Trouble with the CEO: Season 1 — The Mafia Princess

Inside the luxury suite of a five-star hotel on Fifth Avenue, the steady rush of the shower drifted out from the marble bathroom. On a bed that stretched more than six and a half feet wide, a woman lay half-naked, the smooth line of her back exposed to the morning light. Her skin looked delicate enough to bruise at a touch, and her long, glossy black hair spilled across the sheets in wild disarray. She was pure seduction—a poppy in full bloom, beautiful and quietly deadly. Tiana Hart let out a low moan and slowly opened her eyes. Her head was pounding, a dull roar filling her skull. She rubbed her temples, then snapped her eyes wide. Where was she? How had she ended up here? She remembered getting drunk the night before, then wandering the streets of the Upper East Side. She'd seen a woman on the sidewalk begging a man—clearly someone who'd just thrown her away. Without a second thought, Tiana had marched over and torn him apart. Then she'd thrown up. After that… she tapped her own forehead, but the rest was a blank. A chill ran over her skin. Tiana looked down—and realized she was wearing absolutely nothing. She nearly screamed, clapping a hand over her mouth, heart hammering in her chest. The words I lost… my innocence… flashed through her mind like a cassette tape stuck on repeat. But there was no time to think. She had to get out. Now. Her hand flew to her left shoulder—a reflex she didn't understand, a habit older than any memory she could name. There, beneath her skin, a small birthmark burned as if it remembered something she never could. Sometimes, in the half-second before sleep, a woman's voice echoed from somewhere she couldn't place: "Never let them see the mark, my love. Never." Tiana didn't know who the voice belonged to. She only knew the command, and obeyed it. She glanced toward the bathroom. The man's tall, lean silhouette moved behind the frosted glass, flickering in and out of view. Tiana raked a hand through her hair and bolted off the bed. Her clothes were strewn across the floor, her T-shirt still streaked with vomit. Frowning, she wrapped the sheet around herself and tiptoed to the other side of the bed. She scooped up her bra and pants, then grabbed the man's shirt and pulled it on in a panic. The shirt swallowed her whole, making her look even smaller. Tiana peeked at the figure in the shower and stuck out her tongue. She turned to hunt for her backpack, spotting it lying forgotten in the corner. On tiptoe she darted over—and a Chanel lipstick slid out of the bag. That was Quinn Reed's prized possession. If she lost it, Quinn would kill her. She bent to pick it up, shooting a look at the man through the bathroom door. A wicked idea lit in Tiana's head, and her feet froze. With practiced ease, she dragged the lipstick across her own lips, going over them again and again. Then she dipped her head and pressed a hard kiss to the sheets. She lifted her head, studied her handiwork, and nodded, satisfied. Idiot—run! Tiana scolded herself, eyeing the man's shadow. She eased the door open and slipped out in a blink. Out in the hallway, the thick carpet swallowed the sound of her bare feet, and Tiana blessed the silence as she fled. She kept the sheet clutched tight at her chest, the hem dragging along the floor as she half-ran, half-stumbled toward the elevator at the end of the corridor. Her heart hammered so hard she was sure the whole floor could hear it pounding. The man's shirt hung past her thighs, far too big, smelling of cold water and something crisp and unmistakably male that made her skin prickle with a shame she could not quite name. She jabbed the down button with a trembling finger and willed the doors to open before he could step out and find her there. The birthmark on her shoulder throbbed in time with her pulse, as if it too wanted to flee the suite and the man inside it. When the elevator finally arrived with a soft chime, she slipped inside and pressed herself against the mirrored wall, watching the numbers fall, only letting out the breath she had been holding once the lobby lights rose to meet her. The bathroom door yanked open. The man stood there with nothing but a towel slung low around his hips. His body was long and lean, cut like a runway model's—not an ounce of fat on him. His hawk-sharp eyes swept the empty bedroom—and landed on the two crimson lip prints stamped on the sheets. His handsome brow furrowed. His hand stilled on the towel. A cold light flashed in his eyes, and the corner of his mouth curved into an amused smile. Was that her challenge to him? Fine. That bold little woman—he, Jason Vance—would make sure she came to him. Willingly. And as the door clicked shut behind her, Tiana's hand found the birthmark on her shoulder again, pressing hard, as if to silence it. Whatever she had stumbled into last night, she had a feeling it was the kind of trouble that did not stay buried. Jason stepped from the bathroom and crossed to the bed, the towel still slung low at his hips, unhurried, as if he had all morning and intended to use it. He lowered himself onto the mattress and ran a single finger along the edge of the crimson print, as if testing for the warmth she had left behind. A slow smile pulled at his mouth—not the polite, distant smile he wore for boardrooms, but something darker, something that liked a challenge it had not been expecting. Whoever she was, she had walked into his suite, taken what she wanted, and left a mark of her own on his sheets. He had spent a lifetime being the one who left first, who was never the one left behind. This time, it seemed, someone had beaten him to it. He tilted his head at the lip print, almost admiring. He would find her. He had every resource in this city at his disposal, and now, improbably, he had a reason to use them. The bold little woman would learn that you did not leave a print on Jason Vance and simply disappear.