“Well, it’s not nice to meet you,” she said. “Can’t say I’m excited to meet the man who fired me.”

There. At least she wasn’t going to swoon all over him now. She got a tiny bit of satisfaction to see the man’s dark eyebrows raise in surprise. He probably surrounded himself with sycophants. Get used to it, she thought, I’m not here to kiss your ass. What was the point? Harley didn’t beg. She wasn’t going to plead for her job back. Her parents would drive all the way up from Miami to lecture her on not giving in. Vegas are proud, her father always told her.

“You are as blunt as people say, I see.” A slow smile played at the corners of his mouth. Why did he seem amused that she was pissed off? That just made her...more pissed off. “And, technically, I didn’t fire you. You were laid off.”

“Right. Let me just tell my landlord that. I’m sure she’d be just fine with me not paying my rent. Seeing as how I wasn’t fired for cause.” She’d gotten the second eviction notice today as a matter of fact. If she didn’t pay her rent in two days, she was going to be kicked out. She stuffed down the temporary panic that rose in her throat. And then what? Maybe crash on a friend’s couch. Except that most of her friends were at the magazine, and most of them were in the same predicament she was. She could go home to Miami. But that would be admitting defeat. Her mother never approved of her moving to Manhattan.

She hated the fact that her mother’s prediction—that she’d be scraping by in New York—had come true. Sure, she was professionally successful, but living on her own in New York on a modest columnist’s salary only worked if she got the salary. She’d been living paycheck to paycheck for some time.

She noticed the gleaming Rolex on Wilder’s wrist. That man had never had to worry about making rent even once in his whole silver-spoon life, she thought.

“It was a business decision. Nothing personal.” He motioned to an oversized leather chair near the corner window. “Please, Ms. Vega, sit.” She hesitated. Did she even want to stay? Part of her wanted to tell him to go to hell and run out of his penthouse. Another part of her was curious as to why she was here at all. Even though he made her furious, she still wrestled with curiosity. What the hell was she here for? Maybe he planned an apology. An apology would be nice.

“Please,” he added. He nodded at the chair, and she noticed how perfectly symmetrical his features were: eyes, nose, mouth. Fending off his charisma felt like a full-time job. Something about Wilder Lange made everything seem off center. It was the way he was looking at her, she realized, and more than that, the way his gaze made her feel.

Eventually, she sat in the leather chair, sinking into it and struggling to keep her skirt at her knees. She’d worn one of the outfits she typically wore to the office: dark pencil skirt, trendy spring top in a pastel pink that complemented her almond skin. She dressed conservatively, because she knew that people sometimes assumed a sex advice columnist would show up wearing garter belts and a bustier. Nervously, a hand went to her dark updo, as if reassuring herself her twist hadn’t come loose. Then she wondered why she’d done that, why she cared so much about looking put together at this moment. She knew that somewhere deep inside her, she wanted Wilder to find her pleasing. That was a dangerous hope, a stupid one. What then? He’d be attracted to her and give back her old job? Harley wasn’t here to bargain for her job. She wasn’t going to trade favors with any man to save her career. No matter how powerful—or how damn delectable—he seemed.

Wilder sat at the edge of his massive desk, and she was well aware that he was hovering above her. Sitting, she still had to crane her neck to meet his eyes.

“Why am I here, Mr. Lange?” Her tone was sharp, annoyed. Good.

“Are you always so to the point?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Most of the time,” she said. “I don’t believe in wasting time.” Unlike Wilder Lange, it seemed.

“Would you like a drink? Iced tea? Scotch?” He flashed a wicked grin. Harley felt ire rise in her. Why did she feel like he was the cat and she, the mouse? What he didn’t know was she was no mouse.

She crossed her legs at the knee, and very much wished she’d brought a leather-bound ledger for notes. Anything that she might use as a shield against Wilder’s penetrating gaze. She didn’t know why she felt so...vulnerable. Since when was she ever intimidated by money or power? Never.

“Do you have tequila?” she joked.

“I do. Reposado? Blanco? Anejo?” he asked, as if he had an entire bar hidden under his desk. Hell, the man might.

“Extra Anejo if you have it.” She might as well sample some of his expensive liquor. Might as well get something that would be worth the cost of the train to get here.

“Of course.” He slid off the end of the desk moving with the ease of a man comfortable in his body. He walked to the small glass cart tucked away near the chrome shelf, produced a small crystal tumbler and poured two glasses of amber-colored liquid. He handed it to her and she took a small sniff. It smelled aged and expensive, the kind of sipping tequila her father would fawn over at special occasions. Her mother had always wrinkled her nose and asked for a mojito, her drink of choice.

Wilder slid into the seat across from hers, deftly opening his suit jacket button with one hand, revealing a very defined waist beneath, his bright white starched shirt lying flat against the belt buckle bellow his belly button. She was strangely glad he didn’t offer a toast. She took a tentative sip of the drink and it felt like caramelized butter on her tongue. Definitely expensive. Definitely delicious. Nothing to slam here. This was meant to be enjoyed. Slowly. Her hopes of slamming the drink and stalking out of his office faded.

He watched her drink with that damn amused quirk of his lip twitching. She felt the urge to toss the drink in the man’s face. But her father would never forgive her. Tequila this good should never be wasted. She took another sip, the tequila already doing its job as it warmed her belly. Meanwhile, Wilder wasn’t talking. He was studying her. As if trying to figure out a puzzle. She wished he’d just get on with the damn meeting already, so they could part ways and she could get on with her life.

