I Was Never Yours Mr Billionaire

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?"