Ruthless Rival

Chapter One

VANESSA

Most days, I'm good at resisting temptation.

But tonight?

Tonight, my gaze keeps flitting to the one man I shouldn't want: Simon Pierce.

The most powerful man in Manhattan.

The sexiest man in any room.

The man I've wanted and hated since the ninth grade.

Between handshakes and small talk, I watch his deep blue eyes scan the room. I study his soft lips. I imagine his strong hands on my skin.

For two hours, I mingle.

For two hours, I ignore the dirty thoughts circling my mind.

Finally, after my last thanks for considering a donation handshake, I slip out of the hotel ballroom, find the bar, order an Aviation.

One drink to celebrate the victories of the day.

Only I'm not drinking alone.

He's here.

"On me." Simon drops his credit card on the bar.

I swallow the fuck off that rises in my throat. The fuck me too. "Thanks." I'm well-mannered.

The same as him.

No, that's another way he bests me.

Since the first day of high school, Simon and I have competed.

Top grades?

Simon wins.

Better manners at a bar?

Simon wins.

Intense, panty-melting, desire-inspiring stare?

Simon definitely wins.

"My pleasure." He half-smiles. The Simon Pierce signature. Amused, above it all, hot as hell.

"For you?" the bartender asks.

"Whiskey, neat," he says.

"Coming right up," the bartender says.

"Whiskey, really? Are you going to smoke a cigar too?" I ask.

"If you have one."

"Smoked my last cigar on the balcony."

"Next time."

The bartender drops off our drinks.

Simon wraps his fingers around his short. Raises his glass. "Cheers."

I copy the gesture. "Cheers."

He watches as I bring the cocktail glass to my lips.

Mmm. Gin, lemon, floral liqueur. The perfect mix of sweet and tart.

"And you?" he says. "Ordering an Aviation?"

"I like purple."

His eyes flit to my wine lips. "I've never seen you in purple."

"You keep track?"

"A color-coded diary."

Is that a joke? I'm too surprised to laugh. "The color of my outfit?"

"What else?"

Another joke. What the fuck? I actually smile.

We've known each other for a long time. More than fifteen years now. We're not just old classmates.

Our families are friends.

Our companies—I run a nonprofit, he runs a cybersecurity corporation—attend the same events.

We see each other once or twice a month. We make polite conversation. We ignore our past rivalry and current sexual tension.

Occasionally, he teases me about trying to save the world.

And I tease him about having all the money in the world.

No jokes.

Never jokes.

Lingering stares, yes—I can't help it, he wears his designer suits—but never jokes.

"Do you really drink it because it's purple?" he asks.

"I drink it because I like it."

"You drank gin in high school," he says.

"You brought five-hundred-dollar bottles of whiskey to parties in high school."

"You noticed."

His eyes fix on me.

They're dark and intense, like the deepest parts of the ocean.

He watches as I take a sip. Watches my lipstick mark the glass. "What was it you called me then? The Prince of Darkness."

I did.

"Do you still see me that way?"

"By now, you're the king."

He smiles. "Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"An observation."

"You don't like me?"

"Do you care?"

"Yes."

It hangs in the air. He cares what I think of him. He's sitting here, intense and unreadable, and interested in my opinion of him.

"But you're right. I'm not here for polite conversation."

Right about what?

Wait.

He's not here to talk.

Then—

Fuck.

"I want to fuck you." His voice is matter-of-fact and sure, like he's complimenting my dress, not professing his desire to see me out of it.

"You want to fuck me?"

"Yes. I have a room upstairs. A suite. We can stay here, talk about the gala, or your sister's wedding, or my resemblance to Beelzebub. Or we can go upstairs." Intent drops into his voice.

He turns to me. Brings every bit of his attention to me.

My stomach flutters. My thighs shake.

My brain tries to cut in. To remind me, Simon Pierce is a spoiled rich boy turned stuck-up suit.

But I'm too lost in his blue eyes.

He's too handsome.

He's way too handsome.

"It's up to you, Vanessa," he says. "Do you want to stay? Or do you want to go?"

Chapter Two

VANESSA

"It's up to you, Vanessa. Do you want to stay? Or do you want to go?"

My fingers curl into the cool glass.

My thighs shake.

My legs struggle to stay upright.

Simon Pierce is inviting me upstairs.

A million high school fantasies delivered.

And adult ones too.

How many winter breaks did I spend wondering if we'd sneak upstairs at Mom's New Year's party?

How many galas have I spent watching him from across the room, wanting to slap him and kiss him in equal measure?

He's my rival.

And he's besting me again.

Better at broaching the subject of our immense sexual tension.

Better at solving the problem.

Better at fucking probably too.

But then I can't exactly complain about that possibility.

"You can say no." He finishes his whiskey. "I won't be offended."

"You won't?"

"No. I know you want me." His eyes stay fixed on me. "You might hate me, but you want me. You've wanted me since ninth grade."

"I—"

"I want you too."