The Billionaire's Limited-Time Romance

As the private elevator doors slid open into the underground parking garage, the cold concrete air hit Ansel's face.

A violent energy still hummed under his skin.

He walked toward the sleek black Maybach waiting near the exit.

The driver stood by the rear door, holding it open.

Ansel ducked his head and slid into the spacious backseat.

The heavy door slammed shut behind him.

The roar of a sports car driving past was instantly cut off.

The inside of the Maybach was dead silent.

On the far side of the car sat Ellie.

Her shoulder was pressed against the cold glass of the window.

She was staring out at the concrete pillars of the garage.

The chasm of empty leather between them made the knot in Ansel's chest pull tighter.

The car pulled smoothly out of the garage and merged onto the busy Manhattan streets.

Neon lights from the storefronts flashed across the dark leather interior.

Ansel could not stand the silence.

He reached his long arm across the empty space.

He aimed for her hand resting quietly on her knee.

But just as his fingertips brushed the air above her skin, she moved.

She casually lifted her hand and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

Ansel's hand grabbed nothing but air.

His arm hovered awkwardly over the seat.

He slowly pulled his hand back, his jaw clenching hard.

He shifted his weight, sliding across the leather until he was sitting right next to her.

"Are you angry about what happened in the room?" he asked, his voice low and raspy.

Ellie turned her head.

She gave him a flawless, polite smile.

"Not at all. I understand the social rules of the Upper East Side."

She tilted her head slightly.

"But next time you need to put on a performance for your friends, you should give me the script in advance. I want to make sure I hit my marks."

The words hit Ansel like a physical blow to the chest.

Her cool, detached tone was a thousand times worse than a scream.

He ground his back teeth together.

He reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward his chest.

Ellie did not thrash or fight.

She simply raised her free hand and placed her palm flat against his shoulder.

She kept exactly three inches of space between their bodies.

"The driver is right there, Ansel," she said softly. "Please maintain a safe distance while the car is moving."

Ansel glanced at the thick, black privacy partition separating them from the front seat.

"The partition is up. He cannot see or hear anything."

Ellie did not lower her hand.

She kept her arm locked, maintaining the physical wall between them.

Her eyes were clear, showing absolutely no desire to close the gap.

Ansel let out a frustrated breath.

He let go of her wrist and fell back against his side of the seat.

He reached up and yanked his tie loose, pulling the silk away from his throat.

As he moved, the scent of his cologne filled the small space.

It was Tom Ford Oud Wood, heavy and rich.

But underneath the expensive wood scent, Ellie's nose caught something else.

The sharp, metallic scent of copper. Blood.

She knew from the raw skin on his knuckles that he had hit someone.

Ellie's eyebrows pulled together for a fraction of a second.

She turned her face back toward the window.

The steel cables of the Brooklyn Bridge blurred past the glass.

Her brain started to calculate exactly how this relationship had spiraled so far out of control.

That scent, the Oud Wood, was a hook in her brain.

It dragged her thoughts backward, away from the cold car.

It pulled her back to three months ago.

Back to the summer heat.

Back to the day she was just an outsider visiting her aunt.

In her mind, the phantom smell of salt water and expensive sunscreen replaced the stench of blood.

Ellie closed her eyes, letting the memory of the tennis court take over.