Corrupted: A Scorching Hot Romance

By Cathryn Fox

From New York Times bestselling author Cathryn Fox comes a plan for revenge that quickly turns into a battle against giving in to pleasure!

I never thought a meeting for my upcoming fashion enterprise would lead to me sitting at an auction, watching women of high society strutting back and forth, their company up for bid at exorbitant amounts. Frankly, it just doesn’t interest me. That is, until I see her. Londyn Harding, the little rich girl who stabbed me in the back all those years ago. I will win her, but I can’t forget the rules: no touching unless she allows it.

Now we have a full two weeks together at my chalet in Cannes, and I’m looking for more than just payback. I want answers. Like why someone whose betrayal made her daddy millions would need to sell herself. How she can look so hurt when she’s the one who tore my heart out. And if there’s any way I can get her out of my system without getting too close to her. I’ve been hurt before and I refuse to let it happen again.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Harlequin
• Release date: Oct 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781488062322

Cathryn Fox

I've been reading romance novels for as long as I can remember. I just never thought I'd be writing them. In fact, I graduated from university with a business degree and started working in the Finance Department of Environment Canada...shiver. A few years into my career, my hubby, who's a meteorologist, got posted up north, population 800. I quit my job and went with him. At first all the spare time was great, then I got bored so I started to read. Day and night. When I ran out of books to read I decided to try writing one. After all, how hard could it be. Ha!! Well, you guessed it. It was hard! Many years later I discovered Romance Writers of America and have learned a great deal since joining my local chapter. My journey to publication hasn't been smooth sailing, but with the support and guidance from the wonderful writers at RWAC, it's been a lot easier. And a lot more fun! I'm very fortunate to have a husband and two children who have been supportive in every possible way. On those frustrating days when I'm banging my head against my desk I look up to see a heart shaped sticky note on my computer that says I love you because you naver give up.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Cason

LONG SPLASHES OF purple and pink bruise the night sky as the sun sets low over the Vieux Port. The gorgeous harbor front is busy tonight, compliments of an unusually warm December in the French Riviera. Numerous tourists stand shoulder to shoulder, admiring the luxurious yachts bobbing gently in the warm Mediterranean Sea, while others line up to ride la grande roue, or as we call it back in New York, the Ferris wheel.

The view is picturesque and worthy of a photo, but after spending a week at the International Festival of Creativity, I just want to drive back to my villa, eat something home-cooked and climb out of this suit. Except late-night drinks with one of my longtime designers await me, which is why I’m currently headed for Movida’s, an exclusive gentleman’s club in the heart of downtown Cannes.

I pull up in front of the impressive architectural building and hand the keys over to the valet. Long strides carry me up the aged stone stairs two at a time. As my name is checked off the exclusive invitation list, I catalog the smoky room in search of Luis. His arm lifts in his fashionably cut Luis Laurent original, as he waves me over. I smooth the lapels of my jacket, and admire the extravagance of the drawing room as I make my way across the marbled floor. I circle large white pillars and nod to men of all ages and ethnicities, while they nurse topshelf liquor around rich mahogany tables.

A chuckle catches in my throat as I consider the exorbitant amount of wealth in the room. I’m a long way from the streets of Philadelphia, where my sister and I were tossed around in foster care, oftentimes getting separated. When we were kids, I swore to Peyton that when I got older, I’d make something of myself and would never let anyone or anything tear us apart again. Thanks to Penn Pals, the dating app I created at Penn State University—while I was an undergraduate computer science student—as well as my online clothing business, Hard Wear, I now have the means to create a better life for my sister and me as well as other kids who are unwanted and unloved.

Luis stands as I approach, the lines around his eyes crinkling as he pulls me in for a hug. I bend to accommodate his short stature and pat him on the back. His silver hair has thinned a bit since my last visit, but his smile is just as bright and welcoming.

Nice to see you, my friend, he says in a thick French accent that is as rich and smooth as the man himself.

How have you been, Luis? I ask, as he waves a hand to the seat beside him. I lower myself, and give a curt nod to the others seated around us. They return to their conversations, and it’s clear Luis and I are the only two conducting business in the club this Friday night.

Never better, he says and leans toward me. Shall we get our business out of the way before drinks and entertainment?

I laugh. I do love how you always get straight to the point.

As he reaches into a leather satchel and pulls out a tablet, I steal a glance at the elevated stage. I’ve never been to a gentleman’s club before. They have them in New York, but it’s not really my thing. What is my thing? Hell, I can’t remember the last time I did something just for fun. But I do wonder what kind of entertainment they have in store for the crowd of men tonight. Not that I plan to stay. After days of hard-ass negotiations with other suppliers, I’m dead tired on my feet. Luis powers up the tablet and turns it my way, dragging my focus back to the reason I’m here.