“Is it too much to hope for that you’re giving me my old job back?” She meant it as a light-hearted joke, but realized she’d failed miserably in her delivery. She sounded needy. Desperate. Dammit.

He frowned. “I’m sorry, no.” He shook his head.

The disappointment hit her harder than she would’ve thought. Why had she thought he’d give back her old job? A corporate shark like him didn’t gut staff and then have second thoughts.

“I’ve asked you here because I need your help.”

She laughed out loud, a blunt bray. “You need my help?” She couldn’t imagine with what. And also, footnote: what the hell was he thinking? What kind of gall gave him the right to ask for her help? He’d fired her and he was asking her for a favor?

“Yes, I do.” His expression was entirely serious as he took a small sip from his glass. Her laughter bounced right off him as if he were immune to ridicule. Probably the zeroes in his bank account made him impervious to shame. “You give advice. I need...advice.” He rolled the liquid around in his glass.

“You need advice?” Had she fallen into an alternate dimension? Did she find herself in the upside down? Why was one of the most powerful men in Manhattan asking her for advice?

“Yes.” He met her gaze, his dark eyes deadly serious. “I need advice...about sex.”

CHAPTER TWO

HARLEY FELT HER brain had short-circuited. Did the billionaire playboy subject of the pop song “Sex God” and the most powerful communications magnate in America just ask her for sex advice? She almost dropped her tumbler of expensive tequila all over his pristine white carpet.

“You need sex advice?” She was barely keeping the laughter from bubbling up in her throat. “You? Mr. Sex God?” She threw the song title at him like an insult.

“Yes.” He glanced at the carpet, looking contrite. And...a little lost. This wasn’t a joke. He was serious. The laughter in her throat died. Clearly, the man had a problem and was struggling to cope. The advice columnist in her made her pause. A million thoughts ran through her mind: was he not satisfying his partners? She looked at the dark-haired, devilishly handsome specimen before her. No, that couldn’t be it. Most women would be able to satisfy themselves just fine by practically looking at the man.

What about sex addiction? That was probably far more likely, she figured. She imagined the man unable to control his baser desires, falling into bed with countless women, and suddenly the image of him naked, helpless against his own impulses made a tiny bead of sweat drip down the small of her back. Was that...turning her on? Good lord. This was the first man she’d ever met that she’d immediately imagined...naked. What was wrong with her? She knew about charisma, knew about the power of sexual pheromones, yet, she’d never truly experienced their raw power. Until right at this moment.

“I understand how ridiculous this might seem.” He glanced up at her, appearing almost desperate. He needed help. That much was clear. He was also a man not used to asking for it, she guessed. And suddenly, she felt... God, did she feel sorry for the man? She could absolutely not allow any feelings of pity or any other feelings into her heart for this man who’d single-handedly destroyed the magazine she’d lived to work for. “I want you to take me on. As a personal client.”

“But...you fired me.” None of this was computing.

“You’re damn good at what you do. I’ve read your columns. I think you can help me.” He’d liked her columns?

“If I had a good column, why did you fire—”

“Lay off,” he corrected.

“Kick me to the curb,” she said. She gripped her glass a little tighter, that old resentment bubbling up in her. He wasn’t going to get away with sugarcoating anything.

“It was business. Not personal.”

“How can I not take it personally?” Seriously. Was she about to hear the professional equivalent of the it’s-not-me-it’s-you speech?

“You decide not to.” He eyed her. Why was he so confounding? She was just going to decide not to have a grudge against him. As if it were that easy. She drained what was left in her glass. He stood, fetched the crystal bottle from the mini bar and poured her another round. She accepted it without a word, her head starting to buzz from the first pour. And from the proximity of the man.

“Tell me why should I even consider doing a favor for you?” This was the real question.

He cocked his head to one side as if the answer was obvious. “Well, because I asked.”

Now, she laughed, full-throated and bent over her knees with mirth. He was funny, damn. And cocky as hell. She kind of liked that about him. She hated that she liked it, but there it was. “Normally, I don’t take personal life-coaching clients.” Except now she’d need to take them on. Lots of them, if she wanted to not be homeless.

“I’ve heard you do make exceptions. I’d like you to make one for me.” He had such gall. And why did that seem so damn sexy? Or was it just the perfect lines of that expensive suit? Her mother’s voice was in her head then: Hear the man out. Don’t be so stubborn you cut off your nose to spite your face.

“I’d have to hear what you need counseling for.”

He leaned back in his chair, the very epitome of charm and ease, except for the guarded look in his eyes. The man clearly used charm to keep people at bay. Well, Harley wasn’t just any person. She took a sledgehammer to emotional walls and usually had a pretty strong bullshit meter.

“I need another round.” He poured himself more tequila, as well.

Harley quirked an eyebrow. “Do you need another cocktail to talk about your sex life, Mr. Lange?”

Wilder looked at her, eyes alight with mischief. “It’s you who might need another cocktail, Ms. Vega.”

Harley laughed a little. Oh, how little the man knew her. “Trust me, there’s nothing you can tell me that will shock me.”

Wilder leaned forward, dark eyes bright. “Is that a challenge?”

