Trapped by the Ruthless Billionaire

The Hamptons flew past the tinted windows of the Bentley, a blur of manicured green and impossibly large houses. Avery Hopkins took a slow, deliberate breath, the kind she always took before the curtain went up.

She turned her gaze from the scenery to the man beside her. Joshua Stanley.

He sat perfectly straight, his attention locked on the stock market data scrolling across a tablet propped on his knees. It was as if she wasn't there. As if he was alone in the cool, leather-scented air of the car.

A small, private smile touched Avery's lips. The youngest Stanley son was even more tightly wound than she'd anticipated.

Showtime.

She shifted, letting her body lean into his space. The scent of her perfume, expensive and intentionally bold, cut through the sterile air he'd wrapped around himself.

Joshua's shoulder went rigid. His eyes didn't move from the screen.

The corner of Avery's mouth lifted. She crossed one leg over the other, the silk of her dress whispering as the hemline slid a few crucial inches up her thigh.

Her hand moved next. Her fingers, light as a spider's thread, brushed against a barely-there wrinkle on the sharp crease of his suit trousers. The movement was slow, deliberate, a question asked without words.

His entire body jolted, a sharp, involuntary tremor that was impossible to hide.

Finally, his head snapped up. His eyes, a startling ice-blue, were filled with a clear warning.

"What are you doing?"

Avery blinked, a picture of innocence. "Getting into character, Mr. Stanley. We're almost there. We should probably look like we're in love."

Her fingers didn't retreat. They moved, bolder now, inching upward until they rested lightly on his thigh.

Through the fine wool of his trousers, she felt the muscle underneath bunch into a knot of solid steel.