Delilah adjusted the collar of her blazer, the fabric stiff from too many dry-clean-only warnings she ignored. The downtown penthouse she stood in was a far cry from the duplex she shared with her younger brother. Marble floors, gold fixtures, and a view that screamed, You can't afford me.
She was here to close a deal. Not to be impressed.
"Miss Rivera?" a voice drawled behind her.
She turned---and nearly dropped her tablet.
Hunter Bancroft.
The heir. The face of Bancroft Holdings. The man whose name made headlines and whose scandals made them sell.
He was taller than she expected. Sharper. His suit probably cost more than her car, and his smirk? That was free, but lethal.
"You're the realtor?" he asked, eyebrow raised.
Delilah straightened. "I'm the closer."
Hunter chuckled. "Bold. I like that."
She didn't smile. "I'm not here to be liked."
"Even bolder."
He walked past her, inspecting the space like he owned it---which, technically, he did. But Delilah wasn't about to let that intimidate her.
"I've reviewed the terms," she said, tapping her screen. "If you're serious about selling, I need signatures today."
Hunter leaned against the glass wall, arms crossed. "And if I'm not serious?"
Delilah met his gaze. "Then I'm wasting my time. And I don't waste time."
There was a beat of silence. Then, he pushed off the wall and walked toward her, slow and deliberate.
"You're not like the others," he murmured.
"I'm not trying to be."
"Good," he said. "Because I don't do ordinary."
Delilah's heart thudded once---hard---but she ignored it. She'd dealt with men like him before. Rich. Entitled. Dangerous in all the wrong ways.
But Hunter Bancroft wasn't just dangerous.
He was interested.
And that was the real threat.