His Uncle, My Sweetest Revenge

The scalding water from the rainfall showerhead beat down on Joanna's back.

She stood in the massive marble enclosure, letting the heat thaw the ice in her veins. Her brain was working in overdrive. She had just negotiated with the devil and survived, but the physical memory of Carlton's thumb brushing her cheek made her stomach knot with anxiety.

She turned off the water.

Stepping out of the shower, she looked at the marble vanity. Her ruined silk dress lay in a pathetic, chlorine-soaked heap. The delicate fabric was torn at the seam. It was completely unwearable.

She wrapped a thick white towel around her body and cracked the bathroom door open.

The penthouse living room was empty.

Joanna stepped out barefoot. The thick carpet muffled her footsteps as she moved quickly toward the half-open door of the walk-in closet. She needed clothes. Anything to cover herself so she could leave.

She pushed the closet door open. It was a massive space, filled entirely with rows of dark, custom-tailored suits and crisp dress shirts. There wasn't a single item of women's clothing. It was a stark reminder of the cold, solitary life the patriarch led.

She had no choice.

She reached for the first thing she saw-a black, French-cuff dress shirt hanging on the end of the rack. She dropped her towel and quickly slipped her arms into the sleeves.

The shirt was massive on her. The hem barely covered the top of her thighs, and the fabric swallowed her small frame. She began rolling up the excessively long sleeves as she walked out of the closet.

She stepped into the living room and froze.

Carlton had just walked in from the balcony, a phone in his hand. He stopped dead in his tracks.

His dark, piercing gaze dropped instantly to her bare legs, then traveled slowly up the length of his black shirt draped over her body. The air in the room suddenly felt too thick to breathe.

Joanna swallowed hard. She instinctively reached down and tugged at the hem of the shirt, her cheeks burning under his intense scrutiny.

Carlton's Adam's apple bobbed once. "Who gave you permission to touch my clothes?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, sounding rougher than before.

"I'll have the dry-cleaning fee wired to your account," Joanna said, forcing her voice to stay level. "I need to leave now."

She walked over to the coffee table and picked up her phone. The screen lit up with thirty-two missed calls from Freddie. In her panicked rush, she completely failed to notice a microscopic, unfamiliar grey icon flashing briefly in the top corner of her screen-a silent digital tether he had swiftly installed while she was in the shower. She felt a surge of disgust and immediately switched the phone to silent.

She looked up at Carlton. "I need your security to escort me out through the service elevator."

Carlton walked over to the wet bar. He set his phone down, his broad back facing her. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

"You had the nerve to stage a scandal in front of three hundred people," Carlton sneered, turning around to face her. "And now you're too much of a coward to walk out the front door?"

"It's called damage control," Joanna fired back, refusing to be intimidated. "Keeping the media from getting a photo of me leaving your private suite is part of our deal."

Carlton's eyes darkened. He closed the distance between them in three long strides.

Joanna backed up instinctively until her shoulder blades hit the cold wall. Carlton stopped right in front of her. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his chest. He looked down at her, his presence completely suffocating.

He raised his hand.

Joanna stopped breathing. She braced herself, unsure of what he was going to do.

Instead of grabbing her, Carlton's rough fingers brushed against her collarbone. He grabbed the fabric of the shirt and slowly fastened the top button, which she had left undone.

His knuckles grazed the sensitive skin of her neck. A violent jolt of electricity shot through her nervous system. Her stomach flipped, and she pressed herself harder against the wall, trying to escape the burning sensation of his touch.

Carlton dropped his hand. "Remember who cleaned up your mess today," he whispered, his voice dangerously low.

He turned away and pressed a button on the wall intercom. "Leo. Bring a coat and a pair of flats to the suite. Have two men wait at the service elevator."

Five minutes later, the doorbell rang. Leo handed over a long trench coat and a pair of simple black flats.

Joanna practically ripped the coat from Leo's hands. She put it on, tying the belt tightly around her waist, completely hiding the black shirt and her bare legs. She needed to get out of this predator's territory immediately.

"Thank you," she said stiffly, walking toward the door.

"Joanna," Carlton's voice stopped her as her hand touched the doorknob. "What about your dress?"

"Throw it in the trash," she said without looking back, pulling the door open and rushing out into the hallway.

The heavy door clicked shut. The penthouse fell dead silent again.

Carlton stood in the middle of the living room. He walked slowly toward the bathroom. He looked down at the trash can, where the ruined, wet silk dress lay crumpled.

He didn't call housekeeping.

He bent down, his large hand grasping the wet fabric. He picked it up. The faint scent of her perfume-vanilla and chlorine-hit his senses.

Carlton walked over to his private storage cabinet, opened it, and tossed the dress inside. The lock clicked shut, sealing away a dark possessiveness he no longer tried to suppress. The scent of her lingered in his domain, and he stood there in the deafening silence, fully accepting the twisted, consuming hunger that was rapidly taking root in his mind.