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  He looked older than I knew he was. Early fifties, but he could've been nearly a decade more than that. His hair was still the same dark blond I remembered, but it was thin, receding. I'd gotten my eyes from him, and they hadn't changed either. But he was smaller than I remembered. Probably only two inches taller than me, and so thin.

  As I stepped closer, I could smell the familiar scent of tobacco and cheap aftershave. He'd never smoked around me, but he'd never given it up completely either. I wondered if he smoked inside wherever his new home was.

  “Tanya?” His voice was hoarser than it had been on the phone. “Is that you, honey?”

  “Yeah, Dad.” The last word wavered. “It's me.”

  “I'll come back later, Jefferson,” Agent Kinney excused himself and left without another word.

  I pulled a chair over to the bed, unsure of where things were going to go from here. All those years, I hadn't let myself wonder what I'd say to him when I saw him again. I was starting to wish I had.

  “I'm so sorry.” He held out his hand, but the expression on his face said he didn't expect me to take it. “I know I don't deserve to be forgiven, and I will spend the rest of my life hating myself for putting you in danger.”

  I wanted to hold his hand, to have things go back to the way they had been before he'd left, but I knew that couldn't happen. Maybe, one day, we'd get to a place where I could feel like he was my father again, but we weren't there yet.

  And if we were ever going to get there, there was something I needed to know first.

  “If those men hadn't threatened me, would you have ever contacted me?”

  His hand fell back into his lap as he turned his head away. That in itself was an answer, but I still waited for him to say it.

  “I don't know.” His voice was quiet enough that I had to lean closer to hear him. “I missed you so much, but I kept telling myself that you were better off without me in your life. That I needed to wait until I'd gotten my life together, but the longer I was away from you, the more I had to make up for.”

  “I didn't need you to be perfect,” I said. “I just needed you.” Everything I'd held back came bubbling up to the surface, but there was one particular thing I needed him to know. “Do you have any idea how much you screwed me up? I have no family. No friends. No relationships. I spend my entire life not trusting anyone other than myself because if my own parents could walk out on me, how could I believe that anyone else wouldn't? That anyone could love me enough to stick around?”

  With each word I said, the look of pain on his face increased, but I didn't stop until I'd said my piece. He deserved to know that it wasn't just about a shitty childhood. What he'd done had changed the person I was supposed to be. If I'd been raised in a relatively normal home, with at least one parent who'd stuck with me, I probably still would've been reserved and shy, but I could've at least trusted people enough to have at least one close friend, one relationship.

  “I thought I was doing the right thing by you,” he said. “It's not an excuse, and I won't lie and say that it was all selfless on my part, but I do love you. I never stopped.”

  I sniffled, rubbed the back of my hands against my eyes, then took a slow breath. “I didn't come here to fight with you,” I said. “I came to make sure you were okay. Because no matter how pissed I am at you, I don't wish you dead.”

  He managed a watery smile. “That's good to know.” He raised his head to look at me. “I'm not going to push you. I'll leave it completely up to you, but I would like to be a part of your life.”

  I held up a hand. “That isn't something I can decide now. It's – it's too much.”

  “I understand,” he said and swallowed hard. “But unless you tell me to leave, I'm not going away again.”

  I nodded, unsure what I was supposed to say to that. Hell, I had no clue what to think about all of this.

  “By the way, I think you're wrong about one thing.” His smile was small, sad. “You have found someone who loves you.”

  I frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “Agent Kinney told me how the FBI found me, as well as the lengths your boyfriend went to trying to ensure I'd be okay.”

  “I don't have a boyfriend,” I countered. “Erik's just...a friend.”

  The look my dad gave me spoke volumes. “Honey, I may not know anything about your life, but I know men. And no man goes to the lengths your young man went to for just a friend. I know I don't deserve your trust on much – on anything really – but on this...trust me. I don't care what he calls it, but shelling out seventy thousand dollars and calling in all those favors, that's love.”

  My heart gave an unsteady thump.

  Was it?

  I stood in front of Erik's door and reminded myself that if I never put myself out there, I'd never know whether or not my dad was right. If I walked away, I'd lose Erik. If I knocked on that door, maybe he'd tell me that he'd only been helping out a friend...but maybe I could finally have something more.

  I raised my hand, but the door opened before I could knock. Erik's smile almost knocked the breath out of me.

  “Come in.”

  He stepped aside, and I let him lead me into the living room. We sat next to each other on the couch, close enough for me to want to touch him, but far enough that we weren't.

  “Your dad's okay?”

  I nodded. “I needed to see him. That's the only reason I left–”

  “I understood.” He put his hand on mine, fingers curling around in a gesture that felt so natural that it gave me a burst of boldness.

  “My dad said something...about you.”

  His eyebrows went up. “You talked about me?”

  “Not exactly.” I licked my lips, trying to decide how to say this. “Your friend, Agent Kinney, told him what you did for me.”

  “It was nothing.” Erik's fingers flexed around my hand.

  “Was it?” The question slipped out, and I refused to call it back. “Here's the thing, Erik, I don't take risks. I'm not impulsive. But when I'm with you...I know you said that it was just sex between us, but what you did for me...”

