No Strings Attached

Chapter One

"I can handle him."

"Handle him? Well, let me know all the gory details then."

"You know you're a perv, right?" I call out while she flees the room, her signature croaky laugh echoing through the halls as she hurries out before I change my mind and badger her for something else.

My gaze flickers to the glass of dark liquid momentarily before I turn in my seat toward the floor-to-ceiling windows facing Manhattan. I've always loved seeing the Empire State Building from this altitude. New York City is a wild jungle at sunset, preparing for the chaos the night will bring on a Friday night. The office buildings surrounding ours have begun to switch off their lights, everyone finding a way to get home as soon as possible, desperate to get on with their lives. Desperate to get to a bar, to a dinner with friends, to their spouses, children...

I don't even have a cat to go home to. Nothing but books I haven't had the time to read. My apartment is full of them, scattered all over the tables, the floor. I have no place to put them, yet I can't stop purchasing. My apartment is a storage unit with a bed and expired food. Bring a mattress into my office, and this place would be my home. There's nowhere I find safer than in here.

Safe from the pain of love.

Safe from the ache of loneliness.

Safe from my memories.

My job is all I need right now, and that is just fine with me.

***

Throwing my luggage onto the stiff white comforter, I sigh, glancing around the sterile hotel room, chewing on peppermint gum to regulate my eardrums to land again. Dead tired, knowing it's way past midnight, I slip out of my flats while opening my bags, grimacing regretfully when I notice how wrinkled my clothes have become on the flight over.

"Shit..." I mutter, stretching out the old fabric. I lay them over a chair, removing my coat. A brief glance in a mirror, and I'm instantly grimacing. Jesus. Norman wasn't kidding. I shift in the suit I'm in, pursing my lips curiously before removing the blazer, slipping out the first couple of buttons to my blouse. There's a ping from my cell tucked deep in my bag. I fish the device out, as well as the files I have yet to scour detailing my brand-new client.

My Google alert for Mr. Martinelli has sounded. I click the link, finding a picture of him alongside a tall, lanky model surrounded by paparazzi. I close up on the image, stunned by the way the camera seems to capture him. Sleek, elegant, masculine.

As my throat dries, I force myself to zoom out, focusing on the words of the article instead. The fact that my quivering thighs have clamped together startles this rather prude work-a-holic. After a swift read, I discover that it's his first appearance with this girl. I've rarely seen him photographed with the same women, which no doubt means he's not going to make anything easy for us. He's a bonified stud. A magnanimous fashion designer, gorgeous, and full of connections. From a professional standpoint, the girl is a struggling artist who is probably intelligent enough to know that even one night with him could prove very rewarding.

The article suddenly disappears. My screen brightens with an incoming call.

Dixon Routh

My heart, as usual, plummets at the sight of his name. I answer, lifting the phone to my ear. "What do you want, Dixon?"

"You know, I've been calling you for days, Scar. Where the hell have you been?"

"Working."

"For three days—straight?" He's slurring. It's one of the worst sounds in the world.