Kept by Him
Chapter One
Monica Davenport’s little problem with intimacy was growing too big to ignore. Relationship to
relationship, she’d helplessly watched the affection every man had ever had for her crumble, then die,
each time she physically turned them away.
She was the darling of Chicago, rivaled only in popularity by Daniel Lexington himself, and at
twenty-eight, she was the proud president of Davenport’s, one of the top luxury cashmere retail chains
in the United States. She was an icon of poise and fashion and yet … the press hadn’t dubbed her the
Ice Maiden for no reason.
She could smile for the cameras, but the truth was, happiness had left her a long time ago.
The day she realized she would never allow herself to love another human being.
Sighing, she excused herself from the group of couples she’d been talking to and wound her way
through the crowded hotel ballroom, her eyes scanning the figures of dark-clad men in search of the
one she had been watching all evening.
The place looked splendid tonight. Soaring marble columns rose to the vaulted ceiling, and the
entire ballroom was dripping in flowers. Fountains sprouted chocolate and champagne while ice
sculptures of nude Venuses gracefully adorned every corner. Hors d’oeuvres circulated on sparkling
silver trays for the lavish patrons and the room was full of subdued laughter as live classical music
wafted in the background.
Like all the other ladies, Monica had dressed in white, a requisite for every female attending the
yearly Black and White Ball. A large pearl bracelet adorned one of her wrists, and she wore the
earrings to match, nine millimeters in size and as lustrous as the day they’d been pulled out of their
shells. Her slender body was encased in a high-end designer dress of crepe lace in a soft ivory color—
not quite white, but close—which had always complemented her eyes, for it magnified their blueness
and contrasted nicely with her long ebony hair, which she’d held back in an elegant little bun.
She’d become quite an expert at playing the part she’d been born to play, and the cool smile that
accompanied her to these events felt like another accessory she must wear. Rarely did anyone get to
see the real Monica. Rarely did she allow her to show.
As she crossed the long expanse of the ballroom, she suddenly spotted him near the terrace doors, in
a group consisting entirely of men. Her heart almost stopped.
His back was to her now, broad and strong, and a kernel of nervousness unfurled within her. Ask
him, a little voice whispered.
“Here,” Peyton Lane said as she passed her a full goblet of wine. “It helps when you have one of
these.”
Peyton Lane worked at the firm who’d taken Davenport’s into the New York Stock Exchange years
ago. The curvy brunette was also known as the woman who’d snatched—and tamed—the city’s most
incorrigible playboy, Luke Preston. The man was so taken with his lady, in fact, that Peyton now wore
an engagement ring—a white, blinding diamond the size of a quarter. “Thanks, Peyton,” Monica said,
graciously accepting the goblet as Peyton playfully lifted her own drink in a mock toast.
Taking a sip, Monica found her eyes sliding back to the figure across the room, and she realized,
judging by the awed, avaricious faces of the two ladies standing to Peyton’s right, that they were
looking at him as well.
He stood next to the famed Luke, whose romance with Peyton had caused quite a stir when everyone
realized the infamous rake was no longer available. That same romance had now crowned the man
beside him as the true reigning billionaire bachelor in all of Chicago.
He was, after all, the Prince of the Windy City.
Daniel Lexington had always been the favorite of the press, and there was no doubt to Monica as to
why.
With his hand thrust into his left pocket, at six foot three, and with his hair a sexy dirty blond with
sun-lightened streaks, he was the perfect embodiment of a Viking in a tuxedo.
He wore the sable suit as though it had been made exactly to his dimensions, the dark material
clinging perfectly to fit his narrow hips and his lean, long legs. Coupled with his perfectly
symmetrical face and a set of shoulders that could bear anything, the man radiated a universe of
success and confidence, his entire being giving out a silent message of wondrously channeled power.
“They say he just says the word, and God obeys,” one of the nearby women whispered.
The group laughed, and Monica smiled and kept her eyes on him, a strange pride and protectiveness
sweeping over her.
Great bloodlines, a fantastic centerfold face, a good heart, and a very, very arrogant presence,
Daniel Lexington carried himself as if he owned you and the planet he was standing on.