She hated to admit it, but the man was already challenging her in ways she didn’t like. “No. Just a simple statement of fact.” She took a drink of the tequila, the warmth trailing down her throat to her stomach. “I’m curious about why the world’s most famous playboy wants...or needs a sexologist?”

Wilder seemed frozen for a second, his expression completely unreadable, and she worried she’d offended him. Then again, why was she worrying about his feelings? Did she care about making things easier for Wilder Lange? Not at all. He was full of himself. So why did she also think he was the sexiest man she’d met in God knows when? Because she always liked men who were trouble, and Wilder Lange had trouble written all over him.

He laughed, a deep chuckle in his belly that she almost felt as a vibration through her whole being. “So, you’ve been reading about me, too, I see.”

“It’s hard not to.” He was everywhere—magazines, blogs, even the evening news sometimes. Clinically, she could admit she was attracted to him, but attraction had never been an issue for her before. She could compartmentalize her feelings, tuck them away in a box on a shelf and then let her clinical, scientific self examine those contents at a later date in a safer environment. But she was having problems compartmentalizing with Wilder sitting before her.

She needed to get this meeting back on track. She cleared her throat. Enough of dipping her toe in the pool of sexual energy flowing between them. Harley knew it was there, and she also knew that as a professional, she could ignore it. People might be animals, with animal instincts, but they also had cold hard logic.

“So, if we can discuss what you’d like from me...”

“Just your attention, Ms. Vega.” His grin turned almost wolfish then, the innuendo subtle, yet she caught it. Maybe she was wrong about the flirting. He seemed to be laying it on thick. Too thick, maybe. He studied her, dark eyes sharp, missing nothing. “This is...well...not easy for me, Harley. Especially with the paparazzi always sniffing around.”

“I thought you employed the paparazzi?” She knew he owned more than one tabloid.

“Just because I’m the boss, doesn’t mean they won’t report on me. Besides, they have competitors that I don’t own. And I’ve made enemies in some places. Political ones.” She’d heard about those, as well. He’d had a public feud with a powerful New York senator over FCC regulations.

“I guess you can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs,” she said.

“Isn’t it a little too early in the day to be quoting Ayn Rand?” Wilder asked her, a playful smile on his lips. So, the books on his shelf weren’t just for show. He’d read some of them. Perhaps he wasn’t the empty-headed billionaire she’d assumed he was. The more he talked, the more he seemed exactly her type—tall, dark, devilishly handsome and most likely with more issues than Sports Illustrated. She hated how much she loved complicated men, but there it was. Her Achilles’ heel.

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “Are you going to keep changing the subject or are we going to talk about what you need from me?”

Wilder barked a laugh. “Okay. But, before I tell you, I’ll need reassurances that what we talk about here today will be confidential.”

She slid one knee over the other, her fitted skirt sliding up her leg. “Absolutely. I won’t tell a soul.” Wrong. She’d tell every single person she knew and then people she didn’t. She had zero loyalty to Wilder Lange.

Harley was finding it hard to meet Wilder’s gaze. He was looking at her as if she were an intruder in his territory, as if he were a wolf defending his pack’s hunting grounds. She tried to figure out why she thought he was so predatory. He was just a man, sitting in a chair, but there was something about the set of his shoulders, the barely restrained power there. Also, beneath that lazy smile, the bright, intelligent eyes, there was a hardness to Wilder Lange. She thought he must be a man used to using honey to lure bees, of that Harley was certain, but she also sensed a rigidity in him, which would account for the fact that he’d more than doubled his father’s empire. One couldn’t be a fantastically successful businessman on charm alone. Charm, she suspected, was just one of his weapons.

“Just to be certain, I’ll need you to sign this NDA before we get started.” Wilder rose, and moved over to his oversized antique desk, where he slipped open a drawer and pulled out a document of about five pages.

Harley blinked fast. She didn’t want to sign her soul away in some document. She was no lawyer. “Do we need that?”

Wilder crooked his head and handed her the papers and a pen. “Indulge me.” His sensual lips bent into a friendly smile, one intending to disarm her. Clearly, he was a man not used to trusting anyone. Harley took the document and scanned it. From what she could tell, it was a typical nondisclosure agreement, except that while most NDAs lasted two to five years, this one lasted for the entirety of Harley’s life. And she was not allowed to ever even admit to knowing, let alone treating, Wilder Lange.

“I can’t admit I know you?” she asked, puzzled, as she glanced at him. There goes spreading this little tidbit of gossip all over social media.

“If these terms aren’t reasonable to you, then...”

Harley glanced at Wilder. She could get up right now and leave. Why was she doing him any favors? She hated him. Hated what he’d done to her beloved magazine. Yet, she knew deep in her bones she couldn’t walk away. Not yet. Harley loved nothing more than a challenge, and she suspected Wilder would be that and more. The set of his chin, those mysterious dark eyes, the protective rigidity of his shoulders.... Oh, yes, he would be a delicious challenge. And what did she have waiting for her back at home? An eviction notice and hours to scroll LinkedIn for want ads? Besides, curiosity was eating her up inside. She needed to know what problem was so dire that he’d called her to his home and asked for her help.

She took the pen and signed her name on the contract and handed it back to him. He took it, tucked the papers back inside his desk drawer and then took his place opposite her in the leather-bound chair.

“Now, what can I help you with?” she asked. The curiosity was literally about to kill her.

“I can’t seem to...” He took in a sharp breath. “Well, I can’t seem to have sex.”