Here is what I’ve worked up for you, he says, and I look over the designs created exclusively for Hard Wear. Money was tight at Penn State and I held down three jobs to save for my sister’s tuition, often wearing secondhand clothes to keep my monthly budget in line. Hard Wear was born out of my personal need for quality, yet affordable clothing. Young professionals who must look their best, but either hate to shop or are struggling financially, now have somewhere to turn. That was my end goal.

Luis takes a big drag from his cigar, and I run my finger over the tablet, sliding it to turn the pages. Impressed at what I’m seeing, I study the specs for the new young casual line I want to introduce to my loyal customers.

These are perfect, Luis. I lift my head to find him smiling at me. You’ve worked up the numbers?

A little higher than you’d like, he explains with a frown. Shipment costs are increasing.

Trust doesn’t come easily to me; it’s one of the first things to go when you’re in foster care. People tell you one thing, only to turn around and do another. I might have learned distrust in the system, but my cynicism was fortified back in college when I fell for Londyn Harding, a spoiled little rich girl from the right side of the tracks. I shared my clothing app idea with her, talked animatedly about it for days on end, only for her to turn around and share it with her entrepreneurial daddy, giving them the jump on the market share. But the man I’m sitting across from, well, we’ve been working together for many years, and I have faith in his designs and his numbers.

He presses a few buttons on his tablet, and presents me with a spreadsheet. I study the figures carefully, and mentally do a cost breakdown. The numbers are higher than I would have liked, he was right about that, but I can work with them. My new line is going to be a hit. After seeing the mock-ups, I’m sure of it.

We could use a different fabric, he explains. But it won’t give your customers the quality they’ve become accustomed to.

We’re a company that stands behind what we promise, I recite. Customer trust is important. Hell, any kind of trust is important to me. Luis nods in agreement. Okay, I say. Send these to me, and we’ll get the contract signed. I hold my hand out and he shakes it. I wish all negotiations were as easy as this one, but when push comes to shove, I don’t back down, which is how I managed to build a multimillion-dollar business before the age of thirty.

Always a pleasure doing business with you, my friend, Luis says and snaps his fingers. A moment later we’re presented with two snifters of brandy. I lift mine in salute and we both take a swig. The amber liquid burns down my throat and I welcome it. I set the glass down, and I’m about to conclude the night when Luis puts his hand on my arm.

You must stay for the auction.

Auction? I look around but find no items being presented. I’m about to ask what kind of merchandise is up for bids, when music filters in through overhead speakers, and an impeccably dressed middle-aged man walks onto the stage, a microphone in his hand. A new kind of excitement buzzes through the establishment and slides over my skin. The hairs on my neck stand as I soak in the vibe. Thanks to survival instincts, I’ve always been good at picking up on other people’s emotions—even though I keep mine close to my chest—and while I’m not sure what’s about to happen, the men in the room are now wide-eyed with enthusiasm.

My body feeds off the excitement, and while I have no desire to purchase anything—I have everything I need—I have to admit, I am intrigued. My brandy glass is refilled and I shift my chair until I’m facing the stage. Whatever items are about to be sold have recharged the atmosphere in the club and every man is sitting up a little straighter, their laser-sharp focus latched on the stage.

Welcome, the announcer says and briefly goes over the rules for bidding. All bids start at five hundred thousand dollars, he says, and the high price tag piques my interest. No one else in the room shows any sign of surprise, however. They’ve all clearly done this before and whatever they’re selling these men are buying, no matter the expense.

The lights dim around us and brighten on the stage as an attractive girl, in her late twenties or early thirties, walks onto the platform. She’s dressed in some kind of lingerie, and her smile is soft, demure almost, as she parades herself in front of us all. Despite her bashful composure, I sense her excitement. Perhaps she’s feeding off the enthusiasm in the room, much like I am. Although I still can’t quite figure out what she’s doing up there. Will she be showcasing the items? I lean forward for a better look, as something niggles in the back of my brain. Why the hell is she so familiar?

Who would like to open the bid? the announcer asks. For two weeks or more Chanel can be your companion, he adds, and I nearly swallow my tongue.

They’re auctioning off women?

You’ve got to be kidding me!

I press back into my chair and turn to Luis, sure I’m mistaken, but he simply offers me a smile.

She’s a beautiful woman, he states, and there is no denying that. Perhaps you’d like to keep her for a couple weeks, or better yet, the entire month of December.

Voices call out around me as the bidding starts, and in seconds the price is well over a million dollars.

Is this legal? I ask as I try to wrap my brain around all this.

He arches a thick white brow. You think this is any different than your Penn Pals app, Cason?

I blink and do a fast comparison. My app was designed to provide a number of services to the women on Penn State campus. We provide male companionship, a bodyguard to protect those walking home after night classes, or simply a date to an event. There was never anything sexual going on. No money was exchanged for bedroom services—contrary to what little miss rich girl’s father, Randolph Harding, presumed and was happy to accuse me of, repeatedly.

This isn’t about sex? I ask.

