Prologue

He was looking up at the stars.

Not any in the sky, but the ones glittering across the ceiling of Jalouse, illuminating the room just enough for those lucky enough to pass the velvet rope to highlight what they wanted to show and hide what they didn't. The air was thick with the scent of expensive liquor and cologne paid for by the ounce but worn in excess.

It was the sort of members only haunt one paid obscene amounts of money to enter, only to soon realize that disenchantment clung to the walls, seeping into your pores the second you turned your back.

Not that any of that mattered, of course. John had dragged him out under the guise of blowing off steam—of making good use of the company expense account and complimentary membership, while they still could. Twenty Eight year old hotel heirs were expected at these sorts of places. He was just filling a role; playing the part he was born to play.

He sees her from across the room, standing at the bar. Well, rather, he sees her very tight black dress from across the room, just as John returns with fresh drinks.

"Cora Levinson," John says, handing him a drink as he follows his gaze. "American. Wealthy."

"I don't recall asking."

"She is the type we need investing—young, international, beautiful. Go talk to her."

"Christ, I can't even have a drink without getting shoved back into business? I doubt she is interested in hearing a sales pitch on a Friday evening in the middle of a bar."

"Just go introduce yourself. Chat her up. Invite her to the big investors marketing event next Friday."

"Bloody hell. I've turned you into a workaholic Mr. Bates. Why don't you go chat her up?" He mumbles, taking another pull on his drink. John only rolls his eyes, likely tired of hearing him complain about business on a near constant basis.

"You brought me on to help you market the business. You need investors, Robert, and that girl would certainly rather hear a marketing pitch from the very charming Robert Crawley." He chuckles, sipping his own drink and eyeing his friend with a grin.

Robert always had better luck with women than he had. He watched women fawn over Robert Crawley for years when they were younger. He supposed it had something to do with the name, the promise of wealth, or the way he somehow gave off an air of power. He was a good man, and a good friend, but utter rubbish when it came to life outside the castle walls his parents had erected. Somehow, Robert always seemed perpetually one step behind on the path his father had left him.

They met at University nearly ten years earlier. Becoming fast friends, the two had crossed the great divide, so to speak. Robert arrived at Cambridge only to please his parents, while he had been there on a hard earned scholarship. They had gone in different directions after school—Robert taking the helm of the business after his father died, and he moving to LA to work in the marketing department at Warner Brothers. He had just finished work on the last Batman movie when Robert emailed, asking if he'd consider taking a job back in London. He arrived at Grantham Property Management ten days later.

The company was losing money, and fast.

He suggested cutting losses and moving on, but it was a deteriorating dynasty that Robert insisted he would do anything to save.

Robert is still eyeing the young American woman from across the room when he looks up again, pulling himself from his thoughts.

"I'll go talk to her," he mutters. He smiles and takes a last sip to fortify himself before crossing the dace floor headed in her direction. Hideously overcrowded, and filled with a mixture of wealthy business types, and others desperately trying to be; dressed in knock off designer clothes with hungry looks in their eyes.

She doesn't turn toward the dance floor, even as he approaches, and so he is forced to speak to her back. "May I buy you a drink?" He leans in slightly and catches a whiff of her perfume.

She turns to smile at him, or perhaps to size him up, and has obviously had a few drinks already. She succeeds only in a slight grin and offering him an outstretched hand.

He tries again. "Robert Crawley." His gaze is appreciative as he reaches for her hand, which she shakes firmly. "It's a pleasure, Miss Levinson."

"Cora," she corrects and he finds her accent fascinating. Her blue eyes are bright and full of humor. She is really lovely, which is a bonus. "My parents were traditionalists."

He grins at her and is pleased when she mirrors his smile. "I think it suits you."

"You want to buy me a drink?" She rests her empty glass on the bar and smiles, making him forget for a moment why he came over in the first place.

"Yes." He recovers smoothly, a skill borne out of his wealthy breeding, and raises a hand to alert the bartender. She matches his movements, though, and curls her hand around his forearm, maneuvering it gently back down.

She doesn't release her grasp and instead leans up, her lips tantalizingly close to his ear, whispering a proposition he never expects. "Come back to my hotel room."

Her gaze is full of mirth when he retracts, trying desperately not to appear surprised by her boldness. He shouldn't be surprised, after all, as he has repeated the same line to countless women. But never has he been on the receiving end, and it unnerves him. "You don't want a drink?"

She smirks and finally releases his arm from her gentle grasp. "I have plenty of drinks back in my room." She straightens up, resting back on the bar and giving him a once over glace that he finds both apprising and exciting.

"I'd have to call my car." He concedes, beginning to play along with her little game.

"Mine is already outside," She counters, no longer playing at all. Before he can answer, her hand is wrapped around his wrist again and leading him through the sea of people on the dance floor. He catches John's amused gaze as they pass and a second later he is shocked by a rush of cold air as they meet the sidewalk.

She points to a black town car; a driver exits and opens the door for them. He tries to help her in, but she slides in the back far more smoothly than he does, crossing her legs as she settles into her seat and smiles at him.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, reaching for his seatbelt but pausing when he realizes how ridiculous he must look. He turns to her, finally, to meet her amused gaze. "Safety first?" He chuckles.

She nods and wordlessly leans in. Her hands snake around to the back of his neck and her lips press to the corner of his mouth. He is surprised at her eagerness, dumbly releasing the seatbelt he had been clutching, and slides his hands around her waist.

She feels warm, hovering right above him, but her hands are still cold from the outside air as they work their way through his hair and down his neck. She says nothing, only presses herself against him and intensifies the kisses until he can barely breathe.

When the car pulls up to The Savoy, neither passenger notices until a swift knock raps against the window, her driver standing outside their door. She releases him and absentmindedly straightens out her dress. He thinks he catches a slight blush creeping up her neck, but she grabs his hand and leads him out of the car before he has a chance to study her with great detail.

She is met with familiar nods as she passes through the lobby, floating through like it is her home, her hand still entangled with his.

It is not until they reach the privacy of the elevator where he begins an onslaught of his own, backing her to the corner with the fervor she first pursued him with. She closes her eyes and groans softly as his hand slips beneath her dress, slowly trailing up her thigh. He is just about to wrap his fingers around the lacy undergarments beneath, when the ding of the elevator interrupts their coupling.

He backs away and offers her his hand once more, allowing her to lead him to the end of the hall. She grins widely at him for a brief second and with a swipe of the entry card they are standing on the dark marble floor of her hotel suite.

He looks around at the immaculate space and the beautiful woman in front of him. He watches as she fumbles with her heels for a moment, flinging them across the room as soon as she successfully unclasps the buckles. Her eyes meet his and he feels obligated to break the prolonged silence that has been in effect since their arrival at the hotel. "Would you like me to pour you a drink?" His voice is surprisingly unsteady as he removes his suit jacket and sets it on a nearby chair.

She shakes her head in refusal and approaches him again, her hands quickly remembering their location from the elevator. He closes his eyes until a moment later when he hears her unzip something. In one quick motion the small black garment she wears is on the floor, a tiny puddle of fabric that she kicks to the side. Her skin glows pale and smooth against the dimly lit room and when he takes her into his arms she feels as though she fits.

She clings tightly to him as they embrace, his lips all over her and his mind racing. She mumbles "to the bedroom," and they both stumble backward toward the room, their bodies tangled together as they move.

The drinks can wait