A Little Too Hot

A Little Too Far - 3

by

Lisa Desrochers

To my husband, Steven, for turning out to be more amazing than I could have ever imagined.

Acknowledgments

ONCE AGAIN, MY  most heartfelt thanks goes to you, my readers, for taking the twisted journey to self-discovery with my poor, tormented characters. And to all the fabulous bloggers who have fallen in love with this series and helped spread the word, I am forever in your debt. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Thanks to my family, who has been an endless source of support and encouragement. My husband, Steven, is a rare gem. When we met in the basement of his fraternity house all those years ago, I knew he was hot, but I never imagined there was a heart of gold beating beneath that beautiful exterior. This isn’t the first book I’ve dedicated to him, and it won’t be the last. Love you.

I have been blessed with the most incredible group of publishing professionals in my corner. My omnipotent über-agent, Suzie Townsend, is a bona fide rock star. Amanda Bergeron is one of the kindest, most patient people I have ever met, and the fact that she’s my editor has made this process (even the hard parts) a joy. And everyone behind the scenes at New Leaf Literary and HarperCollins have made everything A Little Too easy for me, so that I can focus on my writing. I owe them all a bigger thanks than I can ever deliver.

To my amazing Harper NA sisters, Jay Crownover, Cora Carmack, and Jennifer L. Armentrout, thanks for paving the way, ladies, and for all your support!

And, once again, because my muse is a wannabe rock star, I need to send a shout-out to the musical inspiration for this book. My A Little Too heroes are all so different, and so is their musical embodiment. With his cowboy boots and warm-honey drawl, Harrison was primarily inspired by Brett Eldredge’s “Don’t Ya.” Sam grows a lot in this story, and that evolution is most embodied by Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger.” And all things Bruno Mars are the underlying theme of the entire book.

Chapter One

A COOL APRIL drizzle pricks my face as I stand in the poorly lit parking lot of the Fremont Pharmacy with my roll-away suitcase. I’m picking at my cuticle and trying to figure out how everything I touch lately seems to turn to shit, when Jonathan’s black van rolls up to the curb. He quirks a pierced eyebrow at me in the rearview mirror as I wrestle my suitcase into the back next to Kevin’s drums and slam the door. I climb into the passenger seat and yank my seat belt. It yanks back and I growl in frustration as I fling it at the window.

“I did not say ‘fuck you’ to that lady! I said thank you.” I toss my hands in the air. “She was there to buy hearing aid batteries and they’re taking her word over mine!”

Smoke curls up from the tip of the cigarette pinched between his thumb and finger as he takes a drag and drops the van into gear. “The customer’s always right.”

I pull the seat belt more slowly and click it, then thunk my head into the headrest a few times. “Just put a big red stamp on my forehead. ‘Samantha West: Failure at life.’ Washed up at twenty-one.”

His tongue pokes at the labret through the corner of his lower lip as he fights a smile. “You’re not really a failure at life. Just most aspects of it.”

I drop my head against the headrest as he pulls away from the curb. “Thank you very little, Jonathan. You sound like my mother.”

“So . . . you called, I came. What now?” he asks, flicking a glance my direction as he weaves through city traffic toward the highway.

From the way his tousled dark hair is flat on one side, I know I probably woke him up with that call. “I was hoping I could crash with you till I figure everything out?”

I don’t add that might take a while. Since my parents threw me out last month, I’ve had this sinking feeling that maybe they’re right. Maybe I am a total fuck-up who will never amount to anything. I just never thought, after a lifetime of Mom micromanaging my very existence, she’d give up on me so easy.

I’ve been staying at my best friend Katie’s since then. It was okay while she was home on break, but when she left to go back to school for spring quarter, it got weird. For the last few weeks her parents have been dropping less-than-subtle hints that it might be time to go, which all came to a head yesterday. I left a load of laundry in the dryer, and when I remembered to check it, it was gone. I found it folded neatly into my suitcase in the guest room with a note inviting me to leave.

Jonathan’s eyes scrunch. “Listen, Sam. You know if it was just up to me you’d be in, but Kevin has been kind of pissed that you’ve crashed there so much without paying rent.”

Jonathan is front man for a local indie band, Hell’s Gate, and I met him almost a year ago when Katie took me out to help me forget about my cheating boyfriend. It worked. Jonathan always brings a groupie home from his gigs, and the night we met, that groupie was me. But we have an understanding now.

It’s been a party pretty much every night since then, though, either after hours at whatever bar he’s playing or at his place in Oakland after a gig—which is really why I flunked out of school. It’s hard to haul your ass out of bed for eight o’clock class when you just fell into it at four. Especially when said bed is at Jonathan’s apartment in Oakland, which is over an hour from school.

Kevin is Jonathan’s drummer and apartment mate—and the one guy in the group who’s never liked me. Probably because he made a play and I shut him down.

“I sleep in your room. It’s not like I take up space or anything.”

He takes a drag off his cigarette and flicks the butt out the window as he exhales. “Yeah . . . about that. You remember Ginger?”

“Yeah . . . ?” She’s a groupie who started showing up at our after-hours’ parties about a month ago.

“We’re kind of together, so . . .”

“No way!” I crack a smile. “You are not becoming a one woman man!”

He shrugs as he takes the ramp onto the highway. “For now.”

I shove his shoulder. “Hearts are breaking all over northern California.”

When I first saw Jonathan onstage, I thought he was gay. I mean, it was San Francisco, and he was just so pretty. Not only does he have gauges in his ears and jewelry all over his face (and other places, I discovered), but incredible blue eyes and ink on almost every square inch of skin. I found out later that night that he was definitely not gay, but as far as I know, he’s never brought home the same girl twice.

“So, what’s your general plan?” he asks. “I mean beyond the crashing at my place phase?”

“I need a job,” I answer, banging my head against the headrest again.

He glances at me and pokes at his labret with his tongue. “If you’re serious, I know Ben is looking for someone.”

“Ben? At Benny’s?”

Benny’s is a club in San Francisco where Jonathan sometimes fills in for the DJ, Big Pete.

He nods and flicks a glance my way as he weaves through traffic. “One of his girls is knocked up. He’s looking for someone new. You’re definitely qualified,” he says, his gaze flickering over my body. “It’s good money.”

“Benny’s?” I think about that and a terrified little thrill moves through me. “I’ve never danced like that before. I wouldn’t even know what to do.”

“You have the moves. The guys can’t keep their eyes off you when you’re on the floor at my shows.”

“But it’s a strip club, right?” My stomach tightens at the thought of dancing in a g-string in front of a roomful of horny men. And if Mom ever found out, it would totally prove to her what a fuck-up I am. “I don’t think I could do it.”

“It’s not a strip club. It’s a totally legit gentleman’s club. Dancing only. No stripping and no extracurriculars, if you catch my drift. He keeps it squeaky clean because he can’t risk getting it shut down.”

“Why would he get shut down?”

He cuts me a glance as he changes lanes. “Jaime works for him.”

“Oh.” Jaime is Jonathan’s connection—not that he’s into anything hard. Pot, mostly, and sometimes some coke.

He shrugs. “I know Ben would hire you on the spot.”

I slouch deeper into the seat. “I’ll think about it.”

A minute later he passes his Oakland exit without even slowing down.

“Where are we going?” I ask, sitting straighter and craning my neck back at the exit.

“Benny’s,” he says, shooting me a sideways glance. “If I’ve got to break it to Kevin that you’re crashing at our place, I’m gonna tell him you’re paying rent. But if I tell him that and you don’t, he’s going to expect me to make up the difference, which—sorry darlin’, as much as I love you—there ain’t no way I’m gonna do.”

“What do you think he’ll charge me?”

He negotiates the maze onto the Bay Bridge. “I pay nine, so . . .” He shrugs.

I feel my eyes widen. “Nine hundred?”

He huffs a laugh. “No. Nine dollars.”

“Would I make enough at Benny’s to cover that?” I ask, chewing my cuticle.

He laughs again. “If you work out, yeah. Those girls rake it in.”

Jonathan gets off at the first San Francisco exit over the bridge and winds us through the city streets. When we get to Benny’s, we circle the block a few times and luck into a spot less than a block from the club. He cuts the engine and we pile out.

As we get closer to the club, I can hear the pound of a heavy bass rhythm. It’s shaking my bones from the ground up before we ever reach the door. Jonathan saunters past the short line to an enormous bouncer with a bald head, sunglasses, a dark bushy beard, and behind it, a neck as thick as a tree trunk.

Jonathan holds his fist up for a knuckle bump. “Marcus, my man!”

“W’sup, J man?” Marcus says, bumping him.

“This is my friend, Red,” he says, urging me forward with a hand on my back. “She’s going to be dancing here, so you look after her, ’kay?”

Marcus gives me a quick once-over and doesn’t laugh out loud, which I take as a good sign. His eyes flick back to Jonathan. “Nora’s gonna kiss you for bringin’ her tonight.”

Jonathan pulls a face and starts tugging me toward the door. “Fuck, I hope not.”

The pulse of the music makes the place seem almost alive when we step inside. It caresses my body and makes me want to move. The entrance is at bar level, which is the same level as the three stages across the room. But between them and the bar, down three stairs in the center of the place, is the pit. The tables down there are mostly full of people, drinking and shouting over the music, and I’m surprised that there are as many women there as men. It doesn’t seem at all seedy either. It could be any other club in the Bay Area . . . if you ignore the writhing blonde on the stage up front.

My palms go clammy as I watch her. She shimmies down and lets some old guy tuck a bill into her cleavage, then smiles at him and gives him a grind of her hips as she stands. There are a few more bills hanging out of the low waistband of her white lace hot pants. Her loose white men’s button-down shirt isn’t actually buttoned, but rather tied in a knot around her rib cage just below her boobs, and it’s obvious she’s not wearing a bra. She looks freshly fucked, like she just crawled out of some guy’s bed, which I’m betting is her gig. But as I watch, I’m relieved to see that she doesn’t seem to be taking anything off as she waggles around the small stage.

We weave our way around the mezzanine to the DJ booth, and Jonathan gives Big Pete a bro hug: two sharp claps on the back, then break.

“Red!” Big Pete says. He holds up his fist to me and I bump it. “Good to see you.”

I hate that nickname. It’s so spectacularly unoriginal. But when I first started hanging out at Jonathan’s, one of the guys—I don’t even remember who—liked my auburn hair and started calling me Red. It stuck, so now that’s my name as far as any of them know. There’s another girl they call Thumper because of the sound she makes against Jonathan’s bedroom wall, so it could be worse.

Big Pete came by his nickname honestly too. He’s a mountain of a person. He also likes to live large, so that might be some of it.

“Why are the side stages dark?” Jonathan asks, gesturing to the blonde on stage.

Big Pete holds up his hands in an “I surrender” gesture. “Nora’s pitching a fit. She was already short one, and now she’s got girls calling in sick. It’s bad, bro.”