"Not at all. These women provide companionship. What happens behind closed doors with two consenting adults, however, that is not for me to judge. As long as she initiates it. You may not touch her first, if you do, you void your end of the contract and she is free to leave, payment in full, he says as he gestures to the stage. I follow his gaze. Some of these women are from European royalty, others are models, CEOs, CFOs, but all of them are confident powerhouses, he tells me, and that’s when I realize why this girl looks so familiar. I’ve seen her face in lipstick and other cosmetic ads. Luis takes a pull from his cigar, and waves his hand, like he always does when he’s trying to get a point across. They do it for the excitement, the thrill, but downtime in the hands of a companion who will pamper them, that is nice, too, no?" His chuckle curls around me, followed by a thick ribbon of smoke.

I... I guess I heard about auction houses before, I’ve just never been to one.

Then you must leave with a companion tonight, he says.

I turn back to the stage as the bidding winds down, the woman going to some young billionaire for three million dollars. Truthfully, I’m not looking for any type of companionship. I’ve been screwed over enough in my life, thank you very much. A soft body under the covers might be nice every once in a while, but my bedroom has a revolving door. Sex is for sex and I don’t go out with the same woman twice. Having one underfoot for two weeks or more, well, I wouldn’t know what to do with her. My work is my life, and with the launch of the new casual line later next year, I don’t need the distraction. If I want a woman, I’ll get my own, and make sure the ground rules are clear.

There are rules, he says, and I chuckle. That man is too good at reading my mind.

I’m good, I say. I have some work to do tonight.

He tsks teasingly. All work and no play.

That’s me. I finish my drink, and push to my feet as the next girl is brought onto the stage. I’m about to leave but stop dead in my tracks. The tall pillars before me sway, and I’m certain I must be hallucinating. I blink once, then twice but the image doesn’t change.

No fucking way.

My heart jumps into my throat and I sit down seconds before my legs give. I take a breath, but can’t fill my lungs as the announcer introduces the gorgeous girl as Desiree. Except that’s not her real name. No, that’s Londyn Harding, Penn State’s spoiled rich girl who did me wrong in so many ways. I have no idea why she’s selling herself. I only know one thing.

It’s on.

CHAPTER TWO

Londyn

BRIGHT LIGHTS SHINE on me, making it impossible to see who’s out there bidding. With my luck it will be some ninety-year-old man with one foot in the grave. Not that that matters. I’m not doing this for fun or the thrill of it, like these other women. To each their own, and no judgment on my part. But for me, well, I’m doing it to save my father’s business before he marries me off in some ridiculous merger. I’m a woman for God’s sake, not a commodity he can barter with to better his position for his companies in this turbulent market, and this is the twenty-first century, not the nineteen hundreds. I’m a capable, confident twenty-nine-year-old woman, and I’d be an asset to any of my father’s businesses, if he’d only give me a chance. But no, in his old-world way of thinking, women should be home, doing charitable work while catering to their families. That’s fine if that’s what the woman wants. I just don’t happen to be that woman.

Leave the business to a man, Londyn.

Oh, and why is that, so he can make one bad investment after another and put the entire future of his conglomerate at risk? As his familiar words grate on my nerves, I question my sanity. I should be raising this money to start my own business, instead of trying to save my father’s. Then I’d show the damn fashion industry I was more than Londyn Harding, spoiled, rich brat and pampered daughter of Randolph Harding. I am more than that, yet every time I apply for a job I get turned down, or worse, laughed at. No one takes me seriously. I have a fashion degree from Penn State University to put to use, if only someone would give me a chance and believe in me.

The bidding starts as I walk along the stage, the bright lights overhead warming my barely clad body. While this isn’t my finest moment, no one is holding a gun to my head. I’m here on my own accord, fixing a problem the best way I know how, thanks to Jennie Sanders’ little nudge. She’s a friend, a model, a rich socialite who loves it up here on stage, even though she has access to her trust fund, as well as her own earnings, and can pay for her own adventures. Me, well, I’m on a ridiculous allowance. I’m heavily involved in my father’s charity work, but would rather earn my pay by being a contributing member to one of his businesses. If I was, I bet I could get them back in the black in ways that don’t involve near nudity.

Someone in the crowd bids a million dollars, and a small thrill trickles down my spine. Who the heck would pay a million dollars for my companionship? When it comes right down to it, I’m a nobody. Another man raises it to two, and I push my hair back and smile, urging them on. It works, because soon enough many voices are chiming in. I prance around the stage and give an extra little shake to my hips. Excitement needles through me, and I catch a rush of breath as the energy in the room vibrates along my skin. Only problem is, I’m beginning to wonder what’s really going on with me. Is this all about raising money, or am I prancing for other reasons?

I hate to admit it, but Jennie was right. She told me the second I walked onto the stage I’d enjoy it. Normally I’m not one to flutter under a man’s gaze, and I don’t seek out validation for my personal appearances, but it’s oddly titillating to be the object of so much attention. I almost snort. The last time I was the sole focus of any guy’s anything, I stabbed him in the back. I hate myself for it. I really do. But when I heard all the horrible