Charlotte Nichols thinks romance is just a worthless fairy tale.

Jordan Lovett might be the city's most eligible CEO but to Charlotte, he's a route to revenge. Charlotte's father's company was stolen by Jordan's billionaire tycoon father and she'll do whatever it takes to see the Lovetts ruined. Jordan is just a spoiled playboy, and she's happy to use him as her way in, even if that means pretending to be his date for the weekend.

Jordan Lovett knows that romance is just a path to heartbreak.

He's had his share of gold diggers but when the latest one leaves him for his own father, he gives up on the fairer sex completely. Now he needs a woman on his arm to face his father's engagement, and he's not feeling choosy. Hiring an escort solves the problem: one weekend, no attachments. Perfect.

Both Charlotte and Jordan think they're using each other. And both think they're too strong to get hurt. But as the weekend heats up, one thing becomes clear--neither of them bargained on each other.

No cheating, no cliff-hangers! Just a little bit of steam and a whole lot of happily ever after.

The PA didn’t look amused. She picked up the phone. “Your ten o’clock is here, Mr. Lovett.”

Charlotte stared at the floor, trying to pretend that she hadn’t been listening in. The door behind the desk opened and a man stepped out. “Joyce, I don’t have a ten o’clock. And I said to leave the door open. You don’t need to use the intercom.”

Charlotte stood up to introduce herself but she couldn’t get a word out. The portrait in the newspaper, she had to admit, didn’t do the man justice. He wore an expensive suit, almost certainly designer, but his collar was unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up. His short dark hair was slightly ruffled as if he’d been running his hands through it. There was a five o’clock shadow on his chiseled jaw even though it was not yet ten o’clock. She realized she was staring at his lips before raising her eyes to look into his: dark, intense, penetrating.

He looked her up and down. “Oh, wait. You’re Buddy’s friend?”

She nodded uncertainly, not understanding but not wanting to turn this man down in any way.

Jordan smiled back at her, that same charming smile as in the photograph. The same penetrating eyes, his broad shoulders stunning in the Italian suit (also worth more than her annual income, a bitchy part of her mind said) and large, tanned hands looking oh-so-touchable.

Get yourself together, Nichols. “Hi, my name is Charlotte and----—”

“Charlotte?” He furrowed his brow. “Is that your real name?”

Demi Damson writes romance and erotica from a small shack a few steps away from the ocean. She has a fondness for red wine and black lace.

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