CHAPTER THREE

HARLEY LOOKED AS if he’d just told her he was an alien born in a different galaxy. Well, he guessed she hadn’t been expecting that. Wilder, himself, was the last man who would’ve thought it could happen to him, either. But there was the sad ugly truth: he was thirty-nine and having trouble getting it up. No matter how beautiful the woman, no matter how amazing or tantalizing she might be, he was having difficulty even mustering up a baseline interest in sex. He was supposed to be in the prime of his life and yet he couldn’t enjoy it. He’d tried the pills, and he’d had all the examinations, and every doctor or specialist told him there was absolutely nothing physically wrong with him. He was in the best shape of his life. His problem, they said, was all in his head.

“I’m sorry...you can’t...?” she said, and then quickly tried to mask her surprise. She was so shocked she put her glass on the nearby glass end table. He, however, took another swig of his.

“I can’t maintain an erection,” he clarified. No use beating around the bush.

“Oh.”

He gave her points for the professionalism and for not laughing in his face. He knew she was angry with him, had every right to be angry with him, and that’s why she’d be the perfect woman to treat him. Because she wouldn’t let him have a pity party like the last therapist he’d tried, who’d gotten him absolutely nowhere. Harley Vega wouldn’t let him manipulate her, either. Of that, he was absolutely certain.

Wilder was more than certain she was the woman to cure him. He hadn’t been this intrigued by a woman in...he couldn’t remember when. Before their meeting, he’d watched dozens of her interviews, read a substantial amount of her advice columns, and he had wanted to meet her in person. She was a rare combination of a beautiful mind who wasn’t afraid to say what needed to be said and a strikingly beautiful woman with curves that simply didn’t quit. The tight pencil skirt clung to her athletic legs, and while the pink ruffled top hid her curves, the sheer fabric showed just a hint of flesh-colored lace beneath, a tantalizing clue of the lingerie she’d worn to this meeting. He was certain she probably didn’t even know the lace showed. Her normally dark shoulder-length curls were confined in a tight French twist, revealing a smooth angular jawline that he had the sudden urge to stroke with his finger. Her light brown eyes were both warm and yet also...reserved. This was a woman used to keeping herself on a short leash, and that made him wonder why she felt she needed to grip it so tightly.

“I see.” She was stalling for time. Trying to get her thoughts in order, he guessed. It’s probably not every day the man who laid her off admitted to such a crippling problem. He would pause to feel humiliated, except that he didn’t have time for that. He needed to get help, and he needed to get it now. “So, I guess you’re not a sex addict, then?”

He barked a laugh. She was exactly the no-nonsense, pull-no-punches Harley Vega that lived in those advice columns.

“Is that what you thought?” he asked.

She nodded. “Can you blame me? You have a new girlfriend every week. And they usually write songs about your...” she cleared her throat “...abilities. While, also, I should say, talking about how you can’t commit.”

“I choose not to commit, there’s a difference.”

“Said like a true commitment-phobe.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. Damn, the woman was blunt. Bold. Unafraid of him. She was just what he needed. “Surely, you don’t believe everything you’ve read about me. I’m sure you know that public lives can be different than private ones.”

She nodded, once. “Yes,” she admitted.

“So, do you think you can help me?” he asked.

She kept her face a perfect mask. “It’s a common problem,” she said, which he thought was kind, even as she uncrossed her legs and recrossed them. He watched the hem of her skirt rise, revealing her perfectly smooth olive skin above her knee. He felt his breath catch a little and wondered what that was about. He was a man who surrounded himself with beautiful women on a regular basis, so why would a hint of skin even register with him? Yet, it did. She bit her full lip, concentrating on her next response and he found it unbelievably sexy. The tiniest of lines appeared between her otherwise perfectly manicured eyebrows. Harley was beautiful, but not perfect, he noted, her smile slightly lopsided, her light brown eyes almost too big for her face. Almost. He’d call them doe-like, if he had to use a cliché, but really they were just big and warm and cautious. It was the cautiousness that intrigued him, the guardedness in her otherwise warm and open expression. She wore little makeup, which Wilder respected. He preferred the natural look, no matter what the tabloids might say about him.

But before he could fully appreciate the view before him, his phone rang. It was his younger brother Seth. He was the oldest of Wilder’s half siblings.

“I need to take this,” he said, even as Harley rose to her feet to protest. He stood and moved to the other side of the study. “Hello?”

“You sitting down?”

“No. Should I be?” He glanced at Harley long enough to see a flash of annoyance cross her face. She didn’t like being put on hold. But he’d not send his brother to voice mail. For him, family always came first.

“Maybe. I heard Mom is talking to Stuart. She’s trying to get him to sell his shares in Lange Communications.” In the background, Wilder heard a seagull cry. Seth was supposed to be somewhere in the Mediterranean, which was why Wilder was always going to take his brother’s call. He never knew when it could be an emergency. “Stuart said no, but just wanted you to know she’s trying to up her shares.”

“Of course, she is. That’s her full-time obsession for the last two years. Ever since the company became profitable.” Wilder felt the tightness in his chest loosen a bit. He was always a little worried about any of his brothers and was glad to hear this was just a routine call about Lucinda and not something serious like a car accident or, worse, a sinking yacht.

“Not that she’d ever admit you saved Dad’s legacy. She was livid when you got the lion’s share of the stocks. But he knew you were the best man to run it. We all know that.”

