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I lean back in my chair, stretching my arms above my head as I try to shake off thoughts of Mark.

My work was finished over half an hour ago, but I’m still stuck in my office because this is the one place I won’t accidentally run into Mark.

The image of Natasha draping herself all over him last night at the restaurant keeps replaying in my mind—her hand on his muscular arm, her tinkling laugh as she asked him to call her.

What did she mean when she said he used to call her at all hours of the night?

Exactly how many women does Mark call at all hours of the night?

I grit my teeth.

As much as I hate to admit it, seeing them together stirred up an ugly swirl of jealousy inside me, which is ridiculous.

Mark is my fake fiancé, nothing more than a means to an end to keep Charlie Letvin off my back.

And he's a notorious playboy—exactly the kind of man I usually avoid like the plague.

But damn it, despite his arrogance and bossiness, there's something about Mark that really gets under my skin.

The way his chiseled jaw tightens when he's concentrating or angry, the intensity of his blue-gray eyes locked on mine, the raw power of his tall, muscular frame. I can't help but imagine what his large hands would feel like gripping my hips, his lips blazing a trail of warmth down my neck.

..

No. I shake my head firmly.

I refuse to be just another notch on Mark Zolotov's bedpost. This is strictly a business arrangement, and I need to remember that. No matter how attractive he is or how weak he makes my knees with a single smoldering glance, I have to keep my distance.

I stand up from my desk chair and stretch my arms overhead, feeling a restless energy thrumming through my body. Sitting here stewing over Mark isn't helping me at all.

I need a distraction, something to clear my head before I drive myself crazy overthinking this entire fake fiancée situation.

I need a walk.

I wander down the endless hallways with no end destination in mind, my fingertips gliding over the luxurious wallpaper.

My footsteps echo softly in the cavernous space, the only sound until a distant, rhythmic clanking catches my attention.

I pause, head tilting as I strain to listen.

It's coming from the slightly ajar door ahead of me. Curiosity piqued, I approach silently until I can peek through the gap.

The room beyond is a state-of-the-art gym, filled with gleaming metal and stark lighting. In the center of it all stands Mark. Did I mention he’s topless? He's facing away from me, every perfect muscle of his back and arms flexing as he lifts what looks like a hundred and fifty-pound barbell.

I can’t look away from how his skin glistens with a sheen of sweat, from how his muscles ripple and dance with the powerful movements he makes.

He’s a pure beast and a pleasure to watch.

Heat blooms in my cheeks, a traitorous response to the sight of his muscled back, shimmering with sweat.

I silently curse my own weakness, feeling angry at myself for being affected by him.

Distance, I remind myself sternly.

I need to maintain a professional distance.

But even as I form the thought, my treacherous mind conjures an entirely different scenario.

In my fantasy, I stride boldly into the gym, the click of my heels announcing my presence.

Mark looks up, surprise flickering across his face.

I don't give him a chance to speak. I close the distance between us, planting my hands on his sweat-slicked chest and shoving him backward. He stumbles, off-balance, and we both tumble onto the mat.

I land astride him, my skirt riding up my thighs. His hands immediately find my hips, his touch searing even through the fabric of my clothes. Our eyes lock, the air between us charged with tension.

“Quinn,” he growls, his voice rough with desire. “What are you—”

I silence him with a bruising kiss, pouring all my frustration and pent-up longing into the clash of our mouths. He responds with equal fervor, his fingers digging into my flesh as he drags me closer.

Buttons scatter as he impatiently rips open my blouse, baring my breasts to his heated gaze. I arch into his touch as he cups the sensitive mounds, his thumbs dragging over my taut nipples. The rasp of his calluses against my skin sends sparks of pleasure racing down my spine.

“Mark,” I gasp, grinding against the hard evidence of his arousal. “I need...”

He flips us over in a sudden move, his heavy body pinning me to the floor. “I know what you need,” he rasps, his breath hot against my ear. “And I'm going to give it to you.”

His mouth trails down my throat, his teeth nipping at my pulse point as his hands skim over my ribs, my waist, my hips. He hooks his fingers under my skirt and—

“Quinn? Enjoying the view?”

I wrench myself back to the present with a shuddering inhale, my skin flushed and my heart pounding. Damn him. Damn my own reckless imagination.

I freeze, heat flooding my cheeks, unable to come up with a reply to put him in his place. He's watching me with a knowing smirk, his eyes glinting with amusement and something darker, more intense.