Monica Davenport’s little problem with intimacy was growing too big to ignore. Relationship to
relationship, she’d helplessly watched the affection every man had ever had for her crumble, then die,
each time she physically turned them away.
She was the darling of Chicago, rivaled only in popularity by Daniel Lexington himself, and at
twenty-eight, she was the proud president of Davenport’s, one of the top luxury cashmere retail chains
in the United States. She was an icon of poise and fashion and yet … the press hadn’t dubbed her the
Ice Maiden for no reason.
She could smile for the cameras, but the truth was, happiness had left her a long time ago.
The day she realized she would never allow herself to love another human being.
Sighing, she excused herself from the group of couples she’d been talking to and wound her way
through the crowded hotel ballroom, her eyes scanning the figures of dark-clad men in search of the
one she had been watching all evening.
The place looked splendid tonight. Soaring marble columns rose to the vaulted ceiling, and the
entire ballroom was dripping in flowers. Fountains sprouted chocolate and champagne while ice
sculptures of nude Venuses gracefully adorned every corner. Hors d’oeuvres circulated on sparkling
silver trays for the lavish patrons and the room was full of subdued laughter as live classical music
wafted in the background.
Like all the other ladies, Monica had dressed in white, a requisite for every female attending the
yearly Black and White Ball. A large pearl bracelet adorned one of her wrists, and she wore the
earrings to match, nine millimeters in size and as lustrous as the day they’d been pulled out of their
shells. Her slender body was encased in a high-end designer dress of crepe lace in a soft ivory color—
not quite white, but close—which had always complemented her eyes, for it magnified their blueness
and contrasted nicely with her long ebony hair, which she’d held back in an elegant little bun.
She’d become quite an expert at playing the part she’d been born to play, and the cool smile that
accompanied her to these events felt like another accessory she must wear. Rarely did anyone get to
see the real Monica. Rarely did she allow her to show.
As she crossed the long expanse of the ballroom, she suddenly spotted him near the terrace doors, in
a group consisting entirely of men. Her heart almost stopped.
His back was to her now, broad and strong, and a kernel of nervousness unfurled within her. Ask
him, a little voice whispered.
“Here,” Peyton Lane said as she passed her a full goblet of wine. “It helps when you have one of
these.”
Peyton Lane worked at the firm who’d taken Davenport’s into the New York Stock Exchange years
ago. The curvy brunette was also known as the woman who’d snatched—and tamed—the city’s most
incorrigible playboy, Luke Preston. The man was so taken with his lady, in fact, that Peyton now wore
an engagement ring—a white, blinding diamond the size of a quarter. “Thanks, Peyton,” Monica said,
graciously accepting the goblet as Peyton playfully lifted her own drink in a mock toast.
Taking a sip, Monica found her eyes sliding back to the figure across the room, and she realized,
judging by the awed, avaricious faces of the two ladies standing to Peyton’s right, that they were
looking at him as well.
He stood next to the famed Luke, whose romance with Peyton had caused quite a stir when everyone
realized the infamous rake was no longer available. That same romance had now crowned the man
beside him as the true reigning billionaire bachelor in all of Chicago.
He was, after all, the Prince of the Windy City.
Daniel Lexington had always been the favorite of the press, and there was no doubt to Monica as to
why.
With his hand thrust into his left pocket, at six foot three, and with his hair a sexy dirty blond with
sun-lightened streaks, he was the perfect embodiment of a Viking in a tuxedo.
He wore the sable suit as though it had been made exactly to his dimensions, the dark material
clinging perfectly to fit his narrow hips and his lean, long legs. Coupled with his perfectly
symmetrical face and a set of shoulders that could bear anything, the man radiated a universe of
success and confidence, his entire being giving out a silent message of wondrously channeled power.
“They say he just says the word, and God obeys,” one of the nearby women whispered.
The group laughed, and Monica smiled and kept her eyes on him, a strange pride and protectiveness
sweeping over her.
Great bloodlines, a fantastic centerfold face, a good heart, and a very, very arrogant presence,
Daniel Lexington carried himself as if he owned you and the planet he was standing on.