“I did what any of you would do.”

“Dad’s company would be bankrupt by now if any of us had tried to run it. You did something extraordinary. Give yourself credit.”

Wilder felt a swell of pride in his chest. He’d spent most of his life looking after his younger brothers. He’d had to: Lucinda drank too much and while his father was fantastic—when he was home—the business kept him traveling around the world most of the time when he’d been alive. Sure, they’d had a parade of nannies through the house. The nannies had made sure they were fed and wore clean clothes, but none of them dealt with school bullies or helped with homework assignments or, at least for one brother, aided him in talking through his difficult decision to come out. Wilder had been the one who’d been there through it all, making sure the boys knew they had someone in their lives who wasn’t going anywhere. They’d all naturally handed over the job of running their father’s business to him, no questions asked. If pushed, he knew, all of them were relieved not to have had to deal with the burden. No matter what their mother told them about how Wilder wasn’t fit to do it. They all knew he was the only one who could.

And Wilder took the responsibility because that’s what Wilder did. He always did what needed to be done.

“And by the way, thanks for taking it on, so I didn’t have to,” Seth said. In the background, he could hear the ocean waves lapping against the boat’s hull. Seth loved the water, preferring to spend his days on the family yacht far, far from family drama.

“You can repay me by winning that next yacht race,” he said, smiling at the thought of Seth out doing what he loved, racing across the ocean, the wind at his back.

“Oh, I plan on it.” Wilder could almost hear his little brother smiling through the phone. Nothing gave the kid more joy than being on the open water. “Anyway, I hear Lucinda is very close to getting other shareholders to sell to her. So just be aware she’s trying for a coup.”

“I’m not surprised.” Everything he worked so hard to build could be taken away from him if Lucinda got her way, which he didn’t plan on letting happen. Not now, not ever. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

Harley paced near him, impatience in every step, not bothering to hide the fact she was listening to every word. He supposed he should make this quick, now that he knew it wasn’t a life or death emergency.

“Look, if the worst did come to pass...” Seth paused “...you could always opt out of the Lange legacy. You don’t need it.”

“I owe it to Dad. You know if Lucinda got control, she’d just liquidate everything. Immediately. All she cares about is money.” He clenched his jaw, as he glanced at Harley who stood studying him, not bothering to hide that she was eavesdropping. That almost made him smile. He glanced beyond her to his father’s books on the shelf. Dad had left him these and the penthouse. He’d left Seth his boat, and the other boys had gotten more cash than they could probably spend in their lifetimes. Lucinda had gotten much less and had spent the last seven years trying to get what she thought was her fair share. At least in death Dad had admitted that Lucinda was...less than deserving.

“Dad’s dead. He can’t care about the company anymore. You could sell. Especially now that you turned the failing company around. Start your own business. You don’t need to be fighting Lucinda all the time.”

Hadn’t he been doing that his whole life? He wasn’t sure he knew how to do anything else. Plus, he was closing in on forty. This was quickly becoming his own legacy. Not just his father’s.

Harley Vega stopped her pacing, crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently. He’d wrap this up.

“Trust me, life is better away from her.” Wilder could imagine Seth standing on the decks in the bright sunshine. He was happy for his younger brother, truly happy, but also felt a deep-seated envy. Wilder didn’t know how to let things go. If something needed doing, he did it. Period.

“Say, did you give Harley Vega a call like I suggested?”

“I did.” He glanced over at Harley and she froze. The impatience on her face changing to...curiosity. “I’m trying things out.”

She took her seat once more, gazing out the windows of his study, waiting for him to end the call.

“Good. You deserve a happy ending, too, brother. Pun intended.”

“Ha. Ha. Very funny.” Wilder rolled his eyes.

“Well, if you’re going to be fighting off Lucinda at every turn, then you need to have a way to blow off some steam. I also think if you just got away from that nest of vipers for a little while, come out on the boat, maybe you’d get your mojo back.”

“If I left, Lucinda would have me booted, no doubt, and take over the company now that it’s finally turning a profit.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“Just go sail your boat, little brother.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Seth paused. “Watch your back, Wild,” he said. “And call me if you need anything.”

“Will do.”

Wilder ended the call and stared at his phone for a minute. He couldn’t help but wish Seth was here, the brother closest to his own age, the one who’d watched his back countless times in school and in life. The bond between them ran deep, and after he’d come out to him in high school, the bond had grown deeper. Wilder had been even more protective of Seth. He had helped Seth talk to their father about it, who’d accepted the news without any judgment. Lucinda, however, had been a different story. She’d been raised by conservative parents, and thought being gay was a choice. No matter how often Wilder, Seth or their father would try to explain sexual orientation was something you were born with, she’d never accept that Seth’s attraction to other men was something he couldn’t control. Wilder was glad Seth was happy out there on the wild blue sea. He deserved that happiness. Wilder wondered if he would be happier out there, too. But duty called.

And right now, that duty was Harley Vega.

“Sorry about that,” he said again. “It’s one of my little brothers. He’s abroad and I just wanted to make sure he’s okay.”

“Oh.” She seemed to be considering this a moment. “And is he?”

“Fine,” he said. “Not that he’s really trying to stay out of trouble.” Wilder laughed a little.

“Sounds like my sister,” she said. The two exchanged a glance and for the first time she seemed as if she did not want to kill him. That was progress.

