Who by Megan Mitcham
A billionaire in high heels. A relentless stalker. A chance rooftop meeting. Her choices could send everything crashing down.
Billionaire
Larkin Ashford is fiercely independent, but even she has to admit her
fashion empire was built on the backs of brides. When her company has
the opportunity to go public, her board of directors won’t pull the
trigger unless she settles down. A series of threatening messages aren’t
making her decision any easier. As she retreats to her rooftop hideaway
to clear her head, she finds herself imprisoned in the strong arms of a
mysterious man who thinks she was about to jump.
Despite
her friends’ warnings that her wannabe savior could be her stalker, she
can’t get his body off her mind. Determined to find the truth, she
searches the city for her mystery man and discovers a dark secret that
could bring everything she’s worked for crashing down. With her empire
in danger, she’ll have to uncover the truth before her fortune and her
life zero out.
Who
is the first standalone novel in a pulse-pounding psychological
thriller series. If you like fierce characters, steamy chemistry, and
twists you won’t see coming, then you’ll love Megan Mitcham’s high-rise
romantic thriller.
Buy Who to live the high life with a sleek, sexy billionaire psychological thriller today!
Excerpt:
“Why were you on the roof the other night?” she tried.
He simply stood and watched her.
“How’d you get up there?”
“You said a lock wouldn’t stop me.”
“Fine.
Fine. You won’t come in. You won’t let me dry your clothes. You won’t
answer my questions.” Larkin yanked off her coat, glad for the working
thermostat. At least he wouldn’t freeze for as long as she could keep
him inside. She sidestepped him and hooked her coat on the rack. If she
was going to get this out, she couldn’t look at him. The sight of him
all big and fucking sexy as hell muddled her brain. Her feet carried her
from one side of the foyer to the other.
“That night on the roof … I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”
When
he didn’t protest, she looked at him. His gaze followed her,
calculating her again and again like a high-functioning computer.
Reading and reading and not asking a single question.
“I
know it looked that way. I know, now, why you acted the way you did,
but it scared me. No one is ever up on the roof. It’s my place to get
away from … everything. I hadn’t been up there in a while. Too long.
Things were pressing in on me. Work. My …” Why was she blabbing so much
to him? He didn’t give a shit. He was probably worried about where his
next meal would come from. What did he care about her problems? Which
really weren’t problems at all in the grand scheme of the world. People
lived not knowing where their next meal was coming from. People lived
without proper clothing. Without proper shelter.
Beckett didn’t look homeless. He wasn’t malnourished in any way. His
clothes were used but clean and well maintained. The scruff on his face
wasn’t more than three days growth.
“Your … boyfriend?”
She stopped pacing and found his gaze. “I don’t have those. They’re … messy.”
“Husband?”
Her face crinkled. “Even worse.”
“Finally, someone who understands.”
“So many people don’t.” She nodded and walked, studying the intricacies of the woodwork and the fibers of the entry’s rug.
“They’re needy.”
“And you don’t need much, do you?” She stole a quick glance at him. His head shook.
“So who was it that night?”
Her gaze dropped to the ring on her finger. “My family.”
His fingers came into view. They grazed the thick band and large stone.
“It was my mother’s.” She hated the words as soon as they were out.
“Why are you mad at a dead woman?”
Her
gaze flashed to his. He stood over her, eyes warmer than before. She
hadn’t said a word about the rage that boiled inside her bones for her
mother, but he was smart. Smart enough to add her action that night and
her words tonight and ask the one question she wouldn’t answer.
Larkin’s head shook, jarring loose the tear she’d been fighting back.
“Seems
we both have our boundaries.” His thumb wiped the tear from her cheek,
dragged it down her face, and smoothed it over her lips. They parted for
him. He took his time tracing the high arch. The salt from his
fingertip bled into her mouth as the pad dragged over her lower lip and
pulled it wide. “Unlock the door and tell me to leave.”
“No.” Her tongue slid along the path with his finger. “You ran away from me Saturday. I’m not going to let you do that tonight.”
“It’s
what I should do.” His thumb left her lip and joined the rest of his
fingers at the side of her neck. He tilted her face up. “Tell me to
stop.” His face, scarred and angry, neared hers, open and intent.
Not
a sound passed through her lips. She grabbed his jacket, only inches
from his hand, and tugged. His hold broke. The cold exterior chilled her
fingertips. The weight of it forced her muscles into action but not for
long. She dropped the thing on the ground behind her, toward the wall
and away from the door. Her gaze never left his. His gave nothing away.
He
was too tall for her to lift up onto her tiptoes and press her lips to
his, and he didn’t move from his battle-ready posture. She could climb
him like a tree, but if this was going to work, he would have to give …
just a little.
Toe
to toe, she studied him as blatantly as he did her. A healthy pulse
swelled the veins of his thick neck. His gaze narrowed and cooled as
though begging her to lose interest. Not a chance. Every inch of him
intrigued her. Even the ugly scar that hid in the shadow of the foyer.
She reached up slowly. His head shifted higher into the stratosphere of
her entryway.
“Don’t tell me a big guy like you is scared.”
His jaw worked back and forth. “Cautious.”
“I won’t hurt you. Don’t think I could if I tried, but I won’t.”
His head lowered.
Larkin
grabbed his chin. It barely fit in her hand. The short hairs pricked
her fingers. She turned his face to the left and held her breath. Webbed
and raised skin slightly darker than the rest of his face gleamed with a
waxy smooth finish in the lamplight. Its dips and rises spread wide
from a point just below his eye to encompass the hinge of his jaw and a
two-inch swath of his cheek. It was fully healed but not an old scar.
Her fingers slid up the side of his face. She mapped the ridges of
scarred and unmarred skin alike.
He
moved under her touch, not visibly, but energy hummed under her
fingertips. She dragged her touch down over his scar, his neck, and
gripped the collar of his shirt with both hands. Cool water seeped from
the fabric, running through her fingers.
Hunger flashed in his eyes.
She
pulled his face down. Her heart beat against her chest, urging her to
take his mouth, but determination made her wait. He had to give. Saliva
pooled. Her breasts ached. Oxygen, so skittish before, heaved in and out
of her lungs as though she was chasing him down the street again. If he
broke down her door and ran away, she’d chase him again. This wasn’t
like her. She took what she wanted. Men gave it freely. But this man
just looked at her.
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