Bound To The Ruthless Wall Street Butcher

Elayne stumbled out of the old man's room, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She turned blindly and collided with a solid wall of chest.

Strong hands gripped her shoulders to steady her.

"Easy," Gunnar's voice said.

Elayne looked up. He was frowning, looking at her pale face. "Did you get lost?"

"I... yes," Elayne lied, her voice breathless. "It's a big house."

Gunnar stared at her for a second too long, then steered her down the hall. "Come in here. We need to talk."

He opened the double doors to the main study. It was a masculine room, all mahogany and leather. He closed the door, shutting out the distant hum of the party.

Gunnar walked to a crystal decanter and poured two fingers of amber liquid. He handed her the glass.

"Drink."

Elayne took a large swallow. The whiskey burned, grounding her.

"You have a silver tongue, Elayne," Gunnar said, leaning against his desk. He was watching her like a specimen in a jar. "What you did to Angelique Tate... it was brutal. I liked it."

Elayne set the glass down. She reached into her clutch and pulled out a crumpled check. It was for fifty thousand dollars-the proceeds from selling the last painting she had managed to hide from the marshals.

She slid it across the desk.

"This is a down payment," she said, her voice steadying. "I'll pay you the rest. I can't do this. I can't be your fiancée."

Gunnar looked at the check. He didn't pick it up. He laughed, a low, dark sound.

"Fifty thousand?" He pushed off the desk and walked toward her. "Elayne, my stock went up four points tonight. That's worth three hundred million dollars. Do you think this covers my time?"

He reached out, took the check, and slowly tore it in half. Then in quarters. He let the pieces flutter down onto the Persian rug.

"You aren't leaving," Gunnar said. "In fact, the terms have changed."

"What?"

"My grandfather is failing. The board is circling. I need you close." He stopped right in front of her, boxing her in against the armchair. "You're moving into my penthouse. Tomorrow."

"No!" Elayne panicked. "I can't. I... I have insomnia. Terrible insomnia. I pace all night. I scream. I'll keep you awake."

Gunnar's eyes narrowed. "Are you hiding a man in that apartment, Elayne?"

"No," she said too quickly.

"Then you're moving in." He pulled out his phone. "Cornell. Send the styling team to the Baxter residence at 8:00 AM. Pack her up."

He hung up before she could protest.

"You can't just order me around!" Elayne cried. "What if I go to the press? What if I tell them this is all a sham?"

Gunnar stepped closer. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her jawline. The touch was electric, terrifying.

"You won't," he whispered. "Because your father's bail is posted by my company. You talk, he goes back to a cell. General population this time."

Elayne froze. He held all the cards.

"You're a monster," she whispered.

"I'm a businessman," Gunnar corrected. "And you are my most valuable asset right now."

A siren wailed in the distance, getting closer.

There was a knock at the door. A servant entered, looking flustered. "Sir, the police are at the gate. A Mrs. Meredith Baxter was trying to climb the fence."

Gunnar raised an eyebrow at Elayne. "Your family is colorful."

He opened the door for her. "Go home, Elayne. Pack your bags. I'll see you at breakfast."

Elayne walked out, her legs feeling like lead.

8:00 AM. She had less than ten hours to make her son disappear.