Trapped with Mr. Walker
: Chapter 1

“MY WIFE DOESN’T UNDERSTAND me.”

I pull my best sympathetic face as I nod and listen to the man I’ve dubbed Mr. Gas Station. I know the type—lavishes his mistresses with expensive meals out and perfume, while his wife, who is probably at home right now tucking his kids up into bed, gets discounted flowers from the gas station on their anniversary because he was too busy being an unfaithful pig to remember.

“Really? That must be so difficult for you.” I lower my voice and rest my chin in my hand on top of the bar. “And I bet you work so hard, too.”

His eyes drop to my cleavage, and he puffs his chest out in his suit and nods like the pompous ass he is. “I do. I work very hard, and I like to… relax whenever I can. I think it’s important, don’t you?”

His eyes roam over my figure-hugging dress as he trails the back of one finger over the bare skin on my upper arm.

“Oh, it’s so important.” I smile and let out a practiced giggle as he fails to hide the fact that he’s leering over my breasts again.

“Why don’t you and I… see if we can help each other relieve some tension? I have a room booked a few blocks away.”

I bet you do.

“Really? You want to… um…” I bite my lip, knowing what it does to guys like him. As if on cue, his eyes drop to my lips as I lean closer. “You want to head out now? Together?”

Just as an added touch, I smooth my hands down over my lap, and the movement has his eyes dropping to my legs. He places his clammy hand over mine and pats.

“I do. It’ll be fun, baby.”

Baby. Yuck.

I plaster a seductive smile on my face and slide off the bar stool. He stands, but I place one hand on his chest and nudge him back into his seat. I’ve got the evidence I came for, secretly recorded on a hidden camera disguised as a pin badge on my dress. I don’t want to stay a second longer than I have to.

“Oh, I’m sure we can have lots of fun together. Let me visit the restroom quickly first.”

The smooth smile that crosses his face, thinking he has me, sends sourness spreading over my tongue and down my throat.

Cheating asshole.

I know for a fact his name isn’t Greg, as he introduced himself to me. It’s Grant. And he’s a married father of three who works in real estate, whose wife suspects he can’t keep his dick in his pants. And unfortunately, she’s right.

They always are.

Of all the honey traps I’ve done for the agency, not one has ever been a wife, fiancée, or girlfriend being paranoid. Every single man I’ve been sent a brief on has been more than happy to try and persuade me to keep him company for the evening. One even wanted to fly me to the south of France for a weekend on his yacht.

Cheating pigs, every single one.

I cross the bar toward the restrooms, glancing back to make sure Mr. Gas Station isn’t watching me, and then I dart out of the main door and take a quick right, striding along the sidewalk.

It’s late. Later than I would have liked the trap to run, but Mr. Gas Station/Cheating Pig isn’t exactly punctual. The agency told me which bar he goes to after work on a Thursday to hook up when he’s told his wife he’s working late on viewings in the city. I don’t know; maybe before he came to the bar he was showing someone an over-priced shoebox in Manhattan, convincing them they could fit a king-size bed in and still open the bathroom door. Whatever the reason, it means I’m now late. Too late to use the subway and walk the six blocks at the other end to my apartment alone. Mr. Gas Station is costing me money I can’t afford to spend on things like cabs. But I promised Dad I would never walk alone at night this late unless it was somewhere busy. He always drummed it into me and my sister as kids, and my brother, too. But it’s not the same for guys. They can usually walk alone at night without fearing for their safety at the hands of the men around them.

I shake off my thoughts as a familiar tightening invades my chest, then I raise my arm to the traffic. A cab sails straight past me, so I keep walking as I look for another.

“Hey, Julia! Where are you going?”

I halt in the middle of the sidewalk for the briefest second that it takes to register Mr. Gas Station’s voice growing louder from somewhere behind me.

“Julia,” he says again, his clammy fingers circling my forearm and holding me just a little too tight. “You aren’t skipping out on me, are you?”

I dart my eyes to the black car that’s just pulled up alongside us; its rear door already opening as someone exits.

I turn and smile sweetly. “I’m so sorry, Greg.” Grant. Lying cheat. “Something’s come up, and I need to head off.”