Jonathan shoots me a grin. “We might be able to help her out.”

“No fucking way!” Pete says, his eyes widening. He gives my shoulder a shove. “Red here wants to dance?”

Jonathan smiles and holds up his fist. “Fucking way, man.”

Big Pete bumps it with a grin at me.

“We gotta go find Ben,” Jonathan says. “He in his office?”

“Last I knew.”

“Later.”

We head to the back, and when we get to the bar, Jonathan flags down the bartender. “Two doubles. Jack Green,” he shouts over the music, holding up two fingers like a peace sign, then turns to me. “Ben is pretty cool. When he asks you if you have any experience, tell him the truth. Honesty and loyalty are his big things. As long as you’re straight up with him, you’ll get along fine.” He shakes his head. “Never try to fuck with him, though, ’cause I swear that guy has a built-in bullshit detector.”

The bartender’s back with our drinks. “On your tab, J,” she tells him, setting them on the bar.

He lifts his shot glass to her in a salute and winks. “You’re the best, Gina.”

“To making the rent,” I say, holding up my shot in a toast.

“Damn straight,” Jonathan answers with his signature boyish grin.

We knock back our shots, and Jonathan slams his glass on the bar a microsecond before me.

He grins. “You’re slacking, Red.”

I pull my hair behind me and twist it into a knot behind my neck. “My mind’s not really in the game, if you know what I mean.”

He reaches up and brushes a strand out of my face. “Nervous?”

I glance up at the blonde on stage as she swings around her brass pole. “Yeah.”

“C’mon,” he says, slinging his arm over my shoulders, then shepherding me through a door next to the bar.

I’ve only been to Benny’s once before, when I came with Jonathan to pick up his check. The club was closed and I waited up front, so I’ve never met Ben. All I really know about him is that he owns this club. I guess I’m expecting some gangsta guy, with jeans around his knees, dripping with gold chains. But when Jonathan knocks and opens the door to his office, I see he’s not that at all. He’s behind a big wooden desk, leaning back in a black leather office chair. There’s a glass wall looking out over the club, which I realize, from the other side, is that big mirror behind the bar. He looks up at us with a phone pressed to his ear and waves us in.

He’s probably fortyish and reasonably hot for an old guy. His white button-down is open at the collar and rolled up at the cuffs. The tails are loose over dark jeans. His black hair is slicked back and he’s got three deep creases across his forehead over thick eyebrows and intense brown eyes.

“Yeah . . .” he says into the phone. “I’ll take care of it. And let me know about those Giants’ tickets.” After a pause, he grins. “I know. Who woulda thunk. Thanks, Ron.” He disconnects and stands. “Jonathan.”

“Hey, Ben,” Jonathan says, reaching for his outstretched hand and shaking it. “This is my friend Sam West.” He tips his head at me. “She needs a job, and I knew you were short girls. Thought you might have a spot for her.”

There’s nothing soft in Ben’s gaze as it rakes over me, and there’s no lust. He’s all business, looking me over like a car he’s thinking of buying. After a second he nods at the sofa next to his desk. “Have a seat.” He drops into his chair and swivels it toward us as we take seats on the sofa. “Have you ever danced professionally, Sam?”

I shoot a panicked glance at Jonathan. “No.”

“Then what makes you think you’re qualified for this job?”

I glance at Jonathan again and he nods encouragingly, but doesn’t jump to my aid. “Well . . . I’ve always liked to dance. And I think I’m okay at it, so . . .”

His gaze sharpens. “You need to be pretty damn sure you’re more than ‘okay at it’ if you’re going to stand half dressed on a stage in a crowded room and really sell it, my dear.”

A woman slips through the door and closes it behind her. She flips the pen out from behind her ear and slashes a line across the small notepad in her hand. “Brittany just called in sick. I’ve already got Izzy covering, and I’ve called everyone else and none of them can come in.”

Ben hangs his head and gives it a doleful shake. “Why is it so hard to find reliable help?”

“Sorry, babe,” she says, tucking the pen back behind her ear. “But it means we’re down a girl tonight.”

Ben lifts his head and looks at me. “You think you’re ‘okay at it,’ huh?” he says with a quirk of one thick eyebrow.

“She is,” Jonathan answers from next to me. “Totally hot,” he adds when Ben pins him in his gaze.

Ben’s eyes shift to me. “Fine. We can try it for tonight. You’re probationary. That means any screw-ups, I send you home on the spot with pay only. No tips.”

“Can I ask . . .” I hesitate and flick a glance at Jonathan. “What is the pay?”

“Minimum wage,” Ben answers, leaning back in his chair and weaving his fingers together over his stomach.

I feel my face scrunch into a wince, but I can’t stop it. There’s no way I can make nine hundred in rent on minimum wage.

“The tips here are great, Sam,” Jonathan interjects, reading my mind.

I look at him.

“The house takes sixty percent of everything you earn on the stage, part of which goes to the DJ,” Ben says with a nod at Jonathan, “and to our bouncers. The rest is yours.”

“So, that’s like . . . ?”

Ben looks a question at the woman, who’s still standing in the door.

“Averages about three hundred take-home,” she says. “Weekends can be as much as a grand.”

My mouth falls open. “A night?”

She tips her head at me in warning. “For our best girls, yeah.”

Ben stands. “Sam West, meet my wife, Nora. She manages my stage. She’ll get you set up.”

I look back at the woman. She looks older than Ben, and rougher around the edges. Her bottle-red hair is clipped back in a messy bun, and though her clothes look like they could be expensive, she’s too skinny to wear them well. I never would have guessed they were married.

She tucks her notepad into her back pocket and pushes the door open. “Come on, girlie. Let’s get to work.”

Chapter Two

I SHOOT AN anxious glance back at Jonathan as I follow her out of the room. He gives me a reassuring smile and a wink.

The next door down the hall is the dressing room, I find out when she leads me through. To my left is a row of vanity tables so littered with tissues and cosmetics I can hardly see the mirrors. In the middle of the room is a black sofa, and the back wall is lined with white cabinets. The room is lit by flickering fluorescents and smells of a musty mix of sweat, hair spray, and cheap perfume.

“So, ground rules,” Nora says to me as we step inside. “This is not a strip club. We’ll find you a costume that works and it will stay on your body the entire night.”

“Good,” I say.

She looks me over and nods. “Good. Because that’s been a problem in the past.”

I feel my eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Some of the girls figure out they get bigger tips if they flash the guys a little tit, but we’re not that kind of club.”

“Good,” I say again, relieved.

She nods and moves to a closet on the back wall. “Also, there’s no touching. They can slip tips into your costume, but if anyone gets inappropriate, Marcus and Devin will be on them like white on rice.”

“Marcus and Devin?”

“Our bouncers. That’s why you share your tips with them. They’ve got your back at all times. At the end of your shift be sure to ask one of them to escort you to your car or the bus stop or whatever.”

I nod.

She reaches into the closet and pulls out a hanger with a white flapper-dress-looking thing, beads dangling in long strands all over it. “Try this.”

I look around for a dressing room when she makes no motion to leave, or even turn around. “Here?”

She nods. “You need help?”

“Um . . . no. I can get it.” I turn my back and pull my T-shirt over my head, then start to slip the dress on.

“No bra,” Nora says from behind me. “Your job is to titillate. That works better when there’s a little tit involved. We never show them, but a little jiggle is a good thing.”

I unhook my bra and slide it off my shoulders, then slip the dress on. It’s super tight, and the neckline drops in a sharp V all the way to my belly button. The hem barely covers my ass.

“Drop your skirt.”

Until this moment I would have defined my favorite little black skirt as short, but it hangs a full four inches below the hem of this costume. I shimmy it down my legs and step out of it.

“Turn around,” Nora says.

I turn slowly, afraid to move too fast for fear of either my boobs or my ass falling out of this dress.

“Lift your arms.”

I only get them halfway up before my left boob springs free from the low neckline. I cringe and quickly tuck it back in, folding my arms over my chest.

“Oh, no, girlie,” she says with a shake of her head. “You are way too much for that costume.” She moves back to the closet and pulls open a drawer. “See if you can find something in here.”

I step up to her side, my arms still tight over my chest, and peer in. There are a lot of feathers and sequins, and every shade of nylon, satin, and microfiber you can imagine. It all looks super tacky. I dig to the bottom and see something black. I pull it up and unfold it. It’s a tiny satin halter vest with a tuxedo collar and three brass buttons up the front. “This is kind of cute.”

“Try it on,” Nora tells me.

I move back to the sofa and pull the dress off over my head, then slip the halter on, adjust the collar, and button the front. The top button is just below my boobs, and the bottom one is just above my belly button, so my belly ring shows in the V at the bottom of the vest. It’s super tight, so it enhances my cleavage, but I feel fairly secure in it, like the girls aren’t going anywhere.

“Cute thong,” Nora tells me, and I remember I’m not wearing my skirt. I look down to see which underwear I put on this morning. My strappy red thong—super comfortable microfiber. Functional and sexy. I never dreamed at the time I slipped it on that I’d be standing in it in Benny’s dressing room. But when life throws you curves . . .

Nora hands a pair of black satin shorts over my shoulder. “When you put these on, let the straps of your thong peak over the top. The guys’ll think that’s sexy as hell.”

I pull the shorts on and zip the one-inch zipper. They sit so low on my hips that letting the straps of my thong show isn’t going to be a problem. My butt is totally hanging out the back, just like the blond girl I saw dancing on the stage earlier.

“Oh, girlie. That is so hot,” Nora croons, a grin on her face and dollar signs dancing in her eyes. “All that black really makes your red hair and green eyes pop. They’re going to be creaming their shorts the minute you set foot on that stage.”

“Great.” I’m shivering from nerves even though it’s got to be a hundred degrees in there.

“You need accessories.” She pulls open a different closet, in which I see racks of wigs and hats, and boxes of boas and costume jewelry. She pulls a black bowler hat with a red satin band off the rack. “This is perfect,” she says, plunking it onto my head. “Simple and classic.”

“If you say so,” I say, straightening it on my head.

She pulls the next closet open and there are shelves of shoes. “What size are you?”

“Um . . . six, usually.”

“Hmm . . .” she says, looking over the selection. “Not sure what we’ve got that small.”

I look over the rack and don’t see anything with less than a five-inch heal. I pick a red shoe up and turn it in my hand, and suddenly I’m wondering about my health insurance. Have my parents cut that off too? Does Ben carry workman’s comp? Because one thing I know for certain is that I’m going to break every bone in my ankles falling off these things if I try to dance in them.

Nora pushes a few pairs of platforms aside and unearths a pair of black pleather lace-up thigh boots with spiky heals. “These,” she says, thrusting them at me. “They’re a seven, but they’ll be totally hot with that costume. You can cram a little toilet paper in the toe if you have to.”

