By: Kim Karr


They each had a plan.

They knew what they were doing.

Until love got in their way.

Purity engenders wisdom, passion, avarice,

And instills ignorance, folly, infatuation, and darkness.

~Cyril Connolly



noun: purity

1. Freedom from adulteration or contamination. “The purity of our drinking water.”

Synonyms: cleanness, clearness, clarity, freshness; more sterility, healthiness, safety. “The purity of our tap water.”

2. Freedom from immorality, esp. of a sexual nature. “White is meant to represent purity and innocence.”

Synonyms: virtue, morality, goodness, righteousness, saintliness, piety, honor, honesty, integrity, decency, ethicality, impeccability; innocence, chastity. “They sought purity in a foul world.”



The first time I laid eyes on Gemma Hart, I knew I wanted her.

The second time I laid eyes on her, she belonged to another man. He literally owned her. I hated the very thought.

I wanted her to be mine.

Even though I knew I shouldn’t, I couldn’t help but watch the way she swayed her hips when she walked in my direction, raised a brow when she pretended not to notice me, get excited over the way her skin prickled whenever she got close.

I turned her on.

Thinking about her like that wasn’t part of the plan. Getting addicted to the way she arched beneath me wasn’t part of the plan. Caring about what happened to her was definitely not part of the plan.

F*ck me.

Now my plan has to be altered. I can’t allow her to get caught in the crossfire. She has to leave, but she insists on staying. She has a secret—a reason she allows herself to belong to that obnoxious prick. She won’t tell me what she’s hiding unless I tell her why I need to know.

I can’t do that.

There’s another way to get what I want—a little game of cat and mouse. And I’m an excellent hunter. Her leaving is for the best. This isn’t love. It can’t be.

Or that's what I keep telling myself.


The first time Caleb Holt strode into the room, I was certain I knew his type. A man too gorgeous for his own good, he was sexy, brooding, and so full of himself, I thought he could easily be fooled.

I was wrong.

Those brilliant green eyes followed me everywhere. I swore he could see into my soul, read my determination, uncover my secrets with just one glance.

It worried me.

I should have stayed away from him, but I couldn’t fight the searing desire that flowed through my veins and the burning passion that coated my skin.

I didn’t really want to.

Before him, I had a plan to get back what was taken from me. The cost was irrelevant. Now I’m not sure I can sell my soul to the devil because I fear it belongs to him. The problem is, he has a plan of his own, and I can’t risk his plan taking priority over mine.

Not even for him.

Not even for love.

So game on.

Chapter 1

Art School Girl

Gemma Hart

MY BLOOD SUGAR starts to spike as I take another sip from my second can of soda and anxiously await the unloading of a very famous art collection.

The minutes are ticking by so slowly I can barely stand it.

I’ve drained the can, and I’m about to reach for a third when at long last my phone finally beeps. I have so much nervous energy, I almost jump out of my seat.

Reading the message, I breathe a sigh of relief. The text confirms it. “Everything is back on schedule.”

Thank God.

After a day of maddening, inexcusable delays, the driver must have received the same alert because without delay, the armed truck’s locked door finally rolls up.

Restricted to the confines of my car, I open my window and watch as the brown paper wrapped paintings are carefully handed one-by-one to the six-man team standing on the ground.




With white knuckles, I clench the steering wheel and practically hold my breath until the very last painting is removed from the dark confines of the truck.



They are all there.

When the heavy metal door slams closed, I start to feel a little giddy—like I actually accomplished something that for quite a while seemed impossible.

I lurch forward in my seat as the last works of art are carried into the makeshift, secure holding area.

When the final painting is no longer in my sight, I’m a bit crazed.

All I can say is what happens next is one-hundred percent out of my control. I arranged and organized the transportation of the works. Now, he’ll either allow the event or he won’t. I can’t do anything more than I have.

I put my palms together and pray.

It’s not that I’m religious, but who knows, maybe it will help.

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