“So.” She cleared her throat as she recalibrated, the warm moment cooling. He was losing her again. He needed to win her over. Needed to try harder. Watching her there, back ramrod straight, legs crossed at the knee, her almost-sensible pumps on, he felt a stirring in his groin. He nearly did a double take, as he glanced down at his lap. He hadn’t felt anything there for months. Hell, more than a year, if he were honest with himself. Could seeing this woman’s bare calves have this kind of effect on him? he wondered. Maybe he got off on therapy. Or maybe...he got off on her.

She studied him now, lacing her fingers together. “So, tell me about what’s concerning you most. About...your issue.”

What was concerning him most was how he was halfway to an erection, a thing he thought had left him for good. He took a deep breath and stared at Harley, who blinked at him, her pink lips full and halfway parted, and felt all of her laser-like attention focused on him. He liked it. Her attention.

“Well, I’d like to be normal.” Hell, he’d just like to get back to his life. That was all. Right now on his phone he had a dozen playful and sexy missives from his crew of friends with benefits, women who were always eager and ready for a good time. Except he wasn’t able to show them one. Not with his current predicament.

“There’s no such thing as normal, really,” she said. “There’s just people and what they like and don’t like. A normal amount of sex to one man is not the same for another.”

“Yes, but I’d just like to have sex. Period.” He felt like such a failure. He hated admitting defeat, and even worse than that, hated asking for help. He never asked for help in his life. Yet, he needed her help, whether he liked it or not.

Except that, right at this moment, he seemed not to have any problem with getting turned on. He shifted, crossing his legs to try to get his own growing hard-on under control, and almost laughed to himself about the irony of hiding his erection when he’d just told her he couldn’t get it up.

“Are you having trouble getting hard...or staying hard?” she asked him.

“Getting,” he admitted, though from the stiffness he felt growing in his lap, he doubted she’d believe him. “And maintaining.” He swallowed, hard, and crossed his legs. That seemed to make things worse so he uncrossed them. Was it the woman’s voice? It seemed every time she spoke, she was like a snake charmer, playing a delicate tune that only his cock seemed to fully appreciate. She was weaving a spell around him even now, her light brown eyes focused on him, her skin looking almost bronze beneath his study lights, her hands gently clasped in her lap. What he wanted to do was lean across the space between them and kiss her, feel for himself whether her lips were as soft as they looked. Hell, what he wanted to do was lie her down on the floor right now and taste all of her. The thought of finding her delicate pink—or would it be more mauve or magenta?—center set off a five-alarm fire in his brain, and his groin responded, growing harder even now. He casually put his hands in his lap, amazed to feel himself coming to life there. Now, you pick the time to work? He cursed his body, cursed the way the thing stubbornly refused to follow his orders.

“How long has this been an issue?”

The fact was, Lange’s mind and his body had been at odds for quite a long time, but it was only in the last year that it had become a crippling problem. He thought back to his last disastrous date with that swimsuit model... Now, he couldn’t remember her name, though she’d graced the covers of any number of magazines. How she’d patted his hand, a look of pity on her face, as she told him, “This happens to men all the time.”

Except that it didn’t happen to Wilder Lange. Not ever.

Except now it did.

“About a year ago, it started. It was on and off for a while, but now it’s...” Every single time he tried to take a gorgeous woman to his bed. “Constant.” He almost spat the word. He hated failure, wouldn’t tolerate it in any other aspect of his life, and yet the one part of his life that was supposed to be easy, fun and uncomplicated—his sex life—he couldn’t make happen.

“Have you tried medication?” she asked him, her voice clinical. So why did it affect him so much?

“I’ve tried them all.” This was the sad truth. He’d had all the prescriptions, and none worked. His last doctor had suggested it was a mental block. He’d seen half a dozen traditional therapists, psychiatrists and psychologists, but none of them had gotten at the root of his problem, either. “I’ve got a complete clean bill of health. No infections. No STIs. No high blood pressure. No weight gain. Nothing physical that would account for the issue.”

“Do you usually wear protection?”

“Always,” he said, not sure what that had to do with anything. “What does that have to do with this condition?”

“Nothing. I’m just trying to figure out how reckless you are.” She quirked an eyebrow.

“So it has nothing to do with my problem?”

“Probably not.” A sly smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Despite her struggle to be professional, she was enjoying this. Just a little bit. Well, he supposed he deserved it.

“And you? Do you?”

She didn’t even raise an eyebrow. She wasn’t easily thrown. “Yes, I do. And get tested every year. It’s the responsible thing to do.”

“I’m glad we’re both responsible, then.” He’d much rather talk about her habits, even if they were clinical, than his. “Do you always keep yourself on such...a tight leash?”

She studied him. “I’m not the one who asked you for sex advice, Mr. Lange.”

He laughed at that. God, the woman was quick. Blunt. To the point. He loved it. Found it unbelievably refreshing. He was surrounded on most days by people who were eager to get so far up his ass they might as well have been giving him a colonoscopy. She wasn’t going to let him get away with anything. That’s exactly what he needed.

“Are you able to pleasure yourself?” she asked, which took him off guard.

He nodded, once. It was the last thing he wanted to talk about. It felt strikingly shameful. He’d been a man who up until a year ago was fighting women off, had his pick of any number of gorgeous, willing partners, except that now he couldn’t fully enjoy them. Hell, he didn’t even want to try. That was the worst part.