“And you weren’t going to tell me before you left?” His fingers haven’t stopped gripping my arm, and the glassiness in his eyes tells me he’s probably had more to drink than I initially thought.

“I’m sorry, it was very last minute.” I place my hand on his wrist and tug my arm free. “Our chat was very special, though, so thank you. Have a good night.”

I turn away, but he grabs me again. “Julia, wait—”

“There you are,” a deep voice booms with more than a hint of irritation in its clipped tone.

I look up straight into fiery eyes. To say they’re amber wouldn’t be quite right, yet they aren’t chocolate or hazel, either. More of a—I narrow my eyes as I study them—smoky quartz. A captivating gray with a hint of gold.

Unfortunately, for all their beauty, I know their owner too well.

“Yes. Here I am.” I give a tight smile, wondering which is the lesser of two evils—grabby Mr. Gas Station, or the owner of the deep voice in front of me.

“And you are?” Grant moves closer behind me, and I close my eyes momentarily, swallowing in disgust as his hot, sour breath hits the back of my neck.

“Reed Walker.”

He leans around me, all expensive cologne and designer suit, somehow maneuvering me at the same time so that he’s now positioned between me and Grant as he extends his hand. The corners of Grant’s eyes pinch as he shakes it warily. With the subtlest pull of his arm, Reed has Grant almost tripping over his own feet as he jerks him closer.

“Your night’s over. She’s coming with me,” Reed says in a slow, commanding voice.

“Julia, who is this jerk?” Grant peers around Reed’s broad frame at me. His shoulder spasms and his left eyes twitches, his hand still firmly wrapped in the tight handshake. Reed, the bastard, is standing cool and unaffected. There’s no question about who is controlling this situation.

Reed tips his chin over his shoulder toward me, the streetlight illuminating his smooth jaw.

“Julia?” He raises one mahogany brow questioningly and lets go of Grant’s hand. Grant immediately draws it in to his body, cradling it protectivly.“Yes, that’s my name.” I shuffle my feet nervously, willing him not to say anything to contradict it. Having an extra evening job as a honey trapper isn’t ideal, but I need the money. The last thing I need is for the agency to replace out that a client discovered my real identity. It’s their biggest no-no. I’ll have my ass fired faster than Grant is willing to drop his pants for a stranger.

Reed turns his attention back to Grant. “I’m Julia’s boss. And we have a work emergency. So, if you don’t mind.”

I glance at Reed, masking the surprise on my face. He’s not my boss. But I’m impressed he thought of that so quickly and is making a fine job of being convincing.

“No, no. Go ahead.” Grant’s voice pitches as he backs away.

He gives my breasts a final, parting leer as Reed glares at him. And then he turns and walks off.

I wait until he’s disappeared back inside the bar before turning my attention back to the man radiating heat like a furnace next to me.

“Thank you, but I was fi—”

Reed turns to me, unleashing the full effect of his glare on me. Golden flecks blaze in his eyes as he stares down at me, his broad frame towering above me.

“Don’t tell me you were fine. Who the hell was that asshole? Why did he have his hands all over you? And do I even want to know why was he calling you Julia?”

He does this. Shows up all the time when I’m busy trying to work at my day job as the PA for Griffin Parker, the owner of The Songbird hotel, New York’s most prestigious hotel, in prime position facing Central Park. But I’ve never seen him when I’m honey trapping. He’s either following me or this is the world’s weirdest coincidence.

I cross my arms over my chest in defiance. “That’s none of your business. And he didn’t have his hands anywhere.”

His jaw ticks, tension taking over his face as strands of his warm brown hair fall forward. “His hand was on your arm.”

I follow Reed’s accusing gaze to the faint red mark that’s fading on my skin.

“It’s nothing.”

“Did you really start doing it?” His eyes are back on my face, and I can feel their heat trying to penetrate me. Trying to unravel me until I spill my secrets.

This is another thing he does. What he’s good at. You don’t get to where he is in politics without a knack for knowing when people are bullshitting you.

I made the mistake of telling him once—so long ago I’m shocked he remembers—that I was considering signing up to a honey trapping agency to help me pay the extortionate Manhattan rent prices. I explained that I could live off the island and commute to work every day, but then I wouldn’t be available as easily at The Songbird if there was something urgent Griffin needed help with. Well, that’s the reason I gave Reed; I couldn’t tell him the real reason I needed the extra money.

