He was one of the scions of the Crowne Petroleum dynasty, but everyone said it wasn’t the money that got him past all the rules. It was his charm and cunning. Which was really about money because charm and cunning weren’t free. 


I’d never counted on how handsome he was.


Dressed for a demolition site in boots and jeans, Mitch and I approached a group of people looking at plans on the hood of a truck.


“Mr. Crowne,” I said over the roar of the yellow bulldozer pushing the detritus of the old house. The structure had been a scrapper from the minute it was listed, but that wasn’t the point. The offense came from what Crowne was trying to replace it with.


Byron Crowne looked up, and the second his eyes locked on mine, I slowed my stride. Even in the rugged setting, his shirt was crisp and his tie was centered. He towered over the men he spoke with, commanding and confident, copper-highlighted brown hair flicking in the breeze. He was thirty-five, six-three, and broad-shouldered with green eyes that seemed slightly larger than expected. They gave the illusion of sincerity and trustworthiness, contrasted by the snide curve of his mouth. He was a mixed message. A loophole in a rock-solid contract. The coexistence of lies and truths.
He was terrible.

I knew that. But he’d cast a spell over me without saying a word.