She pulls open a drawer and hands me a red garter belt and black nylons. “Put these on under your shorts, then we’ll get those boots strapped on.” She prods me toward the sofa in the middle of the dressing room, and I slip my shorts off, hook the garter belt around me, and smooth on the nylons. She helps me clip them onto the garters, and when I slide my shorts back on, she shoves me into the sofa. I pull the boots on and they actually feel okay even without any toilet paper in the toe. It takes about a day to get them all laced up, but when I finally stand, I’m surprised at how secure my ankles feel in them. Maybe I won’t actually break anything after all.

“Take a look,” she says with an eyebrow wiggle and a grin, flipping the closet door closed so I’m reflected in the full-length mirror.

And, holy shit. I am totally sex incarnate.

“Last but not least,” she says, dragging me to a makeup table. “Your face.”

I sit at the vanity for the next ten minutes while she slathers layers of foundation and eyeliner and blush all over me. And then we’re ready.

Adrenaline floods my bloodstream and causes my heart to race at a coronary-inducing pace. I’m really doing this. I’m going to go out on stage and dance, wearing this. Honestly, the adrenaline is mostly from nerves, but partly from anticipation too. This could be super hot. I get to live out every woman’s fantasy of being the bad girl, for just a little while.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts and blow out a breath.

“No backing out now, girlie. Let’s go,” Nora says, prodding me toward a door in the back of the room that I didn’t even notice before. It leads to a long, narrow hallway lit with flickering fluorescent tubes. We pass a door on the right, and the farther up the hall we move, the more the wall to my right vibrates with the pound of the heavy bass of the music on the other side of it.

“I’ve got Stephanie on the center stage and Izzy on the right, which leaves the left for you,” she says, stopping and laying her hand on a doorknob. “Remember, this is no different than selling anything else. If you want to score big tips, you need to move around the stage—show them what they’re buying. Move toward the edge of the stage for your tips often enough that you look approachable. Some of them will be a little intimidated by you, so smile and make a lot of eye contact. Most of them will want to put the money on you, which is fine, but as soon as that tip’s in your shorts or your top, move away. If you linger too long, they might get the wrong idea and try for more.”

Ohmygod. What was I thinking? All my adrenaline-charged blood rushes out of my head and I feel dizzy as I think about horny guys trying to cop a feel.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” I tell her, trying not to hyperventilate, but I’m shaking so hard my teeth chatter, and I almost bite the tip off my tongue.

She opens the door and prods me through. “If you know how to dance, you can do this.”

Hot, humid air slaps me in the face, and my whole body feels suddenly moist. The thin white curtain in front of me actually shakes with the pounding rhythm of the music. But my heart’s pounding even harder.

There are two other girls, I tell myself, who are going to be way better at this than me. Everyone will be watching them. It will be fine.

It will be fine.

Breathe.

I glance back at Nora, who nods at me and closes the door between us. Tentatively, I lift a hand and slip my fingers through the part in the curtain. The place is packed—much busier than when Jonathan and I came in an hour ago. Every table in the pit is full. There’s a crowd packed around both of the other stages and along the rail over the pit at bar level. There has to be at least a couple hundred people here.

I force my fingers to unclench, and take a breath to calm the shaking, then step through the curtain onto the stage. The other two are lit. I’m in the dark. So far so good. I reach up and slide my hat down over my eyes. I close them and sink into the music. My hips start to sway and the rest of my body follows as I lose myself in it. I can do this. Just concentrate on the music. That’s the key. I’m just dancing, like at any of Jonathan’s shows.

“We have a special treat for you tonight,” Big Pete’s voice purrs over the music. And that’s when I realize he’s lowered the volume. I tip my hat up and see Nora in the DJ booth with him, grinning at me. “In her virgin appearance on the stage, please give your biggest Benny’s welcome to the scandalous, salacious, sensual, seductive, Sam!”

He draws out all the esses, and, at the instant he says my name, a blue stage light flips on and blinds me. I stagger back a step and lift my arm to shade my eyes, but I still can’t see shit. Big Pete cranks the music again, and my eyes start to focus well enough to see there are guys beginning to gather at the edge of my stage.

Shit. I can’t do this.

I stand here literally quaking in my boots, frozen like a deer in the headlights, for what feels like the better part of the rest of my life. But then, as my eyes adjust, I see Jonathan leaning on the rail near the bar, looking across the pit at me. He raises his beer in a salute, then blows me a kiss.

I’m at his show, I tell myself. Just do what I do there.

I close my eyes and let my body pick up the pulse, feeling it move through my hips and shoulders. Gradually, my shaking slows as I let the music caress me from the inside out. I settle into the rhythm and my body responds like a lover to the music’s touch. I start to move again, swinging my hips at the will of the steady beat.

When it’s calmed me enough that I can breathe again, I open my eyes. Around my stage is a small crowd of mostly middle-aged guys. My heart is racing in my chest as I dance my way closer to the edge of the stage, toward a heavyset guy holding up a bill. I remember how Stephanie shimmied down and let someone slip a bill into her cleavage. I try to do the same thing, but it feels super awkward, so I give up and just squat down. He tucks the twenty into the waistband of my shorts, and I stand and dance around to the other side of the small stage, where another guy is holding up a ten. Once he’s tucked it into my top, I shimmy out of reach.

Maybe this isn’t so bad. Thirty bucks in five minutes. I haven’t fallen off my shoes, and no one’s made a grab for me. Maybe I can do this.

There’s a pole in the middle of my stage, and I press my back against it and grind my hips in a circle as I slide lower, spreading my knees as I wriggle down so my heels meet my butt. I lift my arms and grasp the pole above me, pumping up and down a few times before sliding back up. And all of a sudden there are at least a dozen twenties being waved at me from the edge of the stage. So I guess the pole is a big hit. I work my way around the stage collecting my tips, and just as I’m shimmying back to the pole, I see him.

Sitting at a table by himself, two rows back from the center of my stage, is Trent. His eyes catch on mine and my heart stalls in my chest.

Because the last time I saw him, he was breaking up with me.

Chapter Three

WHAT THE HELL is he doing here?

I squint through the glare of the lights. He’s cut his hair shorter, and he’s in a button-down as opposed to his typical T-shirt, but it’s got to be him. The strong lines of his face, the way he crosses his sculpted arms on the table, leaning onto his elbows and accentuating his muscled chest, the angle he holds his head . . . it’s all so Trent.

I realize I’m not moving when someone yells from the front of my stage something about shaking it, and I start dancing again, but I suddenly feel totally disconnected from my body. I yank my eyes away from Trent and focus on the guys around my stage, more of whom are now waving money.

How did he know I was dancing here? I didn’t even know I was dancing here until an hour ago.

My heart pounds in my throat and I ache inside as if it’s happening all over again. I’d loved him forever, and in a heartbeat it was over.

And now he has the balls to show up here and rub it in my face.

I feel all that anger I felt the night he broke up with me swell inside and take control. He wants a show? I’ll give him a goddamn show. I’ll show him just what he threw away.

I let the slow rhythm of the music seep into my bones as I stalk toward him. A few feet from the edge of the stage, I plant my feet wide and drop down, then roll up slowly, snaking my hands over my calves, my inner thighs, my bare stomach, my breasts, then overhead, where I twist them into my red mane, knocking my hat off. And all the time, my hips work the pulsing rhythm. I stomp to the beat for maximum jiggle as I make my way back to the pole and lean my back against it. I work one hand down my curves, slipping over my satin shorts to my inner thigh. I grind my pelvis in a circle, letting my fingers settle over the V at the top of my legs for a beat, then glide my hand back up to my breast, then to my hair, where I twist my fingers into my waves.

And then I have sex with Trent right here on the stage.

I roll my hips to the rhythm of music that’s now a part of me, and imagine myself straddling him in his seat. It’s only when one song segues into the next that I realize I’m totally on the brink of getting myself off right here on the stage, in front of all these people. I open my eyes and find a pile of money along the edge of my stage.

I drop to my knees and catch my hat in my teeth, then crawl toward the edge and sweep the money up, tucking it into my hat. I slap it back on my head and undulate my way back to my feet. Marcus moves closer when one of the drooling guys at the edge makes a grab for me. Over his head, I catch Trent pushing out of his seat.

My racing heart beats faster as he stalks through the crush of bodies, like a prowling animal, and comes out on my left, away from most of the crowd. His mouth curves into a cocky smile as he holds a bill between his index and middle fingers.

I sashay over, and it’s only as I waggle down to his level, where I intend to spit in his face, that I catch all the details I couldn’t see from a distance through the glaring stage lights.

It’s not Trent.

This guy is slightly older, maybe mid-twenties, and built, but not quite so muscle-bound. And where Trent’s hair is the color of milk chocolate, with eyes to match, this guy’s hair is more sandy brown, and his eyes are pale blue.

He reaches up to slip the hundred into my top and his gaze liquefies my insides and turns my legs to jelly. He arches an eyebrow at me in a question. I lean in, wanting with every fiber of my being to know what he’s asking. He gives me the hint of a smile, and, as his fingertips brush the bare skin of my breast, my blood boils.

Damn, he’s hot.

His pale pink button-down is open at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, and I can’t help noticing those strong hands. The image of them on my body forms unbidden in my mind, sending a shudder rippling up my spine. His face is striking, with strong cheekbones and a square jaw, and there’s blondish stubble on his chin and cheeks that I’m dying to touch. I bet it’s soft.

He gives me a wink and turns for his table, confidence wafting off him like cologne. I close my eyes and tip my head back, intoxicated by the whole encounter.

And that’s when I remember what Nora said. Don’t linger too long.

Whoops.

I’M COUNTING OUT my tips in the dressing room when Nora comes in. “Nice show, girlie. Never seen a rookie work it quite like that.”

I shrug. “I was inspired.”

“Well, I hope you’re still inspired, because you’re not done yet.”

“I’m going back out?” A little thrill skitters my skin into goose bumps, despite the heat. Between the money and the rush of being on stage, I think I’ve found the job I was truly meant for. I come totally alive on that stage. And even after my sixty percent to Ben, I’m taking home almost four hundred dollars in tips tonight.

Plus, if he’s still out there . . . All the muscles in my groin contract at the thought.

“No, you’re not going back out,” Nora says, and disappointment sinks in my gut like a stone. “But you have a private.”

“What’s a private?”

“A private dance. Ben has a VIP room for more discerning individuals who prefer the discretion of a private show. You’ve been hired.”

I feel suddenly dizzy as the blood runs out of my head. “What do I have to do?”

She cracks up—a smoker’s cackle, all rough and throaty. “No, girlie, it’s not what you’re thinking. It’s the same rules as out there,” she says with a flick of her wrist at the door. “They pay two hundred for a half an hour. You get a hundred, Ben takes the rest. No touching, keep your clothes on at all times, and never get closer than three feet. The cops are always snooping around, looking for a reason to shut Ben down. Break the rules, you’re gone. It’s that simple.”

