Seducing My Target, Losing My Heart

Skylar's POV

Sunlight is stabbing through the floor-to-ceiling windows, hitting the bed like an accusation. I open my eyes, and the first thing I feel is the ache in my body. A dull reminder of last night.

Dominic is still asleep beside me. His breathing is steady. I let my gaze trace the line of his shoulders, the curve of his neck. His face looks almost peaceful. Almost.

I peel back the duvet, moving slowly. The marble floor is freezing under my bare feet. I grab the scattered clothes. His white shirt is on top. I slip it on. The fabric still smells like him.

Each step toward the bathroom is careful. I avoid the spots that might creak.

The door clicks shut. I lean against it, breathing hard. When I look up at the mirror, the woman staring back is a stranger. Tangled hair. Swollen lips. Marks blooming across my neck and collarbone.

What am I doing? This is just a mission. Just a fucking mission. But last night, God, last night I was drowning in it.

My fingers find the deepest mark on my collarbone. I remember Dominic's mouth there, his voice rough against my skin. I twist the faucet, splash cold water on my face. Once, twice, three times. It doesn't help.

I slide down to the floor, knees pulled to my chest. My shoulders start to shake.

Get it together, Skylar. Remember Masai Mara. Remember the rhinos. Remember Mom and Dad. I was thirteen when they died. Remember how men like him destroy everything.

But Dominic's voice echoes in my head. The way he says my name. The warmth when he holds me. The softness in his eyes that doesn't look fake at all.

Those aren't real. He's just another rich bastard who thinks money solves everything. Another businessman tearing apart the natural world. So why does my chest hurt like this?

Let me rewind to where this started.

Three weeks ago. A charity gala. Crystal chandeliers, champagne, expensive dresses and fake smiles. Standard operating procedure for New York's elite.

I stand in a deep green backless gown that cost me a month's rent. Cheap accessories. Deliberate. I hold a wine glass I haven't touched. My target is across the room: Dominic Blackwood.

He's taller than his photos. The black tuxedo fits him perfectly. Socialites circle him, but he looks bored. His eyes are sharp, cold. Like he can see through everyone's bullshit.

Damn. More intimidating in person. Now or never, Skylar. You've been planning this for months. For Dad. For Mom. For Masai Mara.

I take a breath and walk toward him. Three steps away, someone's elbow hits my arm. The red wine splashes across his white shirt.

The ballroom goes silent. Every head turns.

"Oh my God! I'm so sorry! Someone bumped into me." I widen my eyes, perfect the mortified look. I grab a napkin, reach out to dab at his shirt. My fingers brush his chest. Warm, solid.

His hand catches my wrist. Not hard, but firm. Our eyes meet.

Something flickers in his gaze. Interest? Suspicion? I drop my eyes fast, flutter my lashes. Play shy.

"I'm really sorry. I can pay for the dry cleaning..."

"Don't worry about it." His voice is gentler than expected. "It's just a suit."

Someone laughs quietly. Everyone knows the Blackwood fortune. Dry cleaning fees? What a joke.

I bite my lip. "But it's custom-made... At least let me cover it?"

He studies me. A barely-there smile. "What's your name?"

"Skylar. Skylar Ross."

"Skylar." He tastes the word. "Since you're so set on making it up to me, how about dinner instead?"

Hook, line, and sinker. So why is my heart hammering?

Twenty minutes later, the auction continues. A few art pieces go under the hammer. I stay at the edge of the crowd, trying to be invisible. But I feel Dominic's gaze tracking me.

"Next item, from wildlife photographer Skylar Ross. 'The Last Gaze,' a snow leopard portrait."

My photograph fills the screen. A snow leopard's eyes, wild and lonely. I planted this to establish my credentials, prove I'm not just another social climber.

Starting bid is ten thousand. It'll probably go cheap. No one here cares about endangered species. But at least it proves I'm real.

"Ten thousand dollars—"

"Five hundred thousand." Dominic's voice cuts through the room, his eyes locked on me.

The ballroom erupts. Heads swivel. Whispers spread like wildfire. "Who is she?" "Blackwood's new girl?" "Five hundred grand?"

I stare at him, genuinely shocked. Five hundred thousand? For one photo? My palms sweat.

What the fuck? Is he showing off? Testing me?

"Sold! Five hundred thousand to Mr. Blackwood!"

The crowd parts as he walks toward me. He towers over me. I can smell his cologne.

He leans close, his breath warm against my ear. "Looking forward to that dinner, Skylar."

Heat rushes through me. My face burns. My heart races.

He's just a target. Don't forget why you're here.

Two hours later, I sit in one of New York's most expensive restaurants. Dominic pulls out my chair. The entire place is empty.

"Isn't this a bit much?"

He sits across from me, relaxed. "I don't like interruptions."

Wine pours into crystal glasses. I lift mine, pretend to appreciate it. Really, I'm watching him.

"Tell me about yourself. Wildlife photographer?"

I launch into my story. Travel the world, capture endangered species. Snow leopards, African sunsets, Kenya's rhino crisis.

"You know there are fewer than five thousand black rhinos left? Their habitat is being—" I stop, realizing I've gotten too passionate.

When he mentions his hotel empire, I just give a polite "oh" and switch back to my upcoming Masai Mara shoot. Not asking about his assets, not flattering his success.

His gaze deepens. "You're different."

"Different?"

"Most women want to know my net worth right away. You don't seem to care."

I shrug. "Money can't save endangered species."

That's the truest thing I've said all night. In this moment, I'm not performing.

Dominic sets down his fork. "You really think you can change anything? Just by taking photographs?"

My eyes harden. "I have to believe it. If I don't, who will?"

I think of my parents. That night in Tsavo. My fingers grip the napkin tight.

For one heartbeat, something softens in his expression. Something I can't name. Not pity. Understanding?

We stare at each other. The air feels charged. A server glides over with the main course, breaking the moment.

I cut into my steak. Dominic sips wine, never taking his eyes off me. I can feel him trying to see through every layer.

Don't fall for his gentleness. Remember who he is. The kind of man who'd destroy Masai Mara for profit. His resort project will obliterate rhino habitat. He'll bribe officials, evict Masai tribes. He's the enemy.

But another voice whispers: The way he looks at me... like I'm the only thing that matters. Fuck. I'm in trouble.

At the restaurant entrance, his driver waits. The luxury car's lights are bright in the darkness.

Dominic turns to me. "My penthouse is right upstairs. Want to come up for a drink?"

I stand, picking up my worn canvas backpack. A deliberate prop, clashing with the expensive gown.

I smile, but my eyes are steady. "I'm not that kind of woman, Mr. Blackwood."

"Thank you for dinner. And... thank you for buying my photograph."

I turn away. My heels click against the pavement. I don't look back. But I feel his gaze burning into my spine.

Dominic watches her disappear into the night. He's watching that beat-up backpack bouncing against her elegant dress. The smile on his face is deepening.