Harden My Hart (The Notorious Harts 3)

‘Nothing.’ Another gruff sound. ‘It’s just incredibly hot, that’s all.’

That brings a smile to my face. ‘I’ll wear the helmet up.’

Another laugh. ‘Don’t. You’ll likely be arrested.’

I laugh softly.

‘Come to the front entrance. Valet will take care of the bike.’

I’m about to hang up.

‘Cora?’

I wait, breathless.

‘The fewer clothes you wear the better.’

* * *

Hart Casinos are everywhere. There’s literally one in every big city of the world. This isn’t my first time stepping into one, so I’m familiar with the luxurious fittings. Burgundy carpet with gold details, dark wooden furniture, enormously high ceilings marked with ceiling roses and crystal chandeliers—every single one is a testament to old world glitz at the same time as boasting state-of-the-art technology.

I’ve been to Hart Casinos before, but never like this I think as my Vespa is taken care of by valet attendants. I push into the doors and almost immediately a woman walks over to me. ‘Miss Andersson?’

I’m startled by her recognition.

‘I—yes. How did

you know?’

Her smile reveals nothing. Her tone is curt and professional. ‘Mr Hart is waiting for you.’

She’s wearing sky-high heels and her stride is long. She cuts across the gaming floor so I have a brief impression of roulette wheels and then catch a glimpse of an opening door that shows poker tables beyond it. We cross a threshold and carpet gives way to marble. Two security guards in full black military-style fatigues and holding impressive guns flank a golden elevator door. The woman swipes a card she wears at her hip and the doors open.

Her manicured hand gestures for me to precede her into the elevator. I do, and she follows, the faintest hint of Dior perfume reaching my nostrils. None of the buttons have numbers; they’re just discreet brass circles. She presses one then flicks me another smile, curt, just as the first.

‘How did you know who I was?’

‘We have security measures in place for any of Mr Hart’s guests.’

It’s a reminder of Edward’s warning aboard the flight: ‘...he’s not someone I’d ever recommend getting involved with. Unless you’re after one night of mad sex—no guarantee he’ll remember your name the next day.’

Well, he remembered my name. He remembered it well enough to come to my apartment, to make love to me against the hardwood stairs, and he remembered it enough to call me earlier this evening. Sure, it’s a booty call, plain and simple, but that’s everything I want. Sex with Holden Hart and no hope of anything more.

The doors ping open and we’re in what looks like a very high-tech office space and, despite the lateness of the hour, it’s full of people sitting at desks.

‘I’ll just get you to walk through that arch, please.’ She nods to a security scanner and disbelief halts my breath.

‘Security?’

‘It’s protocol.’

I compress my lips, reminding myself that Holden Hart is worth over one hundred and fifty billion American dollars. This kind of rigmarole is part and parcel of his life and, as insulting as it is on one level, on another it’s impossible not to understand the necessity for the precaution.

Besides, it’s hardly a strip search.

That will come later.

The thought heats my cheeks so I’m worried the X-ray will show my elevated heart rate as I step through the scanner. It doesn’t. Nothing untoward is in evidence, apparently.