I look at my huge mound of tip money and decide I’m not going to break the rules. Ever.

She holds out her hand for my stash. “Ben will hold that for you till you’re ready for it. You don’t want to leave it sitting around in here. We’re family, but a stack of cash is just too tempting.”

I hand it to her and follow her up the hall to Ben’s office. He glances up when we walk it. “That was some show,” he says to me with an appreciative nod toward the window.

“You saw?” I say, feeling my cheeks warm.

He gives me a cool look I’m not quite sure how to read. “I see everything.”

Nora hands him my money. “She’s got a private.”

For the first time, the corner of his mouth lifts into a half smile. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Nora turns and I follow her back past the dressing room to a door across the hall near the end. “Remember, same rules,” she says, her hand on the knob. “If he wants to tip you, it’s all yours, but he can leave it on the table. Never closer than three feet. There’s no bouncer in there, so it’s for your protection. And when I say no touching, I mean no touching. Sometimes they want to jack off, but that’s another hard and fast rule. If they want to touch themselves, they have to wait until they’re off the premises. There’s a panic button on the back wall near the stereo, which will get Marcus there in a heartbeat. And the door doesn’t lock, so you can always just walk out if there’s any inappropriate behavior.” She looks at me. “You ready?’

“So, all I have to do is dance.”

“Absolutely,” she says with a sharp nod.

I breathe deep. “Yeah. Ready.”

She pushes the door open and I walk in. The room is dimly lit by a single torch lamp with a red shade in the corner. A fan whirring on the ceiling dries the sheen of sweat on my skin, sending goose bumps skittering over my exposed flesh. There’s music playing in the background, a slow Bruno Mars song, and along the back wall is a red velvet sofa.

There’s a guy on the sofa, and when I see who it is, my hammering heart stalls.

Chapter Four

HE STANDS, AND  that cocky almost-smile pulls at his perfect lips as his eyes, the pale blue of glacial ice, eat me alive.

“Hi,” he says in a deep voice, and another ripple of goose bumps pebble my skin. His pink button-down is tailored, accentuating the taper of his wide shoulders and chest, down to a narrow waist. The tails are loose over faded jeans that fit him perfectly. And on his feet are a pair of well-worn square-toed cowboy boots.

I glance back at Nora, who gives me an, “Okay?” tip of her head.

I nod and she shuts the door. I turn back to Hot Guy. “I guess I’m supposed to dance for you?”

He settles back into the cushions and lifts an eyebrow. “Unless there’s something else you had in mind.”

Oh, God. He has an accent that makes my insides go gooey. It’s not really a southern twang. It’s just something about the way the words sort of meander off his tongue—smooth, like plush velvet dripping in warm honey. And hot as hell.

“I’ll just . . . dance, I guess.”

Between my sweating palms and the fact that I’m about to hyperventilate, I feel like I’m back in high school . . . like it’s that first conversation with Trent. The way he carries himself, his easy confidence—this guy reminds me of him so much. But what he has that Trent doesn’t is a layer of sophistication over all that hotness. From his tailored clothes, to the sexy stubble on his face, to the way the left side of his mouth pulls into the hint of a secret smile, as if he knows things—it’s just so worldly.

“You do that,” he says, his eyes flickering over me, the heat in them warming me from the inside out.

I spy the stereo in the corner and stumble over to it, turning up the music. I close my eyes and start moving with the rhythm. But I’m acutely aware that I’m alone in a room with the hottest man I’ve ever laid eyes on. And he’s here for the sole purpose of watching me move . . . Which makes it really hard to move.

I turn my back to him and swing my hips to the slow melody, but I’m still not feeling it. I look over my shoulder and there’s an amused expression on his face, like he’s trying not to laugh. I spin and cross my arms over my chest, glaring down at him, pissed that someone I don’t even know can make me feel this stupid. “Is something funny? Please share.”

“No,” he says, eyes wide and hands in the air, all feigned candor. “By all means, continue.”

“You know, if you harass me, I can just walk out of here and you don’t get your money back, right?”

That smug, oh-so-sexy smile tugs at his mouth again as he rests his arms across the back of the sofa, pulling his shirt tight across his chest and making something tingle deep in my belly. His eyes rake over every inch of me, and after a long minute, he stands from the sofa and moves toward me, the same slow stalk that he used in the club earlier. But as he gets closer, I back away.

“There’s a three feet rule,” I warn.

His feet stall and his eyebrows arch. “Three feet rule . . . ?”

“You’re supposed to stay three feet away from me.”

He tips his head at me. “Do you want me to stay three feet away from you?”

No. “Yes.”

He catches his lower lip between his teeth for a second, disappointment clouding his eyes. “All right, then,” he finally says, backing toward the sofa. He settles into the cushions.

I just stand here, not sure whether we’re done or if he still expects me to dance.

“Sit,” he finally says after a long, awkward minute. He pats the cushion next to him.

I move to the far end of the sofa, which is just about three feet from where he’s sitting, and perch on the edge.

“I’m Harrison,” he says.

“There’s no touching,” I say, looking at his outstretched hand.

He stifles a smile and nods, pulling back his hand. “I’ll settle for your name, then.”

“Sam.”

“Short for Samantha?”

I nod.

He leans toward me, elbows on knees. “So . . . I was told you might be able to hook me up.”

My heart skips. “Hook you up?”

He taps the side of his nose and sniffs, giving me a “You know what I mean” tip of his head.

“Oh!” It’s actually a relief he’s looking for coke. “Um . . . no. Sorry.”

“You’re sure?” he asks, giving me a look. “I’d share.”

“A friend of mine can probably get you anything you want. I could ask him after my shift, if you want.”

He settles into the opposite corner of the sofa and looks at me a little funny. “How long have you worked here, Sam?”

When it becomes clear that he’s not going to try to jump me, I’m simultaneously relieved and disappointed. I glance at the clock on the wall. “About five hours.”

His eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Wow.” He drawls out the word, like that’s in some way disappointing. “I never would have guessed based on your performance out there. It was . . .” He trails off and makes the “mind, blown” gesture with his hands at the sides of his head.

“Big Pete said it was my virgin appearance,” I say, afraid he’ll ask for his money back for the private, “so you were warned.”

“I came in after you started, so I guess I missed that.”

Even so, he must not be a regular, or he’d know I’d never danced here before. “So you don’t come here very often?”

He shakes his head. “Never been here before.”

“Why did you come tonight?”

He laces his fingers behind his head and tips it back, staring at the ceiling and blowing out a breath. “To take my mind off some things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Woman problems.” He lowers his head and rubs the back of his neck. “Thinking about it now, it’s occurring to me coming here to watch hot women dance probably wasn’t the best strategy.”

“You have a girlfriend?” Ignoring the cramp in my stomach isn’t as easy as I hope it’s going to be. I lower a hand to my belly and press.

“Had. A fiancée, actually.”

“Had,” I repeat.

He lifts his eyes, but not his head, peering at me out from under some of the longest lashes I’ve ever seen. “She left me standing at the altar a few weeks ago.”

His aloof confidence is gone, replaced by a vulnerability I never would have guessed at. But instead of making him pathetic, it makes him so much sexier. There’s at least twenty seconds where I forget how to breathe. I can’t imagine what kind of person would leave this—one of the most perfect examples of the male species I’ve ever seen—standing at the altar.

“Wow. Sorry.”

He shrugs, trying to play it off, but he can’t totally hide how deep it cuts. “Shit happens.”

“Tell me about her.”

He sinks back into the cushions. “You really want to talk about this?”

I get up and turn down the music. “Yeah.”

“I have to say, this is the last thing I expected when I walked in here.”

I settle onto the sofa, closer than I was before. “What did you expect?”

There’s an amused glint in his eyes. “Me. A private room. The most devastatingly gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. That doesn’t seem like a recipe for pouring my heart out about my ex.”

Electricity ripples under my skin. I shudder, and hope he doesn’t notice. What I really want to say is, “You think I’m devastatingly gorgeous?” But what I say instead is, “You don’t have to talk about it if it makes you uncomfortable.”

He leans in a little, and I wish it was more. “I get the feeling you’re a good listener.”

“I am.” I could listen to that lazy drawl all day.

That almost-smile curves his lips again, but this time it’s shyer. “You seriously want to hear this?”

Maybe my motives aren’t exactly pure, because I really want to know what type of woman it takes to snare this guy’s heart, but I do. “Yeah.”

He looks at me a moment longer, then blows out a breath and rubs his neck again. “I’ve loved her forever.”

“How long is forever?”

His eyes lift to mine. “We met freshman year at UCLA, so eight years.”

“That is forever.”

“We had statistics together and the prof put us in the same group for our midterm project.” His mouth pulls into the hint of a smirk, and it’s a totally sexy look on his strong face. “She was a math geek, which was just so damn hot.”

Well, that’s a first.

“One thing led to another and we’ve been together ever since.” He shakes his head as his jaw clenches. “I just never thought . . .”

I shift closer. “So . . . what happened?”

He drapes his arms over the back of the sofa and his fingers brush my shoulder, sending my heart beating just a little bit faster. “She said I was married to my job and she wanted someone who would put her first.”

I swing sideways and tuck my knees up in front of me, pressing my shoulder into the back of the sofa, just an inch from his hand. “What is this job you’re supposedly married to?”

He hesitates, his gaze flickering over my costume and lingering on the deep V of my neckline. “I do set locations for a movie production company. There’s a lot of travel,” he adds, waving an arm at the room.

My heart kicks. “Seriously?”

He nods.

“I’m a film and media major at UC Santa Cruz . . . or I was, anyway. Who do you work for?”

There’s a second where he just stares at me, but then he flashes me that smug smile. “An indie production company. No one you would have heard of. What do you mean, you were a film a media major?”

Am I ready to tell this person who I hardly know what a fuck-up I am? But then I realize if I’m never going to see him again, who better?

“I flunked out last quarter, which sucked because I’d finally found a major I liked.”

His eyes widen slightly. “How many majors did you have?”

“Three.” I tip my head into my hand and rub the pink out of my cheeks. “I was asked to leave two others. But that wasn’t really a bad thing, you know? I started in math because that was always my strongest subject in high school and Greg, my stepdad, said there’d be lots of employment opportunities.”

“Math,” he says pensively.

He reaches for a lock of my hair with the hand that’s still on the back of the sofa and rubs it between his thumb and index finger. I try to pretend like the gentle tickle on my scalp isn’t doing things to totally unrelated parts of my anatomy. When my eyes find his face, there’s something reflective in his expression, and that’s when I remember that he just said how hot his fiancée being a math geek was.

“Math,” I answer, even though it wasn’t a question. “But I missed a lot of class first quarter. I ended up on probation and never really got off.”