He looked so angry when I mentioned it—like he was about to tear someone’s head off.

Kind of like the way he looks now.

“That’s none of your business,” I snap.

“Harley…” He draws out my name so it sounds like a warning. “I thought Griffin gave you a pay increase. Are you that short of money that you have to meet up with jerks like that?”

I roll my eyes and huff. “Griffin might be your best friend. But that’s still none of your damn business. And as my boss, he shouldn’t be sharing things like that with you.”

He doesn’t even flinch, just parts his lips, answering in a beat. “He didn’t. I heard you talking on the phone to your mom last time I came by the office.”

I close my mouth and frown at him.

Nosey ass.

I didn’t use to see much of Reed. He lived in LA, working as the deputy mayor. I would just hear his voice on the other end of the phone whenever he called to speak with Griffin. They are lifelong friends ever since they went to some posh, snooty boys’ school together.

But then the phone calls turned into visits, each one longer than the last. And ever since the New York press went hungry hyena, batshit crazy over a huge scandal at the New York Mayor’s office nine months ago, resulting in the previous mayor quitting, Reed has been around more.

Too much more.

And now he’s running in the election to be the next Mayor of New York. A role, which, if he wins, means he will be around indefinitely. Not that it affects me. I mean, except for when he comes to visit Griffin at work all the time and I hear the two of them laughing in the office when I’m trying to concentrate. Then there’s the fact that he’s currently staying in a penthouse apartment in the private residences tower of The Songbird. A penthouse that my friend Maria, Griffin’s girlfriend, stayed next door to for a while. A penthouse that Maria said had so much wall banging action every night that I wonder whether Reed Walker thought it was his personal mission to test it for its ability to withstand earthquakes. Only using his own dick-ter scale as a measurement of seismic activity instead.

“Harley?”

I blink, realizing that I’m still staring at him, and he’s waiting for an answer.

“What I do with my evenings is none of your concern.” I arch a brow at him. “I could join a group of yodeling nuns and practice my soprano range while wearing a scuba-diving suit, and it would still be none of your business.”

He rolls his lips, and I swear the corner of his mouth twitches.

“That may be so. But you were not yodeling, nor were you with a group of nuns. And you are definitely”—his eyes drop over my pink dress, then back to my face—“not wearing a diving suit. But what you were doing was being felt up by a jerk who wanted nothing more than to take you to a hotel and screw you all night… Julia.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I wasn’t going to go with him.”

“I know that. You have better taste.”

“I was—” I stop as Reed’s backhanded compliment registers. “It’s just work.”

He holds my gaze, his voice hinting at a growl. Just a tiny one. A miniscule rumble, vibrating in the back of his throat. “I don’t like you doing it.”

“Well, it’s not up to you, is it?” I blow out a long breath and break his interrogating gaze to stare up the street. I’m not about to admit to him that I hate it, too. I hate the pretending, the dressing up, the fake flirting, the loose, roaming eyes, hands… morals.

I hate how with each new trap where I meet yet another lying, cheating man, I know that there’s another woman out there with a broken heart, wishing… praying that I’m going to report back that he passed the test. That he didn’t flirt with me, ask for my number, try to kiss me, or invite me back to his hotel. That he’s different.

In more than two years that I’ve been doing it, not a single man has passed.

I guess they wouldn’t though, would they? To get to the point where you’re willing to pay hundreds of dollars to catch out a spouse must mean you’re pretty certain they already are, or have been cheating. A lot can be said about gut instinct and intuition.

Yes, I hate every part of honey-trapping.

Except the money.

The money is the only reason I do it. It fits perfectly around my job at The Songbird. I could do bar work or something like that, but the money wouldn’t be as good. And this—catching cheaters out—seems kind of symbolic, given what happened. A kind of retribution.

The familiar tightening returns to my chest again, and I ignore it as I look back into Reed’s intense stare. He must sense I won’t back down. He doesn’t understand my reasons, and I’m not about to enlighten him. It’s none of his business.

His gaze darkens as his brows flatten. “If it were up to me—”

“It’s not.”

He continues studying my face, and I lift my chin defiantly.

