The Jilted Ex-Wife's Undercover Billionaire Assistant

The blinding xenon headlights of the Aston Martin flashed, forcing Carlee to throw her hand up to shield her eyes. She squinted through the glare.

The passenger window was rolled all the way down. Braden sat in the driver's seat, one large hand draped casually over the steering wheel. He watched her shiver in the freezing wind, his expression unreadable.

Carlee recognized the sharp lines of his jaw immediately. The champagne buzzing in her bloodstream scrambled her logic, leaving her with a dangerous sense of confidence.

She stumbled forward on her aching feet, her hands gripping the edge of the open window. She leaned down, sticking her head into the car.

She looked at the glowing dashboard and the hand-stitched leather. The three glasses of champagne she had consumed on an empty stomach suddenly hit her all at once, spinning the world on its axis and completely short-circuiting her usual sharp survival instincts. Her brain, swimming in a thick haze of alcohol, adrenaline, and pure exhaustion, immediately concluded that this was a high-end hotel courtesy car, and the valet was assigned to drive VIP guests. "You're the hotel's designated driver for the night, right?" Carlee slurred slightly, leaning closer and pointing a manicured finger directly at his perfectly straight nose. "If the manager catches you slacking off out here instead of taking guests home, you're going to get fired on the spot."

Braden's fingers tightened on the leather steering wheel. A muscle feathered in his jaw as he fought back a laugh at her absurd logic. He didn't say a word.

Carlee took his silence as a confession. She smirked, feeling incredibly clever. She reached down and pulled the heavy door handle.

She dropped into the low passenger seat, tossing her designer clutch into the back. The car smelled like expensive leather and something dark and masculine.

Braden shifted in his seat. He turned his head, his dark eyes burning into the woman who had just brazenly invaded his private sanctuary.

"Where to?" Braden asked, his voice a low scrape against the quiet hum of the engine.

Carlee rattled off the address to her Manhattan apartment. "I'll pay you a massive tip to keep my mouth shut about you stealing the car. Consider it cab fare."

The corner of Braden's mouth curled into a dangerous, predatory smile. He pressed his foot down. The V12 engine roared, and the car shot out into the dark city streets.

The cabin was dead silent. The alcohol made Carlee's skin feel hot and tight. She reached up and pulled at the deep V-neck of her dress, trying to fan herself.

Braden's peripheral vision caught the movement. His eyes flicked to the pale, exposed skin of her chest. His Adam's apple bobbed hard. He reached out and violently cranked the air conditioning down to freezing.

Carlee let her head loll against the headrest. She turned to stare at his perfect side profile. The urge to recruit him flared up again.

"Seriously," Carlee mumbled, her words blurring together. "Why are you parking cars? You should come work for me. We're going to build an empire."

She reached across the center console. She poked her index finger hard into the thick, solid muscle of his bicep.

"You've got a great face," she noted, poking him again. "And you're built like a tank. You'd make a great bodyguard."

Braden's muscle turned to absolute stone under her finger.

He slammed his foot on the brake pedal. The Aston Martin jerked to a violent halt at a red light.

Momentum threw Carlee forward. Before her seatbelt could even lock, Braden's right arm shot out. His thick forearm slammed across her collarbone, pinning her safely to the seat.

For a split second, his body was leaning entirely over hers. Carlee's face was buried against his sleeve. She inhaled a lungful of crisp, icy cedarwood-the unmistakable scent of a limited-edition Creed cologne.

Her foggy brain stalled. Why would a valet smell like a two-thousand-dollar bottle of cologne?

The alcohol quickly provided an answer. "You're stealing the guests' cologne too?" she scolded, pushing his arm away. "You need better professional ethics."

Braden slowly pulled his arm back. His chest heaved. He was fighting a violent urge to pull the car over and show her exactly what kind of ethics he had.

"I will consider your job offer," Braden ground out, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Ten minutes later, the car pulled up to the curb outside her luxury high-rise. Carlee pushed the heavy door open. The blast of cold air sobered her up just a fraction.

She reached into her purse, pulled out a fistful of loose cash, and tossed it onto the passenger seat.

"Report to C.B. Designs tomorrow morning," she ordered, stepping out onto the pavement.

Braden stared at the crumpled bills on his custom leather seats. His eyes were dark voids.

"See you tomorrow, boss," he murmured.

Carlee smiled, extremely satisfied with the title. She turned and walked into the brightly lit lobby.

Braden sat in the idling car until the elevator doors closed behind her. He pulled his phone from his pocket and hit a speed dial.

"Denzel," Braden commanded, his voice cold and absolute. "Forge a complete background history for me. Make me a desperate, broke assistant. Have it ready by dawn."

He hung up. Slowly, he picked up the crumpled bills from the seat, folding them neatly and sliding them into his breast pocket like a prized trophy. His eyes gleamed in the dark.