  His lips brushed against mine, the light touch stopping whatever I was going to say next.

  “I'm sorry,” he said as he slid his hands up my arms. “I never should have said anything like that.”

  My heart squeezed. “We never said what we were doing was anything else,” I reminded him.

  He leaned closer until his forehead rested on mine. “And I was a fool not to claim you the moment you sat down at my table. Hell, the second you walked into that restaurant, I knew I wanted you, and that I didn't want anyone else to have you.”

  I grabbed the front of his shirt to stop my hands from shaking. He was saying all the right things, and I desperately wanted to believe him.

  “Do you still want to...claim me?” I couldn't look at him as I asked the question.

  He cupped my chin, raised my head until his eyes locked with mine. “Fuck. Yes.”

  I smiled, my heart swelling. “You do?”

  This kiss was brief, but fierce. “You're mine, sweetheart. For as long as you'll have me.” He ran his fingers through my hair, the touch as possessive as the words.

  “I hope you mean that,” I said, putting my hand on his jaw. “Because I intend to hold on to you for a long time.”

  “I mean it.” His eyes blazed blue fire. “You're my muse, and I'm not giving you up.”

  As he kissed me, I could feel that he meant every word. He would never hurt me. I was his. And he was mine.

  Thirty

  Erik

  I still couldn't believe that this was my life.

  Heat of the Sun was a huge hit. The movie rights had sold just weeks after its premiere, and it was in the last stages of post-production right now, with a release date of Valentine's Day. My second book, The Muse, had spent five weeks at number one on the New York Times Bestseller List and was still in the top twenty after all these months. I was curre
ntly in final talks for it to be made into a movie as well. It would've been sold already if I hadn't been pushing for a bit more creative control than I'd had over Heat of the Sun. I loved my first book, but The Muse was so much more personal that I didn't want to take the chance they'd fuck it up.

  Tanya made a sound in her sleep and burrowed closer to my side. I tightened my embrace, fingers moving in soothing circles between her shoulder blades in a gesture that had become automatic, though no less sincere. We'd been together more than a year and a half, and there were times I felt like I needed to pinch myself because this exquisite woman couldn't possibly be mine.

  I glanced at the clock on the bedside table but didn't feel any need to rush. We were on Christmas vacation, and we'd both agreed that we'd relax. The need to get away from everything was part of the reason we were spending two full weeks at the vacation home in Aspen that I shared with my friends. They'd be coming up for New Year's Eve, but for the next few days, it was just the two of us.

  A lock of hair had escaped the braid she always wore to bed to prevent her hair from being a snarled mess. I tucked the hair behind her ear and brushed my knuckles across her cheek. We'd spent the night with each other often, but we'd only been living together for the past nine months, so waking up every morning with her in my arms was still a novelty.

  I had a feeling it would be the same fifty years from now because she was the only one I pictured in my future. Her relationship with her father was on the mend, but I knew there was a part of her that continued to struggle with her fear of abandonment. One of the things I hoped for this vacation was to take away some of that. And then I'd spend the rest of my life showing her that I'd never leave her.

  Her hand slid across my stomach, and my muscles tensed, body automatically responding to her touch. Her lips curved up as she shifted, and I knew she was waking up. I kissed her forehead and waited. I'd yet to be able to find the right words to describe everything I felt every morning when I was reminded that she'd chosen me.

  “I like it here,” she murmured as she opened her eyes. Sleep lingered in the dark depths, but it wouldn't last long.

  “I do too,” I said. “It was Alix's idea. Our families spent one Christmas break up here a couple years before my dad passed, and it's probably one of the best childhood memories either of us has.”

  “Did your sisters go too?” Tanya asked as she shifted with me so that we were more sitting than laying.

  I nodded. “I think that's why it's my favorite holiday memory. Katie and Eddie came with all their kids, and Chelsea was pregnant with her youngest, so the house was nearly bursting at the seams, but no one complained.” I smiled. “I was so used to things being quiet, so to suddenly have all that noise...it was nearly overwhelming, but I wouldn't have traded it for anything.”

  “We should have everyone here for Thanksgiving or Christmas next year,” Tanya said. “I'd love to meet your sisters and their families.”

  “That's probably a good idea,” I agreed. “Though I was thinking we could take a trip this spring to see them. They won't forgive me if I make them wait that long.”

  The puzzled expression on her face was my cue. I reached over to the table on my side of the bed and opened the top drawer. I knew exactly where the box was. I'd been staring at it since we'd arrived. She sucked in a breath as I pulled it out and flipped it open with my thumb.

  Her eyes were wide as I looked down at her, her cheeks flushed.

  “Tanya, you are my friend, my lover, and my muse. Now I want to know if you'll be my wife as well.”

  My heart thudded against my ribcage as I waited for her answer.

  Instead of reaching for the ring, she put her hand on my cheek, her thumb brushing against the corner of my mouth.

  “Yes.”