“Right,” he growls, and this time, it’s definitely a growl. “At least let me give you a ride home, Julia.” He tips his head to the black town car waiting by the curb in the same position where he climbed out of it earlier.

I look at the car, then back at him.

“It’s fine. I was about to hail a cab.” I look up the street. There are plenty of cabs driving around Manhattan, as always,but none have their lights on to pick up a fare. They’re all occupied, and I wonder if any of the other passengers have just left a date with a cheating, married man. How many are smiling to themselves about the wonderful night they’ve just had, thinking they’ve met the one? Someone special. Their lobster. Because lobsters mate for life.

At least I know the lines these guys feed me are a pile of crap and I’m not emotionally invested. There’s something worse than a cheat. And that’s a cheat who breaks the hearts of multiple people all at once from their selfish actions. A cheat who not only destroys their own family, but someone else’s too, a cheat who causes—

“It’s late. And you’ll never get a cab right now.” Reed cuts into my thoughts again, and I look up at him. “Please. Come with me. It would make me feel better knowing you got home safely.”

I eye him curiously. “It sounds like you may have actually read the statistics on the city’s crimes against women while on your campaign to take over New York.”

“Let’s say I have. Will it persuade you to take up my offer?” His voice is still the same smooth, deep tone. Only now, the clipped sound of irritation has been replaced by a hint of something else.

Something that sounds a lot like amusement.

“That depends.”

“On what?” His eyes sweep my face as he waits for my answer.

“On whether you’ve also read the statistics of what happens to women who accept offers of a ride home from strange men at night.”

His lips quirk. “That’s tonight’s bedtime reading.”

I give him a small smile, and he smiles back at me. And being this close, I notice for the first time how beautiful it is. It lights up his eyes and brings out dimples, one on either cheek, and if I didn’t know better, it would probably make me go weak at the knees and giggly. Which is what I bet happened to all the women Maria heard Reed ‘entertaining’ through her apartment wall.

It makes sense. Politician. Man-whore. Able to talk his way in or out of anything… or anyone, apparently.

Reed Walker is the definition of a charmer.

Unless your name is Grant. Then he’s probably an icepack on your hand and a lonely drive back to your soon-to-divorce-your-ass wife.

“Fine,” I huff.

I stand back as he opens the rear door for me. As I slide into the cool seat, I inhale his cologne again. It’s like nothing I’ve ever smelled on anyone else but him. It’s both spicy and warm. Thrilling, yet steadying. Like wild adventure and the sanctuary of home all at once.

I bet one of the many women whose name he can’t remember bought it for him.

Months ago, there was a charity gala at The Songbird. Reed came, and I had to share a table with him and his date, among other people. She was all long, gazelle-like legs, and pouty lips. Snapping selfies all night long. I thought I would mess with Reed, so I asked him to introduce me. He bottomed out. Couldn’t remember her name, despite being sat with her all evening, and doing whatever the hell he’d been doing with her before that point to even invite her as his plus one in the first place. I didn’t expect her to throw her drink over him and storm off. I actually felt bad about it afterward. I told Reed I was sorry the next time he visited Griffin at work. But he didn’t seem to care about it. At all.

Maybe that’s how you get by in politics. You have a thick skin and move on. Either that or he didn’t care because he likely had a long list of women, happy to replace her. Happy to escort him home. That’s one thing Maria told me I’ve never forgotten about… the sounds that came from his apartment.

Pure, unfiltered pleasure. Loud, uninhibited, raw.

All sounds very complimentary of Reed Walker.

Reed slides into the seat next to me and leans forward to tell the driver where to go.

When he sits back, his broad shoulders fill the seat. At least his campaign pictures will look pretty around the city once they go up. With his wavy, dark brown hair that he constantly brushes back from his eyes, and a jawline that could cut glass, he’s easily one of the most handsome men I’ve ever met. Not that it means anything. There’s not much that’s a bigger turnoff to me than a man-whore.

Okay, a cheat. Definitely a cheat. Way worse. Like on a scale of one to one hundred, a man-whore would be one hundred. But a cheat would be a million. And then some.

The car pulls out into the traffic and I’m aware of his golden-flecked gaze lingering on the side of my face.

I glance at him. “Thank you for the ride.”

He clears his throat, a small smile twisting onto his lips.

“You’re welcome… Harley.”