Breaking into a ten-thousand-dollar-a-night Greek villa hadn't been in your plans for the day, but plans changed and people adapted, especially when they had clients who insisted on making their life as difficult as possible. Your knees scraped against concrete as you hauled myself onto the terrace ledge and over the railing. If you ruined your brand-new Stella Alonso dress over this, you’d kill him, bring him back to clean up the mess, then kill him again.

Luckily for him, you landed on the terrace without incident and slipped back into the heels you’d tossed over earlier. The heavy drum of your heartbeat followed you to the sliding glass door, where you tapped the master key you’d "borrowed" from one of the maids against the card reader. Breaking in was the easy part. Getting him to another country by sunset was another.

The villa was cool and quiet despite the early-afternoon sun splashing through the windows, and the bedroom was cooler and quieter still. Perhaps that was why, when you walked to the bed and unceremoniously dumped a large bowl of ice-cold water over its slumbering occupant, the speed of his response startled a rare gasp out of you.

A strong hand shot out and grasped your wrist. The empty bowl clattered to the ground, and the room tilted as he yanked you down, rolled over, and pinned you against the bed before the gasp fully left your mouth.

Xavier Castillo stared down at you, his handsome face etched with a scowl. The only son of Colombia's wealthiest man (and your least cooperative client) was usually laid-back to a fault, but there was nothing laid-back about the way his forearm pressed against your throat or the one hundred eighty pounds of solid muscle trapping you beneath him. His scowl relaxed as anger gave way to recognition and a touch of horror.

"Mierda." He spit out the curse and relaxed his hold on your neck so you could get up. "What the hell are you doing here?"