Entry-Level Mistress - By Sabrina Darby Page 0,29

questioning myself. Maybe my method of keeping my head down and working wasn’t working. Maybe to be an artist, to have success, I needed to have more of a persona.

Maybe to be with Daniel I needed to have more of a persona.

Which was a stupid thought because he meant nothing to me.

Sure, with Daniel, flirting, sneaking around at work, playing dress-up and dress-off, I felt powerful. But that was sex, and that didn’t matter in the reality of my life. This time at Hartmann Enterprises with Daniel was a world apart. At some point it would be this dream-like interlude I’d once had. With any luck, it would be a dream tinged with triumphant revenge.

Any other thought of him should sicken me. Because the last thing I needed was to get any attention while I was with Daniel Hartmann.

On Wednesday, mid-afternoon, my phone vibrated with the longest text he’d sent me yet.

My driver will pick you up at seven from your apartment and bring you to the loft. I’m hosting a small party for a friend and want you there. Daniel.

I hadn’t even known he was back yet. It wasn’t until I’d mentally run through all my fashion options that I realized I hadn’t once considered telling him I was busy. Or that I didn’t want to go. I’d grown so used to his high-handed ways that I was simply pleased he wanted me to attend. Tonight, for the first time, I’d meet his friends.

He wanted me to meet them.

Why? Why did he want me, Emily Anderson, daughter of the man he admitted to hating, to be there? It was one thing to have sex, to have an affair, but to take it public in any manner?

What was his game?

Fine, I’d go. And no matter what Tatiana said, I wasn’t afraid of attention.

Besides, I would finally see the infamous loft. The place decorated by his art buyer and ex-girlfriends, the supposedly impersonal showplace intended for the magazine spreads. Seven couldn’t come soon enough.

By the time I spied the Bentley from the window, I was dressed in another outfit from Leanna’s closet, my hair upswept and my makeup flawless. I felt a bit like Cinderella going to the ball. Which suggested Daniel was my prince. Which sent me on a thought path I didn’t want to be anywhere near tonight. Instead, I wished only to do as I had been doing: live in the moment, revel in the experience.

The lobby of the building was shiny, glossy and dizzying. Not entirely dissimilar from the lobby of Hartmann Enterprises, although in a waterfront loft sort of a way. This was the kind of place my art school friends would call fake, because to them, the whole loft, live/work concept was about making new out of old, reclaiming old and deserted spaces. Whatever warehouse had once occupied this space had been torn down, and in its place a very modern, architectural building had been erected.

The attendant peered at me over frameless glasses, scanned a list for my name and then waved me on.

Daniel owned the penthouse, of course. The glass elevator had an incredible view of its own and when it glided smoothly to a stop at the top, a melodious beep announced the floor.

The corridor beyond was all steel and crushed concrete. Bamboo-paneled walls.

Two steel double doors stood open, the inside surface designed and sculpted in a way that made me want to study it closer. But I heard voices from within and stepped across the threshold. The living room, the same one I’d seen in that magazine, stunned, and had a breathtaking view of the harbor. To the left was an open kitchen and in there were a half dozen uniformed men and women whose conversation quieted at my approach. Caterers?

I was about to ask where Daniel was when I saw him step out a doorway and into the hall. In a suit, of course, and so handsome the sight nearly took my breath away. His head turned and his gaze found me.

I smiled and started for him. He didn’t move. Waited there. Watching me. As I came closer, passed through the shadows of the hallway, his features were clearer and I saw that look in his eyes. My whole body responded to it.

“Come here,” he said, reaching for me, dragging me into his arms. The male scent of him washed over me. The touch of his lips on mine was spicy and sharp and the noise he made deep in his