“I was just...” I scramble for an excuse, hating the breathless quality of my voice. “I mean, I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“Oh, I don't mind.” He takes a step closer, his tall frame crowding me back against the wall. “In fact, feel free to interrupt me anytime.”

I swallow hard, my mouth dry from his closeness. Up close, the scent of his sweat and masculinity is even more intense, making my head spin.

“Don't you have a party to get ready for?” I manage, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. I remember he mentioned it over breakfast this morning.

“We both do. You’re coming with me.” His gaze drags down my body, before snapping back to my eyes. “You’re going to need something appropriate to wear.”

I bristle at his condescending, commanding tone. “I don’t think I’ll be needed tonight.”

“Oh, you are very much needed. It’s a big gathering, and no better place to be seen publicly.” His lips curve into a wicked grin. “Anyway, I've had a selection of dresses sent to your room. Why don't you go try them on?”

My jaw clenches at his presumption. “I don't need your fashion advice, Mark.”

“Humor me.” He leans in, his breath fanning over my cheek. “I want my fiancée to look her best tonight. We have important people to impress.”

I grit my teeth against a sharp retort. As much as it galls me, he's right.

“Fine,” I bite out. “I'll go play dress-up. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.” His eyes gleam with satisfaction. “I have some errands to run, so I'll meet you at the venue later. Try not to miss me too much.”

With a final, infuriating wink, he strolls past me and out of the gym, leaving me fuming in his wake. Arrogant, controlling bastard.

But even as I silently curse him, I can't ignore the way my body reacts to his, the simmering heat his presence ignites. Keeping my distance is going to be harder than I thought.

Squaring my shoulders, I march toward my room and the waiting dresses, determined to find something that will make his jaw drop. Two can play at this game.

***

I stride into my room, slamming the door behind me with more force than necessary. However, my irritation fades as I take in the sight before me. Approximately three dozen dresses hang from a portable rack, creating a dizzying array of colors and styles. Sequins and lace, satin and silk—each one more stunning than the last.

I run my fingers over the delicate fabrics, marveling at the sheer extravagance. But as I examine the dresses more closely, a strange question comes to mind: Why does Mark have so many women’s dresses lying around?

Jealousy coils in my gut as I picture faceless women draped in these gowns, hanging off Mark's arm at glittering events. Women he's wined and dined, charmed and seduced. Women who've shared his bed, his life, in ways I never will.

The thought makes me want to scream, to tear the dresses to shreds and watch the scraps flutter to the floor. But I force myself to take a deep breath, to push down the irrational anger bubbling up inside me.

What right do I have to be jealous? Mark and I aren't real. This engagement, this whole arrangement, is nothing more than a business deal. I can't let myself forget that.

If I weaken, I’d only be another conquest, another notch on his bedpost.

The thought makes my chest ache in a way I don't want to examine too closely. I shake my head, forcing myself to just pick a dress.

I square my shoulders, my resolve hardening. If Mark wants me to dress the part, then that's exactly what I'll do. I'll find the sexiest, most jaw-dropping gown in this entire collection, and I'll wear it like armor. I'll show him and everyone else that Quinn Desmond is not a woman to be trifled with.

Silk, satin, and chiffon in every color imaginable hang before me. All very pretty. But I'm not looking for pretty or demure. No, tonight I need something that will make a statement. Something that will show Mark Zolotov exactly who he's dealing with.

My fingers glide over a sleek black dress featuring a plunging neckline and a daring slit that reaches high up the thigh. It's the type of outfit that commands attention and turns heads. Perfect.

I decide to be bold and remove my bra, sticking on some nipple pasties before slipping into the dress, the cool fabric hugging my curves like a second skin. It highlights every dip of my hips, the curves of my waist, the bones below my waist, and the alluring barely-there swell of my abdomen. As I turn to face the mirror, I smile at my reflection. The woman staring back at me is a force to be reckoned with, all fiery hair and dangerous curves.

I take my time with my makeup, trying to make it as flawless as possible. Bold red lips, dramatic winged eyeliner, and a dusting of highlighter along my cheekbones. Every stroke of the brush, every swipe of the lipstick, feels like a tiny act of rebellion, a way to get my revenge on Mark.

As I style my hair into loose, tousled waves, I can't help but wonder what Mark will think when he sees me. I hope he eats his wretched heart out.