“Why did you miss so much class?” he asks, still playing with my hair, and I decide, as long as his fingers stay on the technically dead parts of me, we’re really not breaking Ben’s rules.

But it’s super distracting. “What?”

“You said you didn’t go to classes first quarter,” he reminds me, his gaze becoming deeper and more liquid.

“Um . . . I guess I sort of partied a lot. My parents are kind of control freaks. Mom especially. She micromanages my entire life and second-guesses every decision I make. All we ever do is fight, so . . .”

“So, when you were out from under her, you did what you wanted for a change,” he finishes for me.

I nod. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Understandable, but not terribly forward thinking.”

I narrow my eyes at him, but I don’t pull away, because more of his fingers are playing with my hair now, and I don’t want him to stop. “I went to class after that . . . mostly.”

“Then why did you fail out?”

“My boyfriend broke up with me and . . . I guess I started partying harder and forgot to go to class again.” I cringe as it’s coming out of my mouth. I know it’s lame to blame Trent. “So, you’re not from around here?” I add to change the subject.

His fingers stall in my hair. “I’m on a location scout. I volunteered because I needed to get the hell out of L.A. for a few days.”

“L.A. . . . that’s where you live?”

He nods. “Santa Monica.”

“But you’re not from there originally.”

He looks a question at me. “How would you know that?”

“Your accent.”

His mouth pulls into half a smile. “Thought I’d shaken that.”

“So, where are you really from?”

“I grew up in Texas.”

“That explains it,” I say. What I don’t say is how hot it is . . . the way certain words take their time sliding off his tongue. It makes me want to sit and just stare at his lips as he tells me all his secrets. “How long are you here?” It comes out a little desperate, which is stupid, because it doesn’t matter whether he says a day or a month. I’m never going to see him again after tonight.

“Just a few days. I leave Saturday morning.” He lowers his gaze. “My ex is coming for her stuff this week. She’ll have moved out by the time I get back.”

“I’m really sorry.” The sudden urge to make him forget all about the woman who broke his heart is overpowering. I want to crawl into his lap and run my fingers over that beautiful face. I want to kiss away his hurt. Hurt I understand.

As if he read my mind, his fingers tighten in my hair . . . a gentle tug that becomes more insistent as he pulls me closer. My heart beats hard against my ribs and my breathing goes a little shaky as I realize what he’s preparing to do.

It’s crazy, but I want to let him do it. I met him less that thirty minutes ago but I want so much to kiss him. We’re just inches apart and our breath mingles, sending a shudder through me to my core. I lick my lips and tip my face up, and my heart stalls when his fingers thread through my hair and cup the back of my head, drawing me closer.

Chapter Five

THE KNO CK ON the door sends me flying. I leap off the sofa as it opens.

“Time’s up,” Nora says, peering through the crack.

I look back at Harrison, who’s still on the sofa, looking a little stunned.

“So . . .” What? What do I say? Not, “This was fun,” or “See you later.” Instead I say, “Thanks . . . I guess.”

He stands. “Thank you. This was nice.”

“Nice,” I repeat, rolling that over in my head.

Nora reaches in for my arm and starts tugging.

“Okay, well . . .’Bye,” I say as she drags me through the door and closes it.

“This isn’t the Dating Game, girlie. No pleasantries required. When your time’s up, you just leave.”

I cringe a little. “Sorry. I’m not very good at this stuff yet.”

She gives me a look, then leads me back to the dressing room. “When you’re done changing, check in with Ben. He’ll have your tips sorted.”

“What do I do with my costume?” I ask, plucking at the tuxedo collar of my vest.

“Leave anything that needs to be washed in the bags in the corner. We send it out so it’s ready for you when you come in tomorrow.”

“I’m coming in tomorrow?”

She pulls the pen out from behind her ear and scratches her chin with the end of it as she looks over the notepad that always seems to be in her hand. “We’re open Tuesday through Saturday. I’ve got you on center tomorrow.”

I nod and close the door. When I confirm I’m alone, I let out the giddy scream I was restraining and do a little happy dance. “Yes!”

Twenty minutes later I walk from Ben’s office into the club with $546 in my pocket. Apparently, Hot Guy Harrison left a fifty on the table in the VIP room for me. Adding quickly in my head, that comes out to three hundred and fifty bucks he dropped on me tonight. It leaves me wondering how much set guys for movie production companies make.

It’s after last call, so the stages are dark and the bar is emptying out. I catch my eyes sweeping over what’s left of the crowd, looking for him. I don’t see him, but I see Jonathan. He’s on a bar stool, grinding against the blonde standing between his spread knees who has her tongue halfway down his throat. A blonde who’s not Ginger. This is why I don’t see him settling down anytime soon. He’s amazingly pretty, and girls throw themselves at him—same as I did. He just doesn’t have it in him to resist.

As I step up next to him, I notice the two double shots of Jack on the bar in front of him. I clear my throat and tap him on the shoulder. “You want some Ginger with that shot?” I ask.

He unsuctions his face from the blonde, who glares past him at me as he turns to look over his shoulder.

“Red!” He drops the blonde and spins his stool to face me. “Holy shit! I know we said we’d never do the nasty again, but that performance really made me second-guess my decision.”

I shove his shoulder, and he’s just drunk enough that I nearly knock him off his stool. He knows I was on the rebound the night we slept together. “Get over yourself. You weren’t that good.”

“Jon,” the blonde behind him whines.

He glances over his shoulder at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Oh. Hey. So, my friend’s here. You can take off now.” He turns back to me and lifts his glass. “To hot redheads who can fuck an entire room from the stage, and make every guy feel like it was just for him.”

I roll my eyes and we shoot. This time I beat him by at least half a second.

Behind him, the blond skulks off as Gina pours us another shot.

IT’S NOON WHEN I wake up on Jonathan’s sofa. I pick up my phone and scan my texts, same as every morning, but so far nothing from Mom. It’s warped, I know, but I’m so used to her to-do lists every morning that, as much as I hated them, and usually didn’t to the things on them just to spite her, I miss them. I think about calling her, but what would I say? I’m not going to beg her to let me come home. Doing so would show her that I can’t take care of myself. It would prove her right.

My gut tightens in that way it always does when I think about our last conversation. I remember how disappointed she looked when she told me she was done with me. But the kicker? Apparently I’m a bad influence on my eight-year-old brothers. God forbid I should corrupt the golden boys. She gave me twenty-four hours to get out and that was that.

If nothing else comes of this, I want her to see that I’m not a waste of space. I don’t know if it’s retribution or redemption that I’m after. All I know is that either of them will prove her wrong about me, and that’s all I really care about.

I push the blanket Jonathan gave me when we got home last night to the side and sit up. Last I remember, he and Ginger were in his room, fighting. She was here waiting for him when we got home at sometime after three, and she was super pissed. Can’t say I blame her. They were screaming so loud when I finally turned off the light and went to . . . sofa, I can’t believe I actually fell asleep. But as I sit here trying to shake off my hangover and wake up, it becomes glaringly apparent Ginger didn’t make good on her threat to rip Jonathan’s dick off because, based on the rhythmic knocking of his headboard against the wall, he’s clearly using it at the moment.

I drag myself to the kitchen and start the coffee, then stand here staring at the pot until a full cup has dribbled into it. The heating plate hisses as I yank the pot out from under the drip and pour the contents into my mug. I’m holding it to my face and burning my mouth on the sweet nectar when Jonathan’s door clicks open.

I look up, and wish I hadn’t, because the only thing he’s wearing is his extensive ink, and the condom he’s in the process of peeling off as he crosses to the bathroom. And I’m suddenly feeling like I’ve made a huge mistake. Do I really want to live here with a guy I’m not dating, but I’ve already seen naked more times than his mother ever did?

Ginger stumbles out of the room behind him in one of his band T-shirts, her spiky white-blond hair looking how it always does—just fucked—and her black eyeliner smudged, giving her a distinct raccoon look.

“Hey, Red,” she croaks as she staggers into the kitchen. She makes a beeline for the coffeepot and pours a cup. I hold out my mug and she refills it, then I shuffle out to the sofa and curl into the corner, cradling my mug to my chest and breathing in the steam so no caffeine escapes.

Jonathan comes out of the bathroom in a pair of jeans that he probably left on the bathroom floor last night. “Kevin wants nine hundred,” he says as he drops onto the sofa next to me.

“A month?” I ask, my eyes bugging out of my head.

He nods.

“To sleep on his sofa?”

He nods again.

“But aren’t you paying nine hundred?”

“Yep.”

“So, if I’m paying nine hundred, and you’re paying nine hundred, what’s he paying?”

He shrugs.

I roll my eyes as Ginger comes out of the kitchen with her mug and a granola bar, sitting on my other side. “Jon says you got a gig at Benny’s.”

“Yeah, for now. Jonathan got me hooked up.”

She gives Jonathan a “what the fuck?” look. “You brought her to that flesh pit on purpose?”

He holds up his hands as if surrendering. “Hey, she needed a job. I got her one.”

I scrunch my face. “If Kevin’s going to charge me nine hundred a month to sleep on this sofa, I’ve got to sock away some cash.”

“Yeah, well . . . if it were me, I’d tell Kevin to go fuck himself,” she says. “And I can help you find a real job, if you want. One that doesn’t involve pandering to the lowest common denominator and endorsing the double standard.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” I say. But then I remember the stack of cash in my bag. “You know . . . I think I’m going to stick with this for a while and see how it goes. But, thanks.”

“Whatever,” she says. “And, if Kevin’s seriously charging you nine hundred, you definitely need to find a new place to live. There are a hell of a lot better places than this for that kind of money,” she adds with a flick of her eyes at the apartment.

I burrow deeper into the sofa and sip my coffee. “Well, if you hear of any, let me know.”

“You got it,” she says, then leans in and presses her shoulder into mine. “But as long as you’re living here, can you do me a favor and remind Jonathan to keep his dick in his pants?”

“I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything.”

“My dick was in my pants all night,” Jonathan protests, “until you took it out.”

I don’t mention the blonde at the bar because, technically, I don’t think he’s lying.

Ginger cuts him a look, then pushes up from the sofa. “I gotta get ready for work.” She takes her coffee and disappears behind Jonathan’s door.

“Speaking of work, when do you go back?” Jonathan asks.

“Tonight. Nora put me on center stage.”

Jonathan sits up a little straighter. “Are you shitting me?”

“Um . . . not as far as I know. Why?”

“You just need to watch your back. Center usually goes to the girls with seniority. There are a couple of them who are going to be pissed.”

The truth is, I’m not nearly as excited about going back tonight as I thought I’d be, and I know why. Dancing for Harrison got me hotter than I want to admit. There’s something about the way he watched me on stage—like I could actually feel his gaze—that was totally erotic. It’s depressing to think about going back there and not having him in the room for inspiration.

