DANGEROUS INHERITANCE

The city looked like scattered diamonds from up here. Sienna Cross stood close to the floor-to-ceiling window of her penthouse, a glass of Macallan 25 in her hand, watching Miami's skyline bleed from gold to purple. "You're brooding again." Sienna didn't turn. "I'm thinking." "Same thing with you." Marcus Chen stood next to her, his reflection sharp in the glass. "The Castellano deal closed. We're up forty-two million." "Mm." "Most people celebrate." "I'm not most people." "No shit." Marcus sipped his bourbon. "That's what worries me." She looked at him. "Meaning?" "Meaning you've been standing at this window every night for three weeks." "The charity gala is tonight," she said. "I know." He paused. "He'll be there." Her fingers clenched on the glass. "Who?" "Don't play that game. Not with me." The name floated between them like smoke. Damon Ashford. "He's persistent," Marcus said. "He's annoying." "He's dangerous." Marcus set his glass down. "You get a certain look when you talk about him." "What look?" "The one you had before Atlanta." Sienna's jaw stiffened. "That was different." "Was it?" "Julian was a mistake that cost me everything." "Not everything. You rebuilt." "From ashes." She set her glass down harder than necessary. Marcus pulled out his phone. Held it out. "I had Patricia look into his past." Sienna took it. Read. Felt the floor tilt. Damon Ashford. Born in 1989. Asheville, North Carolina. Father: Richard Ashford. Previous ventures include a partnership with Ashford & Associates, a family business specializing in corporate acquisitions and hostile takeovers, 2010-2015. "If his family was involved in—" Marcus started. "Stop." "Your father—" "Is dead." The words came out sharp. Final. Marcus gazed at her. "What are you planning?" "Nothing." "Sienna." "I'm going to a charity gala. I'm going to write a check. That's all." "Liar." He grabbed his jacket. "Whatever you're thinking of doing—don't." "I'm not thinking of doing anything." "He's not Julian. If Ashford's family destroyed your father's company, if he came here knowing who you are..." He paused at the door. "The last time you wanted revenge on someone, it nearly destroyed you." "I was twenty-three." "You're thirty-eight now. Old enough to know better." "Or old enough to do it right." Marcus closed his eyes briefly. "Car's picking you up at seven-thirty. Wear the Valentino. The red one." "Why?" "Because if you're going to war, you might as well look good doing it." The Pérez Art Museum was lit up. Sienna stepped out of the black Mercedes, camera flashes erupting like small bombs. The red Valentino held onto her like sin. Inside, Miami's wealthy mingled between modern art and bright chandeliers—old money merging with new. Sienna grabbed champagne from a passing waiter. Scanned the room. "Darling!" Amanda Morrison walked in. "That dress is absolutely—" "Amanda." Sienna air-kissed both cheeks. "Oh, it's not my event; it's the foundation's, but—" Amanda's eyes flashed past her. Widened. "Oh. Oh my." Sienna didn't turn. She felt him before she saw him. A shift in the air. The way conversations appeared to pause around a center of attraction. "That's him," Amanda whispered. "Damon Ashford. Devastating, isn't he?" Sienna turned. Six-two. Custom Tom Ford tuxedo. Dark hair. A face that belonged in Renaissance paintings. Yet it was the eyes that stopped her. Dark. Intelligent. Fixed on her like she was the only person in the room. He was talking to Richard Chen, but his attention had shifted. Completely. Their eyes met across thirty feet of polished marble. He smiled. Slow. Deliberate. Then he started walking toward her. "Sienna Cross." His voice was whiskey and smoke. "I was hoping you'd be here." "Were you." "I was." He extended his hand. "Damon Ashford." She took it. His grip was warm. Firm. He held on a second longer than necessary. "I know who you are," she said. "Do you?" "Everyone knows who you are, Mr. Ashford." "Please. Damon." He gestured to her wine. "Can I get you another?" "I'm fine." "Are you?" The question remained between them, loaded with tension. "I'm perfectly fine," she said. "You look it." His eyes traveled down her dress. Back up. "Red suits you." "Flattery won't work on me." "Who said I was trying to flatter you? I'm simply stating facts." He moved closer. "I've been trying to meet you for six months." "Have you." "You know I have. The Morrison auction. Café Versailles. That gallery opening in Wynwood." "I don't know what you're talking about." "Liar." The word hit like a slap. But his tone was playful. Sienna raised her champagne. "You're very confident." "I'm very patient. But my patience has limits." "Is that a threat?" "It's an observation." A waiter passed. Damon snagged two champagnes. Handed her one. "I don't need another drink," she said. "Then don't drink it. Just hold it. Give me an excuse to stand here." "You need an excuse?" "With you? Absolutely. You look like the kind of woman who destroys men who approach without invitation." "Smart man." "Sometimes." His countenance changed. Became serious. "Dance with me." "No." "Why not?" "I don't know you." "That's why people dance." He set down both champagnes. Held out his hand. "One dance, Sienna. What's the worst that could happen?" Everything, she thought. But she took his hand anyway. The orchestra was playing something slow. Dangerous. Damon pulled her close. His hand lay on her waist. Hers on his shoulder. They moved together like they'd done this before. "You're a good dancer," he said. "You sound surprised." "I'm pleasantly surprised by everything about you." "You don't know anything about me." "I know enough." His thumb drew a small circle on her waist. "I know you're brilliant. Ruthless. That you rebuilt your company from nothing. That you have excellent taste in scotch." She missed a step. "How do you know—" "Macallan 25. The bartender at Eleven mentioned it." "You asked about me." "I've been asking about you for six months." His gaze held hers. "I want to know everything, Sienna." "Why?" "Because you're fascinating." The music rose. He pulled her near. If Damon Ashford wanted to play games, she'd play. She'd get close. Figure out what he knew. And then she'd destroy him. Just like his family destroyed hers. She smiled up at him. Let it get to her eyes this time. "Tell me about yourself, Damon. Where are you from?" His hand gripped her waist, just for a second. "North Carolina. Small town. You wouldn't know it." "Try me." A pause. Then: "Asheville." The world stopped spinning. But Sienna kept dancing. Kept smiling. "How lovely," she said. "I've heard it's beautiful there." "It is." His eyes searched hers. "Have you ever been?" "Once. A lifetime ago." The music ended. They stopped moving. Didn't let go. "Have dinner with me," Damon said. "I don't think so." "Why not?" "I don't date." "I'm not asking for a date. I'm asking for dinner." "Same thing." "Not even close." He released her. Stepped back. Pulled a card from his jacket. "My number. When you change your mind." "I won't." "You will." He pressed the card into her open palm. "Goodnight, Sienna Cross." He walked away. Sienna stood on the dance floor with his card burning in her hand and her heart racing. Game on.