GAME OF SEDUCTION

SWEET SCENT,

The heavy bass from The Velvet Lounge vibrated through the pavement before Camila even reached the back alley entrance.

She pressed her thumb against the biometric scanner by the heavy steel door. A quiet beep echoed, the lock clicked, and she stepped out of the warm Houston night and into the cool, dimly lit backstage hallway.

Here, the plain jeans, oversized denim jacket, and wire-rimmed glasses vanished into a locked locker.

Thirty minutes later, Camila Hughes was gone.

Standing in front of the vanity mirror was Vixen.

Her dark curls tumbled down her back in rich, voluminous waves. Her eyes were framed in dramatic, smoked kohl, and her lips were painted a sharp, unapologetic crimson. She smoothed down the silk of her emerald dress—a daring piece with a high neck and a dangerously high slit up one thigh that caught the amber vanity lights.

"Vixen!"

Marcus, the club's floor manager, poked his head into the dressing room, tapping his gold wristwatch. "You're up. VIP Booth Four requested top-tier service. Guy dropped twenty grand on a vintage bottle before even sitting down."

Camila adjusted her silver drop earrings, letting a slow, confident smile play on her lips. "Who is he?"

"Some big-shot corporate type," Marcus grunted, handing her a fresh glass of sparkling water. "Looks like money, acts like he owns the city. Go do what you do best."

"Always," Camila purred, her voice dropping into the lower, velvety register she reserved exclusively for this floor.

She stepped out from backstage, slipping effortlessly into six-inch heels. The main lounge was bathed in deep crimson and indigo light. Low leather booths lined the perimeter, separated by sheer velvet curtains, while rich men in tailored suits laughed over expensive scotch.

This was her domain. In the daytime, she had to fight for respect in crowded lecture halls. At night, every eye in the room tracked her movement.

Camila glided toward VIP Booth Four, letting her hips sway with lazy, practiced grace. But as she stepped past the sheer velvet curtain and into the shadow of the private booth, the air in her lungs instantly froze.

Sitting alone in the plush leather booth, swirling a glass of amber whiskey, was Liam Lockwood.

He wasn't wearing the pristine charcoal suit from the university brochure, but there was no mistaking him. His dark hair was slightly tousled, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and his posture radiated absolute, terrifying authority.

Camila's heart slammed violently against her ribs. The CEO. The department sponsor.

For a terrifying fraction of a second, her mind scrambled. Did he see me earlier? Did he notice my height, my voice, my hands?

She forced her body to stay still, burying the spike of panic under years of strict discipline. Different hair. Deep makeup. Dark lighting. No glasses. He doesn't know you.

Camila stepped fully into the crimson glow of the booth, resting one hand lightly on the edge of the polished mahogany table.

"Looking for some company tonight, sir?" she asked, her voice silky, slow, and completely stripped of any collegiate hesitation.

Liam didn't answer immediately. He raised his glass, took a measured sip, and then lifted his gaze. His slate-gray eyes locked onto hers—sharp, cold, and intensely analytical.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with a sudden, dangerous tension.

A faint, subtle crease formed between Liam's dark brows as his eyes traveled up her face, lingering on the line of her jaw and the cool confidence in her eyes.

"Sit," Liam said softly, his voice a low, commanding rumble that sent a prickle of heat straight down her spine.

Camila slid onto the leather sofa opposite him, crossing her legs with slow, deliberate charm. "You seem awfully quiet for a man celebrating a very expensive night."

"I'm evaluating my investment," Liam replied smoothly. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, bringing his sharp scent—sandalwood, rain, and expensive leather—right into her space. He stared at her, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Tell me, Vixen... have we met before?"

Camila held his stare without blinking, letting a playful, wicked smirk touch her crimson lips.

"A woman like me?" she whispered, leaning in just close enough for him to feel the heat of her breath. "If we'd met before, Mr. Lockwood... you definitely wouldn't have forgotten it."