Savannah Hart never thought that an invitation to some private art show at the mysterious Blackwood Manor could turn her whole life around. But stepping into the seductive snare of Damien Blackwood, the dark, magnetic billionaire who knows the taste of control means spiraling into a whirlpool of dangerous desires and painful needs. And as Damien pulls her into his world filled with sensuality and secrets, Savannah must determine whether total surrender is freeing or will shatter her beyond repair.
Chapter 1 The Invitation
The invitation was contained in a black envelope that was thick, luxurious, and sealed with a blood-red wax stamp pressed into the initials DB. Savannah Hart turned it over in her fingers, eyebrows lifting as she took in the elegant cursive that spelled her name in silvery ink. It wasn't every day that a billionaire summoned her by name.
The note inside was short and to the point,
Ms. Hart,
Your reputation, you. I would like to commission your curatorial expertise for a private collection display at Blackwood Manor. I expect your presence there at precisely seven o'clock this Friday evening.
Come prepared. You'll be compensated rather generously.
Damien Blackwood.
Savannah exhaled noisily, fingers tightening around the letter. Damien Blackwood. Even his name sounded wicked. She knew the rumors he was the kind of man the tabloids worshiped and whispered about in the same breath. Billionaire, art collector, philanthropist by day. By night, an enigma, possibly dangerous, and endlessly seductive.
She had never thought he would seek her out. She was in the process of establishing her name in the art world as one with an unconventional eye and brilliant exhibitions, but Blackwood... he had had a chance to find anyone.
Perhaps that was his reason for saying yes.
Blackwood Manor was much like a secret carved into stone. It was wide and ancient, situated on a lot of cliffs just outside the city. As Savannah's car reached the soaring iron gates, she was seized with the odd feeling that something ancient and alive had swallowed her whole.
The driver, silent and functionally detached, offered to open her door. Savannah stepped out of the car, heels clicking softly on the gravel, adjusting the dark emerald dress that hugged her curves with unapologetic grace. She had taken her time with her appearance-deep red lipstick, a smoky eye, hair twisted into an elegant bun.
She was walking into the lion's den, after all.
And before she'd reached the entry point of the manor, the door opened for her.
He was already waiting.
Damien Blackwood stood a shadow of the flesh itself, all tall, broad-shouldered, and perfectly tailored in an expensive black three-piece suit. His tie was undone; the top buttons of his shirt were open, revealing a sliver of sculpted chest and a hint of tattoo ink curling up his collarbone.
But it was his eyes that froze her in midstep. Icy gray, cutting eyes, unreadable. They didn't just look at her; they assessed her, like a predator measuring prey.
Ms. "Hart," he said, in a low, smooth, and rasping voice sending ripples down her spine. "You are right on time."
Savannah managed a smile, her heart leaping in her chest. "Mr. Blackwood. Thank you for the invitation."
"I do not extend them lightly."
He stepped aside, his hand brushing lightly against her lower back as she passed. It was barely a touch, just the ghost of a graze through silk, but it lit a fire in her blood. Heat curled low in her belly, completely uninvited.
Tension snapped taut between them instantly. He didn't look away as she turned to face him inside the dimly lit foyer. Instead, he studied her like she was an object in a gallery-valuable, rare, and already his.
"You're not what I expected," he said.
Savannah tilted her chin. "Neither are you."
He smirked, and the curve of his mouth was sinful. "I've had my share of curators. All of them were predictable. Safe. You..." His gaze dipped slowly down her body, unapologetically bold. "You're not."
"And you like that?"
"I wouldn't have asked you here if I didn't."
He led her deeper into the manor, through arched hallways lined with rich oil paintings and sculptures that likely cost more than her entire apartment building. The air smelled like cedarwood and something darker, masculine and expensive.
The gallery room they entered had breathtaking floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, moody lighting, and rows of covered easels and crates waiting to be opened. Savannah's fingers itched to unwrap them.
"This is the collection?" she asked, stepping forward.
"Yes. Some are my acquisitions. Others... are mine."
She glanced over her shoulder. "Yours? You're an artist?"
"Once," he replied. "Before business became my muse."
His words were lined with amusement, but something flickered in his eyes. Regret? Pain? Savannah wanted to press, but she held back. She didn't know him. Not yet.
"I want you to put a show here, one night only. Invitation only, no press, no public. The vision is yours, but I expect it to be bold."
"Why me?" she asked, then turned her body to face him fully.
He stepped closer. "Because you aren't afraid of taking risks. You somehow see what is beyond the canvas."
"I don't sleep with my clients," she suddenly retorted.
His eyes were dark. "Good. I don't pay for sex."
There was a jagged and sultry tension in the air between them.
"Though if I did," he continued, lowering his voice, "you'd be worth every goddamn cent."
Savannah's breath caught.
Then, he reached out, brushing aside a stray curl from her cheek. The pad of his thumb lingered just the tiniest bit too long. That barely-there touch of his was electric and scorching all at once.
"You're playing with fire, Mr. Blackwood."
"I like the burn," he said softly.
She should have turned around and walked off. Told him it was unprofessional. Instead, her body betrayed her, thumping with a pulse, with thighs pressed together, lips parted in invitation for his next move.
He didn't kiss her. No, that would be too easy.
Leaning rather, I could certainly say, whispering against her ear, "I'll give you full access to the manor for as long as you need; however, make no mistake, Savannah: I chose you for being interesting to me."
Savannah turned just enough so that their mouths would be practically touching. "This is business," she said, although at a lower tone than she had meant.
Damien replied, "For now."
He stepped back, savoring her with his eyes one last time, his gaze gliding over her body like a lover's caress, only to say, "A room will be prepared for you. Dinner starts at nine, should you choose to stay."
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