“How often?” She stared at him a beat too long and his cock responded. He was on his way to full-blown readiness. He glanced away, focusing on the sprawling cityscape outside, and the big rectangle of green that was Central Park. They were so high above the park it could have been the view from a plane. Yet, he could still see the vague outline of the walking paths, where his mother used to take him almost every Sunday before she died. He felt the intensity of want for Harley slip away in that moment, as his past, a ghost intent on haunting him, made its presence known.

“Not that often.” If he were honest with himself, he hadn’t just lost the ability to get and stay hard, he’d also largely lost interest in sex. Maybe he’d overloaded himself. Running Lange Communications and being the patriarch of the Lange family was no easy task. He’d managed to keep the brothers on task and Lucinda away from the family coffers, but the fact was that he was starting to feel worn out. He’d used sex as his way of relaxing, as his way of taking something for himself, but now that he wasn’t able to do it, he was starting to question everything.

Harley studied him, intently. He expected to see pity there, that horrible look he’d seen in the eyes of so many of the women he’d tried to seduce recently, the pity that slashed at him like a knife to the groin. He hated pity. Pity was for weak people, for pathetic people, and Wilder was many things, but he’d spent his life proving he wasn’t weak. Or pathetic.

But Harley wasn’t pitying him. And she wasn’t studying him like a bug in a petri dish, either, thankfully. She was still a bit angry with him; he could almost feel the heat pulsing in her veins. He knew that was there, brimming just below the surface, and that’s exactly what he needed. Someone who’d call him on his bullshit. And she was the woman to do it.

“Often, people can experience psychological blocks that impede....certain natural behaviors,” she said. “Stress can play a role, for sure, but so can past trauma. Is there anything that might have happened when you were younger that might be surfacing now?”

He looked away from Harley and back out to Central Park. He hadn’t had the easiest childhood, but he was determined to leave the past in the past. There was nothing in his past that could hurt him, and he damn well wasn’t going to rehash any of it here. If ever.

“No,” he said. He was almost convinced it wasn’t a lie.

Harley leaned forward, and he turned his attention to her in time to see the hint of the top of her left breast at the V of her shirt. He desperately wanted to lay his cheek there. “I think what can benefit you the most is simply talking about some of the challenges you are facing—and have faced—in your life, and I think you’ll find that we can get you back to where you’d like to be. But you don’t need me for that. You could get a therapist.”

Disappointment hit him, cold and hard. No, he needed her, not someone else. “I’ve tried therapists. They don’t work. They’re afraid to be blunt with me.”

“You just want abuse, then.”

“Maybe. Something like that. I need someone to shake some sense into me.” Now, he had something else up his sleeve. Some other bit of information he knew about Harley Vega. “And there’s one more thing I need from you.”

“What’s that?” Her brown eyes studied him, wary.

“For the duration of treatment, I’ll need you to live here. With me.”

CHAPTER FOUR

HAD HE JUST invited her to live with him? She’d live with the man who’d fired her? The man she hated?

“No. Absolutely not.” She shook her head. White-hot panic rushed down her spine. It was one thing to treat this intriguing man on a weekly basis. It was another thing to live with him and see him daily. Would she be able to stuff down her attraction for him under those circumstances? She wasn’t even sure she could treat him or if she’d just be playing at being therapist. Also, she hated him. Hated everything about the corporate shark who gutted companies and left hundreds of unemployed in his wake. Maybe he did have an endearing relationship with his brother, but that didn’t change who he was.

“There’s more than enough room,” he said. “You can live in the east wing.”

East wing? Since when did a penthouse have wings? Then again, she guessed, this was no ordinary penthouse. It was, after all, three levels at least. “No. That’s off the table.”

“It’s completely contained, with its own kitchen and other facilities. And my servant staff will be at your disposal, should you need them. If you’d rather have your privacy, that’s fine, as well. And, obviously, I wouldn’t burst in on you. We can set rules.” Wilder stood then, too, even as Harley moved away from him to the windows, her mind crowded with a million worries.

“What kind of rules?”

“Any you’d like.”

Would it work? Could she effectively treat someone in his own house? The idea seemed absurd. Since when did a life coach live with a client? And yet...why wasn’t she dismissing it outright? Why was she even considering it for a second? She knew why. It was the damn money. She hated that the money actually meant something. That she might just need it.

“Why live with you? I don’t need to live with you to treat you or coach you, or whatever it is you need from me.”

“I want you to treat me exclusively. I’ll need to have access to you when I need you. And I work long hours and need someone, well, someone at my beck and call.” Of course, he did. Since when were billionaires reasonable? Since when did they respect other people’s schedules and free time?

“You think I’ll drop everything at two in the morning if you need a chat.” She crossed her arms.

“Maybe.” Wilder moved closer to her. Even without looking, she could feel him behind her, less than a foot away.

“It sounds like you want a security blanket. Not a life coach.”

“Also, you living here would solve a second problem, which is that I can’t afford for anyone to know you’re treating me.”

“Having a sex advice columnist under your roof might raise suspicion.” Harley glanced over her shoulder at him, frowning.

“Believe me, women come and go in my penthouse. You won’t raise suspicion.”

“I’m not someone you’re dating,” she said, wondering if she needed to point out the obvious.

“Yet.” His face remained expressionless and she was wondering if he was kidding or not.

