Bound By The Ruthless Tycoon's Contract

The electronic lock beeped, a sharp green light cutting through the heavy silence of the corridor. Blair Guzman pushed the heavy mahogany door open and slipped inside the presidential suite.

The room was pitch black. The only light came from the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the sprawling, glittering grid of Los Angeles stretched out like a promise made of gold and broken glass. The air inside was cold, carrying the distinct, expensive scent of cedar and worn leather, mixed with something dangerous.

She didn't reach for the light switch. Instead, Blair kicked off her stilettos, the heels landing with a soft thud on the plush carpet. She walked barefoot across the room, her toes sinking into the fibers, her silver gown trailing behind her like a fallen star.

She moved straight to the minibar. Her fingers wrapped around a crystal decanter of whiskey. She poured a generous measure into a tumbler, the amber liquid sloshing against the sides. The diamond bracelet on her wrist caught the moonlight, throwing fractured rainbows across the dark walls.

"Having fun, Miss Guzman?"

The voice came from the shadows behind her. Low. Magnetic. Laced with a dangerous stillness.

Blair's spine went rigid. Her shoulders locked, the muscles in her back pulling tight like a bowstring. Then, just as quickly, she forced herself to relax. She didn't turn around. She just lifted her eyes to the reflection in the glass of the window, watching the tall silhouette detach itself from the corner of the room.

Butler McIntyre stepped into the dim light. He wore white dress pants and a white shirt, completely unbuttoned, hanging open to reveal the hard, sculpted lines of his chest and abdomen. He moved with the silent, deliberate grace of a predator.

He closed the distance between them in three strides. His hand reached out, his long fingers wrapping around her wrist. He didn't squeeze hard, but the grip was absolute. He took the tumbler from her hand, brought it to his own lips, and drank the whiskey in one swift motion.

Blair felt the heat of his body radiating against her back a second before his breath fanned across the bare skin of her neck. It smelled of expensive whiskey and something inherently him-cold, sharp, uncompromising.

"Red carpet," he said, his voice dropping an octave. His fingers left her wrist and trailed up her arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps. "You hugged Alexis Ashley for three seconds."

Blair kept her eyes on the city lights. "It was a congratulation. He's my artist. He just won Best Actor."

Butler let out a low, humorless laugh. His hand moved from her arm to her chin, his fingers tightening instantly, digging into the soft flesh of her jaw. He forced her to turn around, making her look up at him.

"My wife," he said, his thumb pressing against her lower lip, "doesn't need to smile at another man like that."

Blair winced as his grip tightened, but her eyes remained clear and cold. "Butler, it's