Who ever she was, whatever it took, Jude Stone knew he would have his way. He always did. She was dressed in a calf-length, black-sheathed dress, with its broad straps crisscrossing over her shoulders. She filled out the outfit nicely, her ample curves hugging the thin fabric. He drew in a breath of sexually charged awareness at this voluptuous beauty that stood in the middle of the room; totally clueless about the effect she was having on his long-deprived hormones. Her generous bust seemed to strain against the bodice, with its heart-shaped cut and revealed a delicious deep shadow of cleavage. She had to be a 40D, Jude’s well-trained eye decided – and her five-foot frame served to emphasize further her deliciously buxom proportions. He took his time to trail his eyes from the top of her top-knotted hair to her heeled feet, and decided that he hadn’t seen anything so alluring, so utterly desirable, in a long time. “Who is she?” he heard himself ask tersely, cutting through the words of his assistant who was standing next to him.
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