Captive Heart: The Dangerous CEO's Trap

Brenda Vincent opened her eyes.

A sharp, stabbing pain shot through her temples. Her mouth tasted like stale alcohol and regret. She tried to sit up, but a heavy weight pinned her waist to the mattress.

She froze.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She slowly turned her head. The sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains of the Four Seasons suite illuminated the man sleeping next to her.

His sharp jawline. The straight bridge of his nose. The dark, messy hair resting against the white pillowcase.

Brenda's stomach dropped. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin ice-cold.

It was Bryon Reeves.

The CEO of Reeves Global. The man whose face dominated the front pages of the Wall Street Journal. More terrifyingly, he was the older brother of Aiden Reeves, the difficult, wealthy student she tutored three times a week.

Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Panic clawed at her throat. She remembered the charity gala last night. She remembered her boyfriend, Emery, ignoring her to flirt with the dean's daughter. She remembered drinking three glasses of champagne on an empty stomach.

She remembered the dark corner, the rough hands, the smell of cedar and tobacco, and the tearing of silk.

Brenda bit her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. She had to get out. Now.

She held her breath and carefully, millimeter by millimeter, lifted his heavy, muscular arm off her waist. Her fingers trembled. She placed his arm on the mattress.

Bryon let out a low grunt. His dark eyebrows twitched together.

Brenda squeezed her eyes shut. She stopped breathing entirely. Her muscles locked up, ready to bolt.

A few seconds passed. The steady rhythm of his breathing returned.

She let out a silent exhale and slid off the edge of the massive bed. Her bare feet hit the thick carpet. She looked around the chaotic suite. Her clothes were scattered everywhere.

She spotted her silk blouse near the nightstand. She picked it up. Three buttons were missing, the fabric torn near the collar. A flush of deep, humiliating red crept up her neck.

Out in the hallway, the faint sound of a housekeeping cart rolling by broke the silence.

Brenda rushed to pull the ruined blouse over her head. She clutched the torn collar together with one hand. She found her skirt and stepped into it, her hands shaking so badly she could barely pull up the zipper.

She scanned the floor for her handbag. She found it near the sofa. She dug inside for her phone. The screen was cracked, and it was completely dead. Black. Useless.

She shoved her feet into her high heels. She looked back at the bed. Bryon Reeves was still asleep, looking deceptively calm.

A wave of intense self-disgust washed over her. She had slept with the most dangerous man in New York because she was sad about a mediocre boyfriend. She needed to make it clear that this meant nothing. That she was not one of his usual conquests waiting for a diamond bracelet.

Brenda opened her wallet. She pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. She walked back to the bed and placed the bill on the silver tray on the nightstand.

The moment the paper touched the metal, a large, impossibly warm hand shot out.

Long fingers wrapped around her wrist like a steel vice.

Brenda gasped. She jerked her head down.

Bryon's eyes were wide open. Deep, slate-gray eyes. There was no sleep in them. Only a sharp, dangerous calculation.

He pulled her wrist. Brenda lost her balance. She tumbled forward, landing hard on the soft mattress. Before she could push herself up, Bryon shifted his weight, half-pinning her beneath his large frame.

His chest pressed against hers. She could feel the steady, powerful beat of his heart.

Bryon glanced at the nightstand. He looked at the twenty-dollar bill. A cold, mocking smirk curved his lips.

"What is this?" His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated against her skin.

Brenda forced herself to look him in the eye. Her chest heaved. "It's for your services last night. We had our fun. It's over."

A dark glint flashed in Bryon's eyes. The smirk vanished. His jaw tightened. He reached up and pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to keep looking at him.

"Is the salary for a lecturer at Northbridge University really that low?" he asked.

Brenda's pupils dilated. A cold sweat broke out on her back. He knew.

She thrashed her body, trying to slap his hand away. "Let me go!"

Bryon easily caught her other hand. He pinned both her wrists above her head with one of his hands. His grip was unbreakable. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. His hot breath brushed her ear.

"You think you can sleep with the head of the Reeves family and pay him off with twenty dollars?" he whispered. The threat in his tone made the hairs on her arms stand up. "You are incredibly naive."

Brenda bit her lip again. She stopped struggling. She let her body go limp for a fraction of a second.

Bryon's grip relaxed just a fraction.

In that split second, Brenda drove her knee upward with all the strength she had, aiming straight for his stomach.

Bryon reacted with terrifying speed. He twisted his hips, taking the blow to his thigh instead of his stomach. His eyes darkened with genuine anger, but also a flicker of dark amusement.

Brenda didn't wait. She used his shifted weight to roll off the bed. She stumbled to her feet, grabbed her handbag, and ran.

She didn't look back. She sprinted for the heavy wooden door of the suite.

Bryon did not chase her. He sat up slowly, leaning against the headboard. He watched her frantic, messy escape. His eyes tracked the curve of her back, the torn collar she desperately held together.

Brenda yanked the door open. The bright hallway lights blinded her for a second. She ran toward the elevators.

The doors of an elevator were just opening. Two room service attendants pushed a cart out. Brenda kept her head down, hiding her face, and shoved past them into the empty car. She slammed her hand against the lobby button.

The metal doors slid shut, cutting off the view of the suite.

Brenda slumped against the cool metal wall of the elevator. Her legs gave out. She slid down to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest. She gasped for air, her lungs burning.

Back in the suite, Bryon picked up the crumpled twenty-dollar bill. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the morning traffic of Manhattan.

He picked up the hotel phone and dialed his assistant.

"Find out why Brenda Vincent was at the charity gala last night," Bryon ordered, his voice flat and cold. "And contact Northbridge University. I am taking over the employment contract for Aiden's tutor. Effective immediately."

Down in the lobby, Brenda pulled her coat tightly around her torn blouse. She pushed through the revolving doors and ran out onto the street. She waved down a yellow cab.

She threw herself into the backseat and locked the doors. The cab sped away.

Brenda leaned her head against the window. She closed her eyes, thinking she had just escaped the biggest mistake of her life.