Harley coughed. Was this why he wanted her to move in with him? Was he under the impression that therapy from her involved hands-on work? “I can’t date you. Not if I’m coaching you. It violates every rule I’ve ever made for myself, and if you think I’ll treat you by actually having sex with you, then you’ve recruited the wrong sexologist.” She should’ve left already. She shouldn’t even have stayed this long.

“I’m not asking you to move in so we can have sex, Ms. Vega. I’m simply protective of my privacy. That’s all. Most of the time, paparazzi stalk me, and stake out the lobby of this very building. If you came regularly, eventually they’d know.” He took a deep breath. “If I came to you, then they’d know.”

“Getting help is nothing to be ashamed of.” Harley met his gaze.

“No, it isn’t. But I don’t want my company’s stock to plummet, either, on scandalous news that its owner is impotent.”

“Would they really?”

“Of course, they would. They’ve dipped on much less salacious news.”

She looked away from him, back out the window. She couldn’t seriously be considering moving in with the man. What on earth kind of business dealings could sexual therapy throw a wrench in?

“Also, there’s a third reason you should move in.”

“I can hardly wait to hear this.”

“You’re being evicted, Ms. Vega. In a week’s time, you won’t have anywhere to stay, anyway.”

She was struck speechless. “How did you know that?”

He gave her a sly look. “I trade in information, Ms. Vega. I made it my business to know.”

So he knew how desperate she was, then. Knew she was facing rough times. Facing having to move back in with her parents in Miami by the month’s end if she didn’t change her circumstances and fast. She could do that, though. It wasn’t as if she had no options. She just didn’t have any good ones.

“Since it’s my fault you are being evicted, I figured offering you a place to stay was the least I could do.”

Well, he had a point there. It was his fault she couldn’t pay her rent.

“How about we have a trial period?” Wilder sounded calm and confident. Of course, he did. He expected people to do as he instructed, no questions asked. “You can treat me for one week, living here, and then after one week’s time, if you would like to leave, I’ll pay you a full month’s salary, anyway.”

Harley’s mind spun with the possibilities.

“If I do this, you understand that I am not a sexual surrogate.”

“Sexual...surrogate?” Wilder looked confused.

“I don’t have sex to heal people or help them work out their...issues.” Not that she’d ever have sex with him, anyway. She hated him. Period. But she knew Wilder was a man used to getting what he wanted, and she needed to be sure he knew there was absolutely one thing he couldn’t have: her body. No matter how charming the man’s smile was, he had to understand she had rules that she didn’t intend to break.

“I’m asking you to treat me,” Wilder said. “Sex is optional.”

“No, it’s off the table.” Harley had to make this perfectly clear. She could only agree to this if she set up rules. She didn’t want a handsy billionaire who felt entitled to her body.

“That’s your decision completely.” Wilder shrugged, indicating with a slight head nod that he’d respect her decision.

She was not quite sure if she felt relieved or disappointed. “So you’ll respect my rules, then?”

He took a step closer to her and Harley craned her neck to meet his gaze, suddenly very aware of how broad he was, how very, very tall.

“I always respect women’s rules. It’s my motto that if you make the rule, you have to be the one to break it.”

“I won’t break my rules.” Harley had no intention of changing her mind. No matter how charismatic Wilder Lange might be. Plus, she despised him.

“Sounds like you’re challenging yourself now.” Wilder flashed a bright white smile, all charm, all ease, and yet, she sensed that reticence beneath it all. A distance that he put between himself and others. It might just be at the root of whatever issues he was having. She itched to dig into his mind, figure out what made him tick. Why? she wondered. So she could know her enemy better?

“I’m not the one who’s going to be challenged if I treat you,” she said. She might not be a therapist, but she’d done enough coaching to know that really dealing with his issues meant getting a closer look at the ugly truths that most people kept hidden away. For Wilder Lange, she suspected he used that charming smile to lure people in and then somehow keep them at arm’s length, all at the same time. “I’ll take this job but only on the condition that you respect my therapeutic methods.”

“Certainly.” Wilder cocked his head to one side, the light catching the hint of red highlights in his otherwise nearly black hair.

“And I’m free to leave at any time, even before the full week is up, should I decide that my methods are not being respected.”

“Of course. I don’t plan to keep you prisoner against your will.” Wilder looked at her as if she were crazy. And maybe she was. Why was she even considering doing this? Because she was losing her apartment. She didn’t want to admit defeat and go home to Miami. Especially not when they were already strapped. Last year, her sister had recently gotten divorced and moved back in with her parents with two small children in tow. She didn’t need to be another burden, not when her parents were dealing with their own. But even more than that, she had to admit to herself, she might be a little bit too fascinated with Wilder Lange.

“Okay.” Why was her heart beating so hard in her chest? Why had her blood pressure ticked up a notch? “Then, we have a deal.” She stuck out her hand. She was a professional and she could damn well act like one.

He grasped it in his, putting a little more pressure against her palm this time, and held it for a little bit too long. She sucked in a breath and realized she was holding it. Harley deliberately exhaled. She didn’t like the man, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t treat him. And she’d have a free place to stay while she saved cash and figured out her next move.

“I’m glad to hear it.” His voice rolled over her like melted caramel and as she watched his lips move, she realized that she was already looking forward to their first real session, when she could start unpacking the man’s secrets and dive into that fascinating brain of his. She knew the excitement meant trouble. But she could handle it. She was certain she could. What could possibly go wrong?

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