The CEO Wants Me- Heiress Has Risen Again

(Adrian Blackwood's POV)

Rosewood Hall was not the idle circus most would picture. Media kingmakers, computer moguls, and political operatives were reclining on comfortable couches, beautiful young women nearby, pouring them wine and cutting them fruit. Adrian was sitting at the center of a low table, idly riffle-shuffling a deck of specially printed Blackwood Corporation playing cards and accepting a slice of mango from the beautiful model who sat next to him.

Mr. Blackwood, I have a persistent rumor that a lovely lady sought you out earlier this evening," Harold Sutton (Will), CEO of Redwood Properties, asked, his face a picture of strained pleasantness. "Who would be so brazen as to interrupt a discussion with the Grand Prix Association?"

Adrian's fingers stopped on the card. He turned to the man. "Who do you suppose, Mr. Sutton?

“I’m just curious! Was it your… former wife?”

The air instantly froze. Martin (Charles Whitman) and Daniel (Victor Cross), Adrian’s closest lieutenants, who were playing games nearby, instantly paled. They knew Adrian's glacial silence meant the man had struck a nerve.

Martin moved in fast, slapping a big, professional grin on his face. "Mr. Sutton, I heard you praising a lovely dancer! Why don't you let her come out and give the room a badly needed lift?

Harold Sutton, realizing his catastrophic gaffe, quickly changed the topic. “Right, right! She’ll be here shortly! I’m paying a small fortune for this exclusive performance!” He dialed the in-house phone. “Where is Jasmine Clarke? Get her on stage!”

The room regained its noisy vitality. Only Adrian remained cold, his fingers tapping a rhythmic, unsettling beat on the table.

Within a few minutes, the door was flung open, and a hostess ushered in a troupe of young, beautiful women. "Gentlemen, business is crucial, but so is enjoyment," the hostess cooed. Some willing ladies immediately pounced on Adrian's couch, shoving aside his model and his bodyguards.

Adrian did not stir, the crowd and the overtures unnoticed. He lit a cigarette, the smoke veiling the coldness in his eyes.

One woman alone on a small, elevated dais—she wore a tight, suggestive costume with a low V-neck and a thin, black veil over her face. The lights dimmed, the music started with a low, throbbing beat, and she began to move.

"Mr. Blackwood, Jasmine Clarke is our lead dancer. She's absolutely first-rate," Harold Sutton said, a servile smile stretching his hard features.

The dancer was undoubtedly talented, her movements sensual and sinuous, hitting the beats with perfect precision. She dominated the small stage.

Adrian's slitted eyes, behind the smoke, fastened on the lead dancer. In spite of the makeup and the costume, a primitive, familiar sense of recognition—and then sheer anger—hit him.

It was Claire.

Years of ballet training had instilled in her a dancer's poise, and she was compelling even in this sordid exhibition. She was the center of the stage, and every man in the room was staring at her.

Adrian's outrage was instantaneous and crushing. He raised a hand and pointed a single, imperious finger at the stage. "You. Come here. The rest of you, get out.".

The hostess and other dancers paused in confusion immediately.

"No need to bother them, Adrian."

Claire ripped off the veil, tossed it to the ground, and smiled—a contemptuous, reckless, startlingly beautiful smile. She lifted her hands and slowly, deliberately, untied the thin, black straps of her tight-fitting crop top, pulling down the fabric to show a tantalizing stretch of flesh.

There was a general gasp around the room. The businessmen all knew at once who she was—the infamous, disgraced Mrs. Blackwood.

Martin and Daniel watched in dismay. Not only was she dancing, but openly stripping before a room full of Adrian's most important contacts, dragging the Blackwood name through the dirtiest, most public scandal imaginable. She was fighting him with the one thing she had left: her ruined reputation.

She did. Claire swayed gently to the music, her hands moving with tantalizing slowness to the hem of the top.

Adrian pounced like a panther. He launched himself off the sofa, traversed the distance in two steps, and yanked her unceremoniously down from the stage.

"ARE YOU FINISHED HERE, CLAIRE?" he snarled, his voice a low, angry thunder, his face a mask of cold, vengeful anger.