  And with that one little word, she made my entire world fall into place. Then she raised herself up to kiss me, and the world didn't matter. She was mine. Forever. And I was hers, just like I had been from the moment I laid eyes on her.

  My muse.

  The Billionaire’s Muse series continues in Alix’s story, Bound. Turn the page to keep reading.

  One

  Sine

  “You’ll miss the sea.”

  When I had told my family I was leaving Ireland to go to DeVry University in America, that was the first thing my dad said. He was right. I did miss it, but as much as I loved my seaside place of birth, I’d found a home here in New York City. A permanent home, I hoped.

  I could only hope this new job would allow me to stay here. I had no more desire to live in Ireland and join my family’s whiskey business than I did when I’d left five years ago. While I loved my family, I couldn’t deny that it was freeing not being known as the baby of the McNiven eight.

  The problem was, I needed a full-time job to be able to transfer from a temporary visa to a permanent, but I didn’t have any better idea of what I wanted to do with my business administration degree than I did the day I had declared my major. It seemed like a solid choice at the time, the sort of thing that would provide for me financially while I found my passion. Instead, I’d spent the last year working as a temp at a variety of jobs around Manhattan.

  I had done well as a temp. I worked hard, gave a hundred percent, and it rarely took me long to learn the various tasks. On top of that, I was easy to get along with. More or less. I wasn’t the type of woman who intimidated other women or sparked jealousy. Most looked at me as a little sister, especially since I barely looked eighteen, much less twenty-three. That meant I could navigate through the petty spats that often dragged down newcomers. I made sure I was polite and added to small talk when appropriate, but I never did inane chatting that interfered with my work.

  More than one employer had told me they wished they were able to hire me permanently. I’d always appreciated the compliment as I walked out the door for the last time.

  I’d never mind moving from place to place, but after a year of bouncing around, I was looking forward to a change of pace.

  And today was the day. Everything could change for the better.

  As I stood outside the Chelsea studio of my new employer, I said a quick prayer to St. Cajetan and took a deep breath. I didn’t consider myself a religious person, but Mam was devout, so all us kids had been baptized into the church. I hoped that carried some weight with the patron saint of jobs, even if I didn’t completely believe in all that.

  I needed all the help I could get.

  I knocked on the door and ran through everything I knew about my new job while I waited. It wasn’t much.

  On Friday, I’d been called into the agency for an interview with a woman named Jean Holloman. She was an agent looking for an assistant to a photographer she represented, and I’d been recommended for the position. Ms. Holloman hadn’t said why or by who, but I knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. After a brief chat, she’d given me this address and ordered me to be there at nine o’clock sharp. I'd be working for Alix Wexler.

  The way she said his name made me think that she assumed I knew who he was. I hadn’t bothered to tell her otherwise. If this position meant I didn’t have to start looking for another roommate – or another apartment – or a plane ticket back to Ireland – Mr. Wexler could be an abhartach, and I would still have accepted the job.

  The door opened, and I heard a voice telling me to come inside, but whoever it was had already moved back into the shadows. I followed, blinking as my eyes adjusted from the bright June sun to the dimmer interior of the studio. I could see the outline of a man, over a foot taller than my own barely five-foot frame, but wasn’t able to make out the details until I followed him into a large, open space filled with natural light.

  Messy dark brown hair, and a chiseled jaw any sculpture would have loved. When he turned to face me, my stomach did a flip. His features and build were attractive enough that I was sure he turned heads wherever he went, but it was those eyes that made me catch my breath. I’d never seen irises qui
te that color before. They were gray, but not a washed out blue, but rather the thicker, darker color I associated with smoke curling up from a chimney on a cold day.

  “You’re my new assistant, right?” His voice was clipped, but he didn’t seem to be angry as much as distracted.

  I tried not to be offended. I wasn’t here for a date or for a business meeting. He was my new boss. He could be as distracted as he wanted. I’d get paid either way.

  “Yes, sir. I’m Sine McNiven.”

  That got his attention, though I wasn’t sure if it was my accent or my name. His gaze swept over me, and I got the impression that it was the first time he actually saw me. I did my best not to fidget.

  “You want to give me that one again?”

  I tempered my grin. Wouldn’t want the boss thinking I was laughing at him. “S-I-N-E, but it’s pronounced SHEE-na. Rhymes with Tina.”

  “And you’re old enough to be my assistant?”

  Not the first time I’d heard that question in some form or another. “Don’t you know it’s not polite to ask a woman her age?” I smiled as I added, “But I’m twenty-three.”

  “Are you now?” He raised an eyebrow. “Where are you from?”

  I was tempted to say Queens, but I knew what he meant. “Balbriggan.” When he raised the second eyebrow, I added, “Ireland.”

  He looked like he was debating whether or not to ask anything else, then he shrugged. “Follow me.”

  I looked around as he started walking toward the back of the studio. Mrs. Holloman had told me that he was a photographer, but not how talented he was. If he was the one who'd taken the pictures hanging on the walls, he had talent. I wasn’t an expert, but even I could tell these were good. I didn’t offer my opinion though, not knowing Mr. Wexler well enough to know how he’d take it. Artists could be mercurial.