Down on Her Knees by Christine Bell

lavish, an unlit fireplace on the far side of the room with champagne chilling in a bucket of ice by a side table. A couple of chairs nestled close by the hearth.
    And a safe, sitting unprotected near the wide oak wardrobe.
    Her pulse bucked hard in time with every footfall, but she moved as quietly as possible. When she reached the wall, she dropped to her knees and entered the pass code she’d memorized. The lock tumbled beneath her fingertips and the door swung open.
    Well, that was easy. She peered into the safe wishing she’d thought to bring a flashlight, but before she could get a look at the contents, she felt a tug on her ponytail. Soft at first and then with growing pressure as it was used to pull her to standing. A vise gripped her chest, and it was suddenly a struggle to breathe.
    “Here to steal from me, are you?” Rafe’s voice was a low rumble, the thunder before a lightning strike, and she didn’t know whether to be relieved or even more nervous.
    “What? You told me to—” She caught herself. Ah, so this was the game—she was a thief, and he her mark—and she was supposed to play it. It wasn’t hard to imagine. The man before her was a one-eighty from the man who had fed her cotton candy and kissed her on the Ferris wheel the night before.
    One hand was still firmly gripping her hair, but the other had snaked toward her trench coat, pulling her back, flush against the hard, muscled expanse of his chest. Her voice was breathier than she would’ve liked when she spoke again. “I’m certain I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’d appreciate it if you released me at once.”
    His laugh was short and mirthless, sending a frisson of fear through her even as heat collected between her thighs. Damn, he was good at this.
    “You think because you’ve got a pretty face and nice tits that I’m going to let you walk away? Sorry, that’s not the way I do business.” He shoved her toward the bed and she landed heavily on the silken mattress. If it hurt, she didn’t notice. She was too filled with roiling emotions, each competing for center stage. Fear, curiosity, and—to her chagrin—undeniable lust, almost vicious in its intensity.
    She twisted to face him. He towered over her, black pants fitted to enhance the appearance of his strong thighs, chest perfectly contoured beneath a tailored white shirt. A wall of stone. Unbreakable.
    His smile in the dim light was chilling as he stared down at her. He didn’t break eye contact as he raised a hand to deftly remove one cufflink and then the other, speaking while he worked. “If you were a man in my position, Miss…?” He raised his brows questioningly.
    She racked her brain to supply a name despite the riot going on inside her and spit out the first thing that came to mind. “M-Mary. Mary Mack.”
    Her heart tripped when his eyes twinkled, a grin tugging at his lips. She squinted, confused by the sudden change in his demeanor. Then she glanced down at her clothes.
    Yup, good old Miss Mary Mack.
    All dressed in black.
    Her cheeks burned with humiliation as she scrambled into a seated position. Only her second try and she was officially the worst temporary submissive in history. Would he call the whole thing off now that she’d effectively dumped a pitcher of ice water on their steamy start with her unintentional silliness?
    To Rafe’s credit, and her everlasting relief, his eyes went flat in an instant, and ruthless Mr. Welter was back. “Do you take me for a fool, Ms. Mack? Plucking your alias from a child’s nursery rhyme. Do I look like a man to be trifled with?”
    He prowled back and forth at the foot of the bed, never taking his gaze off her as he meticulously rolled each of his sleeves to expose his thick, muscular forearms. She swallowed hard, straightening her posture to meet his gaze head-on.
    “Honestly?” She let her gaze trip over his body lightly and then shrugged. “You look pretty much the same as any other man to