Liam McLaren: London's most ruthless financial hotshot and the big boss at Ashbury Thornton Equity Group. Just whisper his name and even the city’s toughest traders break out in a cold sweat. And lucky me, Gemma Jones, as the head of HR at his company, I’ve got a front-row seat to the McLaren Show. Brooding intensity, perfectionist demands, and a glare that could stop your heart mid-beat. Every. Damn. Day.

Girl meets a handsome stranger, gets swept off her feet, and has the best night of her life. Sounds like a dream, right? If only... When I wake up the next morning in a stunning penthouse overlooking the Seattle waterfront to a note saying, “have a safe flight back to Chicago,” his message is loud and clear: One and done. Famous last words. Guess who’s waiting to greet me on the first day at my new job? It turns out the mega-rich Asher Kingcaid is far from one and done.

I'm not the kind of girl who has one-night stands. Except...I did. What can I say? After a few drinks with a gorgeous man who made me feel alive for the first time since losing my mom, I was powerless to say no. And I didn't regret it. Not one minute of our hot, mind-melting night together. But he wasn't a forever kind of guy. So I walked away. I wasn't supposed to ever see him again. Then I did. Turns out my sexy one-night stand is Dr. Jacob Mitchell - and he's the cardiothoracic surgeon who just saved my dad's life.

It started out like any other morning on the train - until I became mesmerized by the guy sitting across the aisle. He was barking at someone on his phone like he ruled the world. Who did the stuck-up suit think he was...God? Actually, he looked like a god. That was about it.

Our first meeting was at a nightclub, and it was something straight out of my most romantic fantasies. My ovaries exploded at the sight of the Russian God. And by God, I mean he was ripped, tall, dark, and deadly attractive. There were enough sparks between us to light up a city. Then an explosion blasted through the nightclub, and we got trapped together for three hours, sharing our most personal details...everything but our names. Two years later, our second meeting is the complete opposite of the first. It's clear Misha Petrov, a Russian enforcer for the bratva, despises me.