Sloane couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think. Couldn't move. Declan Pierce's face was inches from hers, his fingers still curved under her chin, and the look in those black eyes said he was done asking politely.
"You have the wrong woman," she'd said.
He didn't believe a single syllable of it. She could see that clearly — the slight tilt of his head, the dangerous patience of a man who
had all the time in the world and knew it.
"Mr. Pierce." Her voice cracked. "Please. You're mistaken. I swear—"
He moved so fast she didn't see it coming.
His hand caught the collar of her blazer and pulled — not violently, just precisely, just enough — and the fabric slipped off her
shoulder, exposing the curve of her collarbone, the pale sweep of skin at her throat.
Sloane gasped. "Stop—"
But Declan
