“How’d you get this number, princess?” Sean Jones growled into his iPhone.
The naked supermodel lying next to him in bed murmured her annoyance and rolled over, presenting him with her back.
The woman on the other end of his private line was going to be the frickin’ death of him. Literally, figuratively, every which way there was.
“I advised your office I had an emergency,” the plummy, aristocratic voice of Veronica Hardwicke crooned into his ear. “I need you out here at once, Mr. Jones.”
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