Ginger struts out of Jonathan’s bedroom, now fully dressed, and I do a double take. She’s in heels and a cropped black jacket over a green silk blouse and black pencil skirt. Her makeup is minimal and her hair is freshly gelled.

“Try not to fall dick first into anyone today, honey,” she says with a syrupy smile, and blows Jonathan a kiss before vanishing through the front door.

“Where does she work?” I ask Jonathan, staring after her.

“She’s a paralegal for the ACLU.” He flashes me that boyish grin. “Hot, huh?”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Jeez, Jonathan. Didn’t know you were into older women.”

“Yes you did. You’re older than me and I’m into you,” he says, nudging his elbow into mine.

“Only by a few months.”

He shrugs. “She’s hot. I don’t discriminate.”

I suck down the rest of my coffee and hand him my empty mug. “She knows you too well.”

He takes it and goes to the kitchen to pour me a refill. “She just thinks she knows me too well. She really doesn’t know shit, because I haven’t screwed anyone else in the month we’ve been official.”

I roll my eyes. “You know grinding against fake blondes in bars counts, right?”

“Why should that count? If I was jacking off in the shower, would that count?” he says, coming around the corner to the living room with a beer in one hand and my mug in the other.

I shrug. “If you were making sense, maybe I could answer that question.”

“It’s the same thing,” he says, handing me my cup and dropping into the sofa.

I roll my eyes. In order to argue with him, I’d have to untangle his twisted logic, and that’s just too hard this early in the afternoon.

We curl into the sofa and watch the Doctor Who marathon, reciting all the best lines, until it’s time for me to get ready for work. I’m surprised when he follows me out the front door.

“You don’t need to come tonight, you know. I’ll be fine.”

He grins. “I’m not going for you. Or,” he adds with a smirk, “I guess I am. I’m even going to stay sober tonight . . . at least until you’re done—just so I know I’m not imagining how hot you are up there.”

I roll my eyes but don’t fight him. I’d rather have the ride than take the BART.

When we walk in, Jonathan heads toward Pete in the DJ booth, and I head for the dressing room. I push through the door and find a black girl at the makeup table, and a brunette with legs up to her eyeballs, sitting on the sofa, slipping on a pair of red nylons.

“Hey,” the black one says, spinning the stool to face me. “You must be Newbie. We heard you were all that last night.”

“Yeah. Hi. Sam,” I say with a lame finger wave.

“I’m Izzy and that’s Brittany,” she says with a nod at the brunette.

Brittany looks up from straightening her nylons just long enough to glare at me.

Great.

“It’s usually more crowded in here,” Izzy says, waving at the room, “but Nora’s still short girls, so Brit and I are doing doubles.”

“Son of a bitch,” Brittany growls from the sofa. I look over and her red dagger of a thumbnail has poked through her nylon, running it all the way to her toes. “Fucking cheap things Nora buys,” she says, ripping it off.

Izzy turns back to the vanity table and finishes with her eyes. I drop my bag near the sofa and find all my stuff in the closet, folded into a box labeled with my name. As I tug off my shirt and start to change, I feel Brittany’s eyes on me, but I don’t turn around.

“Where did you dance before?” she asks, reaching past me into the lingerie closet.

“Um . . . I haven’t really done this before,” I answer, looking over my shoulder at her as I button my vest.

She rolls her eyes. “Figures. Nora doesn’t know her ass from first base.”

“Cut her some slack, Brit,” Izzy says from the vanity, teasing her hair into an Afro and spraying it in place. “She bailed Ben out last night.”

Brittany grabs a new nylon and gets in my face on her way back to the sofa. “You’re new,” she says, running a finger under the tuxedo collar of my vest. “The guys like fresh meat every once in a while. But they always come back to the best, so don’t get used to it.” She brushes past and drops onto the sofa again.

I put on my garter and shorts, then find a empty vanity chair and slip on my nylons. I really don’t want to piss anyone off. I wish Nora hadn’t given me center.

As if I conjured her by thinking her name, she slips into the room. “You girls almost ready?”

Izzy stands from the table. “Good to go.”

Brittany just grunts at her.

“I’ll help you with those boots,” Nora tells me as I clip my nylons to my garter.

Brittany moves to the closet to find her shoes as I’m reaching for my boots. “You fit into those?” she asks with another glare as I pull them down.

I shrug. “They’re a little big, I guess, but not too bad.”

Her jaw tightens as she drops her shoes to the floor and slips them on, then stomps past Nora out the door.

“She tried wearing those,” Izzy says, “but she’s an eight and they ripped her feet apart.”

Nora takes them from me as I sit on the sofa. “Don’t mind her,” she tells me with a flick of her eyes at the door.

“She’s usually on center,” Izzy says from the door with an apologetic squint. “She’ll get over it.”

What am I supposed to say? “Okay.”

She nods and pulls the door shut behind her.

Nora helps me get my legs strapped in, then I throw on some makeup and I follow the others out. When I step through the door behind the curtain onto center stage, all three stages are dark. But just as I peek through the curtain, Big Pete’s voice starts over the music. “It’s the bewitching hour,” he purrs as the stage lights to my right flash on. “And the lovely Izzy is going to lock you in her spell,” Pete adds as she starts to writhe on stage in her kinky witch costume. “The only way out is to sell your soul to the devil,” he says as the stage lights to my left illuminate. “But when the devil looks like Brittany, you’re gonna be paying her to steal your soul.” Brittany spins around her pole in what I now see is a devil costume.

I step through the curtain onto my stage as Pete says, “Or you can give in to sin and let yourself be seduced by the scandalous, salacious, sensual, smokin’ hot Sam!”

My eyes drop from Big Pete and Jonathan, up in the DJ booth, to the crowded pit below my stage in anticipation of the flash of blinding light. And the instant before the stage lights flare in my face, my gaze locks on Harrison’s.

Chapter Six

THERE’S N OT ENOUGH time between when I spot him and when I’m completely blinded by the stage lights to decipher if he was real, or a figment of my overactive (and overeager) imagination.

But then I decide I don’t want to know. I want him to be out there. I want to feel his eyes on my body, making me sexier and more beautiful than I really am. So I let myself believe.

As Pete brings the volume up and the music floods my senses, I give in to the fantasy. I tip my hat down over my eyes and pretend that Harrison is the only man out there. My hips begin to sway to the music, a slow, pulsating rhythm. I lift my arms overhead, then work one hand down my curves as I roll my body with the beat. Without really knowing how I got here, I find myself straddling my pole. I plant my legs wide and grind my hips in a slow circle as I glide down to the floor. And then I arch back and ride it, up and down. A momentary flash of coherent thought worms its way through the music into my brain, and I remember that I’m supposed to be making eye contact—collecting tips. I ride the pole back up and shimmy around it, tipping my hat off my eyes and making my way to the front of the stage, where dozens of guys are waving bills. I waggle down to my hands and knees, then roll onto my back and arch up as they tuck money into my shorts and top.

When I stand again a minute later, I see Marcus has moved to the side of my stage. His thick arms are crossed over his massive chest as he polices the crowd in front of me. He’s scary, and I’m glad he’s on my side. He looks over his sunglasses at me and I give him a wink as the music works my body in waves. He shoots me a toothy grin and shakes his head, then pushes his glasses up his nose and returns his vigilance to the men in front of me, who are waving more money in the air.

I move to the music, living out the fantasy that it’s just Harrison and me. If I had that private dance back, I’d do it differently. Maybe I’m not allowed to touch him, but there are other ways I can make him feel me. And I can definitely make him forget his broken heart. I look for him in the crowd when I get the chance and don’t find him, but still, for the next three hours I give him my best.

I’m no sooner in the hall after my gig than Nora is there, dragging me toward the dressing room. “Christ, girlie. I don’t know what you got going on out there, but whatever it is, keep doing it. You have three privates, and one guy wants you for an hour.”

My eyes widen. “An hour? But that’s, like, four hundred dollars.”

“It’s not ‘like’ four hundred dollars,” Nora says. “It is four hundred dollars, two of which go straight into your pocket. You must have an admirer.” She shoots a wary glance over her shoulder at me. “Those are the ones you need to watch out for.” She opens the door to the dressing room and prods me through. “You have fifteen minutes to rest your feet, and then you’re on.”

When she closes the door, I take a minute to just breathe before I make my way to the sofa, where I toss all the money I stuffed in my hat. It’s turned into more of a necessity than an accessory. I pull more bills out of my shorts and top and add them to the stack, then drop onto the sofa with my head back and close my eyes.

Three privates. If one of them isn’t Harrison, I’m going to be sorely disappointed. And if one of them is . . . he’ll never know what hit him.

I’m mid-fantasy when Nora pushes open the door. “You’re up.”

I scoop up my cash and hand it to her. “Can you have Ben hold this?”

She takes the money from my hand as she turns up the hall to the VIP room. “You got it. I’ll get your guys rotated so all you have to do is your thing.”

“Thanks, Nora,” I tell her as I grasp the knob. I take a deep breath and pull the door open. Inside, planted in the middle of the sofa, is a sweaty, overweight, middle-aged guy who I remember from my stage. He’s wiping his palms on the knees his khakis and staring at me with scarily hungry eyes.

“Remember,” Nora says low, so only I can hear over the music from the stereo, “any weirdness, just walk out or hit the panic button.”

I nod and close the door behind me. I go directly to the stereo and turn it up, loud. I don’t even look at the guy as I shimmy around the room. Instead, I think of Harrison . . . how I’m going to drive him wild. When the knock on the door comes, the time has gone faster than I realized.

Nora pokes her head in and Sweaty Guy stands. “That was . . . you were . . .” He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Thanks.” He leaves a twenty on the table near the door on his way out.

The next not-Harrison guy comes through in a T-shirt and jeans, already sporting wood. Nora flashes a glance at his crotch, then gives me a meaningful look that I know means I should watch this one. I nod as he lowers himself gingerly onto the sofa, adjusting his pants.

Nora closes the door, and in all the time it takes me to turn around, the guy has his fly open and his dick in his hand.

In a single heartbeat all the blood in my body rushes to my face. I’ve been with three guys total and it’s always been in the dark. Other than Jonathan, because I wanted to see his jewelry, I’ve never seen one so up close and personal. It’s a little bit of a shock.

“Oh my God!” I say, spinning back for the door. “You have to put that away.”

But when I glance back over my shoulder, he’s staring at where my ass is hanging out my bootie shorts and going to town.

I pull the door open and step into the hall to find Nora in Ben’s door, just a few feet away. “I need Marcus.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, that was fast. Wait in here.”

I move past her into Ben’s office as she lifts her phone and calls Marcus.

“I’m impressed with you,” Ben says, lacing his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair. “You’re a natural out there.”

