Read an Excerpt:

“I took care of it. That piano shit’s spooky, man.”

Eric rolled his eyes at the fool’s assessment of an excellent composition. Some people didn’t appreciate true art. “Did she get the point?”

“Oh yeah, definitely—scared shitless. As soon as I played it, she started punching at the elevator button, practically crawling out of her skin.”

“Perfect. I’ll be in touch.” He hung up, chuckling as he used the remote to turn up Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C Sharp Minor. Closing his eyes, he sipped his whiskey, resting his head against dark, soft leather, savoring the thrill of Sophie being afraid. Now if only he’d been able to see for himself… He missed watching her guarded eyes sharpen with caution then widen with fear when she knew she’d done something stupid.

His smile dimmed as he set his glass back on the desk. The agreement he’d signed had put him in a bit of a spot, but nothing was impossible—not when it mattered. And this most certainly did. He’d assured his attorney he would keep his distance, which he was. He was leaving her alone, but that didn’t mean Sophie couldn’t be reminded on a regular basis of who was in charge of her life.

Sighing his contentment, he opened his eyes, looking over the daily report on Sophie’s whereabouts, which David had sent along several hours ago. He scanned the update and scrolled down to the pictures, shaking his head at Sophie wearing a dark-blue halter-top and fitted jeans, lunching with Abigail Quinn and Lily Thomas. She’d certainly turned herself into a glamour queen with those ridiculous outfits he never would have allowed. There were more photos of her in her new store on Rodeo Drive with some longhaired woman—Wren Campbell, David reported in his notes.

He moved to the shots from three days ago when she wore jeans and a ratty t-shirt, rolling paint on a wall. He grit his teeth as he looked at another. Stone McCabe had a foolish yellow kerchief in his hair while he and Sophie wrapped their arms around each other, smiling, in paint-splotched clothing. There were other images of the happy couple in their piece-of-crap house on the cliffs, cozied up on their couch late at night. He clicked on the picture from David’s high-powered lens, focusing on the cheap wedding band Stone wore resting against the skin of Sophie’s thigh. “Bastard.”

Mr. McCabe had stolen what was rightfully his. He’d earned every damn dime of that money, feeding and clothing Sophie—just putting up with her for more than two years. And he would have it. Eleven more months and a few odd days and the five million dollars would be his. Sophie would come back to him because she wouldn’t have a choice. He would make sure of it. In the meantime, there was nothing wrong with letting her know, as often as possible, that her time was coming. Sophie McCabe would pay.