Warmth spreads through me and I smile. No one’s ever been impressed with me before. Not my parents, or teachers, or former employers. I’m usually just a big disappointment. “I really like it. Thanks for giving me a shot.”

“Well, you’ve brought in more than most of my best girls the last few nights, so, I know I said you were on probation yesterday, but you’re off today. This job is yours for as long as you want it.”

There’s a bang in the hall as the door from the club flies open and hits the wall, and Marcus barrels past Ben’s office on his way to the VIP room with Nora on his heels. There’s a shout from the direction of the VIP room, and I peek out to see Marcus dragging Horny Guy out by the arm. He opens the door at the end of the hall marked EMERGENCY EXIT and very unceremoniously throws the guy through it.

As the door slams shut, Marcus spins, and I stagger back a step when he beelines straight for me, stopping just a few feet away. He rips his sunglasses off. “Did he touch you?”

Without his glasses, I can see his whole face, and there’s not murder on it, like I’d thought. What’s creasing his face is worry. He looks me over like a concerned big brother.

“No . . . only himself.”

“Piece of shit,” he mutters, then shifts his intense gaze on Nora as she comes out of the VIP room. “You and Pete got to screen them better.”

Nora shrugs. “You can’t always tell. That’s why I pay you the big bucks.”

“You’re okay?” he asks, looking at me, the concern fading a little.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“All cleaned up,” Nora says. “Wait in Ben’s office while I track down your next one. He’s the one who’s got you for an hour, but if there’s any of that,” she waves a hand at the VIP room, “you know what to do.”

I nod.

There’s a burst of crowd chatter as she opens the door to the club and disappears through it. Marcus gives me a last concerned once-over and follows her out.

Ben gestures me in, then closes his office door. “Sit.”

I sink into the sofa, wishing it would swallow me. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Sam,” he says, opening a cabinet and pulling down two glasses. “Men want you. And you’re going to make both of us a ton of money because of it. Just be mindful of the rules. They’re there for a reason—to protect both of us.” He pours a shot of Jameson in each of the glasses and hands one to me.

“Thanks,” I say, then pound the shot and slam the glass on the corner of his desk.

He gives me a curiously amused smile. “Impressive. Not even a wince.”

My eyes flick to the glass and back, and I feel them widen. He must think I’m some kind of lush.

He bursts out laughing . . . probably at the look on my face. “No judgment here, Sam,” he says, lifting a hand, then knocks back his own shot. He slides my glass closer and pours us refills. “Jonathan said you’re crashing at his place? That your parents threw you out?”

I take the glass and rest my head back, watching my hand swirl the amber liquid. “Tough love. They think I’m a screw-up.”

He tips his head at me. “Why would they think that?”

I shrug and down my shot more slowly this time. “I was partying a lot, I guess, and sort of forgot to go to class most days. I flunked out of school.”

“Are they helping you out at all? With rent or food?”

“No. I haven’t even spoken to them in over a month.” I slide the glass onto the desk, not sure if I want Ben to refill it or not. He doesn’t.

“They haven’t even checked up on you?” he asks, surprised.

I swallow the lump rising in my throat. “Nope.”

He leans back in his chair and sips the last of his scotch. “If there’s anything Nora or I can do to help, let us know. We take care of our own here.”

“Thanks. This job has saved my life. I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t thank me for that. Like I said, you’re going to make us a ton of money.”

I sink deeper into the sofa, feeling the scotch seeping into my bloodstream. But when I hear Nora’s voice in the hall, I know it’s showtime. She’s says something low, then giggles like a pubescent teen just before a door in the back of Ben’s office clicks open. I’d thought that door was a bathroom or a closet, but I now see it leads to the hall that threads from the dressing room to the stages.

I don’t know if Harrison was really even here tonight. I just caught that one glimpse of him a second before the stage lights blinded me. It was probably my imagination. But, still, when Nora steps into Ben’s office with a good-looking guy in his forties at her heels, disappointment drops like a stone in my stomach.

I really wanted it to be Harrison.

His hand is on Nora’s back, and even though she’s contained the giggle, her cheeks are flushed. She smiles up at Ben. “This one’s going to steal me away from you if you’re not careful, Ben.”

“Try it and they’ll be finding little pieces of you in Dumpsters all over the Bay Area,” Ben says, standing and shaking the guy’s hand. But even though what he said sounded like a joke, there’s no humor in his expression as he stares the guy down, and I wonder if I’m the only one who caught the edge to his voice. He glances at me. “Will you excuse us, Sam?”

I look between the guy and Ben, confused.

“Come on, girlie. The boss has business to attend to,” Nora says, scooping up my elbow as she crosses to the door to the main hall and pulls it open.

I step into the hall, still confused, and out of nowhere Jonathan nearly tackles me, hoisting me over his shoulder.

“You son of a bitch,” I screech, whaling my fists on his back. “Put me down!”

“Hey, Nora! Anyone in the VIP room?” he asks through my shrieks, hauling me that way. “Red and I need the couch and a thermometer for a science experiment. How hot is backstage sex between a rocker and an exotic dancer? Will spontaneous combustion occur? Inquiring minds want to know.”

“Put her down, you Neanderthal! She’s got work to do!” Nora yells up the hall behind us, but Jonathan has already turned the corner into the VIP room.

“Hello.”

I freeze, mid-shriek, as Harrison’s warm honey drawl trickles over me, sending a shiver up my spine.

Chapter Seven

JONATHAN UNCLAMPS A hand from my legs. “Sorry, man. Didn’t know anyone was in here.”

I break free from his loosened grip and slide off his shoulder, suddenly acutely aware that Harrison has a very unflattering view of my ass. “You moron,” I mutter, shoving Jonathan, once my boots are back on the floor.

Nora comes up behind us and grabs Jonathan by the scruff of the neck, dragging him out of the room.

“Inquiring minds want to know!” he calls, just as the door snaps shut.

“Your boyfriend?” Harrison asks with a flick of his eyes at the door.

“Hell, no!” I can’t read his expression. Does it bother him that I might have one?

He gestures at the sofa with a tip of his head. “So you were donating your body to science, so to speak.”

“He’s just a friend.” Goddamn Jonathan. I’m going to strangle him in his sleep. “A really stupid friend.”

He nods slowly, and whatever he was trying so hard to hide in his expression slips into something altogether different. Something he doesn’t hide at all as his glacial eyes rake over me. Something hot and hungry. Something possessive. The caress of his gaze raises goose bumps everywhere and tightens my nipples, and it’s everything I can do not to squirm under his scrutiny. He settles into the sofa and I just stand here for a long second while he continues his perusal of my body, then he tips his head at the sofa. “Have a seat.”

I sit and force my fingers to stop fidgeting with the clip of my garter belt.

“So, no boyfriend?” he asks, and there’s an intensity to the question that unnerves me a little.

“No boyfriend. I’ve really only ever had one.” Oh my God. Why did I just tell him that?

“Me too. That is . . . one girlfriend,” he clarifies.

“Your fiancée?”

He nods. “How long ago? Your boyfriend, I mean.”

“We broke up a year ago.”

“Were you together long?”

I shake my head. “We were dating for about eight months, but it was long distance.” I don’t tell him the whole time we were together, Trent was in love with someone else, because that just makes me sound pathetic.

“How did you meet?” he asks.

“He untangled his stepsister’s kite string from my braces,” I say, tapping my lips with my finger.

His gaze sticks for a second on my mouth before he lifts it to my eyes. “Braces . . .” he says with a tip of his head. “How old where you when you met?”

“Fourteen.”

“So, you knew him for a while before you dated.”

“You could say that.”

He looks at me curiously for a long beat. “There’s a story there.”

I blow out a sigh. “A long and extremely pathetic one.”

“I’m listening.” He settles deeper into the cushions and drapes an arm over the back of the sofa.

I just look at him for a second, trying to gauge if he’s messing with me or if he’s really interested. His liquid gaze is deep and his expression soft but intent. I tip my head back against the sofa and stare at the ceiling. “I was totally in love with him all through high school, and I held out for him for five years, even when he didn’t show any interest, because no one else measured up. So, yeah. I knew him for a while.”

“After all that time, you finally got your man. What happened?”

“He was in love with my best friend . . . who also happens to be his stepsister.”

There’s a long silence, and I lift my head, but I can’t bring myself to look at him as I tell him things I’ve never said out loud before. “He was practicing with his band in Lexie’s garage, and we were in the driveway flying her kite, but the wind gusted and it did this loop, and the string got caught in my braces. Lexie yanked, I screamed, and when the guys came out of the garage to see what was up, they all started laughing. But not Trent. He came over and got me untangled. And he told the guys to cut the shit when they started calling me Jaws and asking if I got good reception.”

I remember it so clearly.

Hold still, he’d said. He grasped my chin gently and leaned in to examine my mouth. He was a little sweaty from jamming with the guys, and I remember thinking I should think that was gross. But I didn’t. It was the opposite of gross. I’d crushed on a few guys in junior high, but I never remember my heart racing the way it did with Trent so close. He’d unhooked me from the kite, and when he let me go, he smiled this incredible sideways smile and said, Good to go, and that was it.

I sigh and sink deeper onto the cushions. “I fell in love with him right that second. But even though I was under his nose all the time, he never thought of me as anything but his stepsister’s best friend, so, for five years, I pined.”

Harrison shifts closer. “You never dated anyone else?”

I shake my head. “Not during high school. I finally gave up sophomore year in college and dated a little, but then right before my junior year, Lexie went off to Rome for a year abroad. She and Trent were really close, and I could tell he missed her. We started hanging out together, mostly talking about Lexie at first, and things sort of escalated from there.”

“Don’t tell me he dumped you when his stepsister came home?”

I shake my head. “He didn’t wait that long. He broke up with me in April.”

His eyes narrow. “So, you were just his bootie call when his stepsister was away.”

The other thing I’m not going to tell him is, we never slept together. Looking back, I can see he was never really all that into it. I mean, there was a lot of kissing and fooling around, but whenever we got close to doing it, he would find a reason not to follow through. I should have seen it coming, I guess, but when he sat in my car last April and told me there was someone else, I didn’t take it very well. When they both sat me down two months later and told me “someone else” was Lexie, it pretty much gutted me. It cut deeper than I could have imagined that my best friend and my boyfriend both chose each other over me.

“You know the worst part of it?”

“What’s the worst part of it?” He leans closer, his whole face so open I feel myself wanting to tell him everything. So I do.

“The worst part is, as much as everything with Trent sucked, losing Lexie was like losing a piece of my soul. She, Katie, and I had been the three musketeers since junior high—inseparable.”

“Have you talked to her? Maybe if she knew—”

“I can’t,” I interrupt. “I said some pretty terrible things . . . called her names that I’m not even going to repeat here.” I blow out a breath and give my head an embarrassed shake. “It was bad. There’s no way she wants to hear from me.”

He brings a hand up and tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Yeah . . . well.” I pull my eyes away from his mouth. “Anyway, they’re engaged now, so I hear.”

“That’s just . . . a little scary,” he says, his face scrunching, making me smile despite myself. He shakes his head, returning my smile. “Love blows.”

I drop my head onto the back of the sofa. “You got that right.”

“You know I’m serious, right? That guy’s a fucking moron to give you up like that.”

I lift my head and look at him. “I was thinking the same thing about your fiancée.”

His blue eyes darken in the dim light, his gaze smoldering with barely contained desire. “You were amazing out there tonight,” he says, his voice low and rough around the edges. “The way you move is just so . . .” He trails off with a slow shake of his head.

Desire twists tight in my core at the knowledge that this man, who is by far the hottest man I’ve ever known, wants me. Looking at the need on his face and coiled in his body, I know for sure he wouldn’t go eight months without taking me to bed. That look makes me feel sexy, and beautiful. It makes me pulse with need and ache in my most private places. It tells me that he wouldn’t leave me waiting and wanting for even eight minutes.

I look at him a moment longer, then stand and move to the stereo, cranking up the music; a slow, haunting piece that I feel in my soul. I let it flow into me, through me, and when it’s filled me, I turn to face him and start to dance. I lift my arms over my head and move to the pulsing rhythm. I circle my hips in a slow belly dance, and his eyes are glued to me, his lips parted slightly, and animal need dances in his hooded eyes. He rubs a hand down his face and sucks his upper lip between his teeth when I drop low, and his eyes follow the path of my hands as I roll back up, my fingertips skimming my calves and inner thighs, finally settling over the outside of my shorts, with my thumbs hooked under the waistband.

The unabashed need in his expression starts an intense throbbing in my groin that I can’t ignore. So I don’t. As I move to the rhythm, I let one hand continue up my body, over my bare midriff and my breast, finally twisting into my hair. My hips work the beat as I straighten my other arm, tugging the waistband of my tiny satin shorts dangerously low and bringing my fingertips to rest over the sweet spot at the apex of my thighs. I’m all adrenaline, every sensation heightened, and want pulsing through my veins like fire as I roll my hips in a slow circle.

Harrison tips his head back, blowing out a long breath between pursed lips, then stands and adjusts his jeans around the bulge inside them.

I crook my finger, beckoning him to me. “Dance with me.” It comes out a throaty demand—all sex and desire.

His eyes flare as he stalks closer, stopping a foot away. “I thought there was a three feet rule,” he says, his voice rough.

“I’m modifying it to one foot.” He reaches for my waist, but I back away and shake my head. “Still no touching. Sorry.”

I lift my arms overhead, weaving my fingers loosely into my hair, and start to move again, letting the music have me but never breaking eye contact with him. He watches me for a full minute, then starts to move with the rhythm. He’s good—loose and comfortable in his body. He rolls his hips and I moan a little, knowing just by that movement that he would be amazing in bed.

God, I want him in my bed.

I’m not usually like this. I mean, I held out for five years for one guy. Since I gave up my V card my sophomore year at a drunken frat party, there’s only been two others, including my one night with Jonathan. I can’t remember ever lusting this hard for anyone.

I turn my back to him and swing my hips, my ass “accidentally” brushing against the bulge in his jeans.

“Jesus, Sam,” he groans, his voice thick and a little strangled. The raw need in it is such a total turn-on. “Are you sure I can’t touch you?”

He’s just inches from me, and the feel of his breath in my hair sends goose bumps skittering over my scalp. The urge to spin and press my body against his is unbearable. I turn my head so I can see him out of the corner of my eye. And, God, he smells good—earthy with a musky undertone of sex.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He leans in, his lips nearly touching my ear. The heat of his mouth, so close to me, ripples every muscle south of my waist. “Yes, I can touch you?” he purrs. “Or yes, you’re sure I can’t.”

“I’m sure you can’t.” My voice comes out rough, and he groans at the sex in it.

His lips brush my ear as he leans closer. “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to stop myself.”

I can’t breathe. The air is suddenly too thick. Too charged.

“Sam?” he growls, shifting so he’s against me. “Please say I can.”

I lean my back into his front, and I can’t stop the satisfied moan. My moan turns into a low “Ahh,” more of a gasp than a word, when his strong hands close over my hips and pull me tighter against the evidence of exactly what his body wants from mine. I tip my head back into his shoulder, and his nose skims down the side of my neck. We roll our hips together to the music, and the heat of his body and his breath on my neck sets my blood on fire. And the epicenter of everything I’m feeling is at the sweet spot between my legs, where I ache so hard for him.

He knows what I want without me having to say it. He grinds himself against me from behind as his hand glides around my bare midriff, setting off fireworks under my skin. Every nerve ending buzzes, alive with the electricity between us. And when his hand glides lower, his fingertips slipping under my waistband, I moan deep in my chest, sure I’m about to explode.

His other hand brushes up the front of my top and his fingertips play over the tuxedo collar for a second before plunging beneath the fabric and cupping my breast in his sure, firm palm. I gasp and try to pull away. This is so against the rules. But when he holds me tight against him, every inch of his hot, hard body pressed against my back, I melt into him and moan.

I can’t resist him. Anything he wants is his.

I rock my hips, encouraging his fingertips lower, and feel the blazing trail they leave behind on my skin as they slip under the waistband of my thong. But just as I’m about to totally lose myself in him, a loud noise in the hall wrenches me back to reality.

Shit. I can’t do this.

My body wants so badly to override my mind that it continues to grind without my consent, working his fingers lower under my shorts.

This is the moment of truth. I have to decide right here, right now, what kind of person I am. If I don’t get out of this room in the next ten seconds, there’s no way I’ll be able to stop. Nora will find me right here on the floor, Harrison inside me to the root, when she sticks her head in the door to tell me time is up.

Is that who I am, or am I more than that? Harrison might make me feel like pure sex, but despite how much I want him, can I do this and maintain any shred of self-respect? Not to mention my job?

My will wins the battle over my desire and I rip myself out of his grasp and bolt for the door without looking back. It’s not until I’m in the hall and the door slams behind me that I can even think.

I’ve never wanted anything in my life as intensely as I want Harrison, and it scares me how I let that base need cloud my judgment. It’s only as I stand here with my back against the door, breathing hard and throbbing where I shouldn’t be, that my head starts to clear. I need this job. I can’t risk it for a guy from L.A. who I’m never going to see again.

Ben’s voice rings up the hall as his office door cracks open. “. . . and get Devin in here!”

I jump and look up, sure I’m caught.

Marcus steps through the door into the hall, wiping grease off his hands with a towel. When he sees me, he tosses it in the corner. “You okay?” he asks, heading toward me.

“Yeah, thanks.”

He grasps me by the shoulders and looks me over like an overprotective parent, his brow creasing with concern. “You don’t look okay.”

I back out of his grasp, toward the dressing room, and fake a smile. “I’m fine. Really. It’s all good.” But as I push through the dressing room door, I start to shake all over with adrenaline.

Izzy is there, just pulling a white sweater over her flawless black skin. “Hey. You okay?”

“If too-stupid-to-live is your definition of okay, then, yeah.” I breathe a shaky breath. He’s going home to L.A., to an ex-fiancée who he obviously still loves. It’s not like anything could have ever come of this, even without the rules. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want it to. I’m such an idiot.

“What happened?” Izzy asks.

I shake my head. “Just a guy in the VIP room sort of shook me up.”

She rolls her eyes. “Pete and Nora lay down the rules when they book privates, but the guys still think they’re going to get some. It happens all the time.”

I’m not going to tell her it was me who thought I might get some. “Yeah. Thanks.” I move to the sofa and sit, unlacing my boots.

“You going to be okay?” she asks. “I could stay.”

I look up at her. “No. I’m fine. Really. Just embarrassed.”

She tips her head at me and gives me a sympathetic squint. “Don’t take anything that happens here too personally.”

Including clients. It’s my fault for thinking it could get personal. “That’s good advice.”

She pulls open the door. “Make sure Marcus walks you to your car.”

“I teach self-defense at the women’s shelter in Fremont. I’ll be fine.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”

I nod. “I have a brown belt in karate.”

“I’ll have to get in on some of that action,” she says, eyes bright in her dark face.

I pull off my boots and stand. “The classes are open to anyone, so you could definitely come if you wanted.”

“Yeah, definitely.” She steps into the doorway. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

My shaking has slowed and I can breathe again. “Yeah. I’m good. Thanks.”

“ ’Kay. See you tomorrow.” She slips out and I just stand here for a really long time, staring after her.

Harrison is a mistake I’m going to learn from. After tonight, I can forget about him, but I’m not going to let myself forget this happened. If I ever feel myself lusting after a client, I’m going to remember the humiliation of this moment. I’m not going to feel like this ever again.

Chapter Eight

“YOU HAVE TO remember that most guys are going to be stronger, and they’re going to outweigh you,” I tell the small group of women in the multipurpose room at the women’s shelter. The room is cold and smells like wet cardboard and something sour, but most of the women here have a reason to want to learn to defend themselves, so they don’t seem to mind. “You need to use every advantage you can find. When you’re defending yourself against an attack, anything is fair. There’s no such thing as ‘fighting dirty.’ My job is to teach you an attacker’s weaknesses and how to use them to your fullest advantage.”

Izzy smiles at me from the middle of the group. She’s actually gorgeous, I see now that she’s out from behind her stage makeup. Very Tyra Banks—all big black eyes and high cheekbones. Her eye-catching curves are covered, at the moment, not in her kinky witch costume from the club, but in a sports bra and yoga pants.

“The best approach is going to depend on the proximity of your attacker and where he is in relation to you. You should all consider carrying pepper spray, but if you’re caught without any other means of defending yourself, your hands, knees, elbows, feet, and head are your best weapons.” I wave Izzy over and she steps onto the mat next to me. “So, if Izzy is the attacker, and she’s in front of me, I have a few choices.” I step back from her. “If she’s more than an arm’s length away, I’ve got my feet. I can run. Running is always your best option. Never initiate contact unless you’re absolutely cornered. If you are, scream. Make as much noise as possible even if they warn you not to.” I grab a pad from against the wall behind me and hand it to Izzy. “But if you’re cornered, and you have no choice, you can kick your attacker. You always want to put your whole weight behind it and aim for their most vulnerable spot,” I say, grabbing my crotch.

There are a few snickers from some of the younger girls in the group as I position Izzy so she’s holding the pad in front of her privates.

“I’ll go easy,” I tell her as I step back. “Just hold the pad tight.”

She nods, her eyes bright with excitement.

“You might only get one shot, so you want to make it count. Step into your kick and come up hard from underneath.” I step forward and bring my foot up into the pad at about half speed.

Izzy holds tight.

“I’m coming harder this time,” I tell her. “You got it?”

“Give it your best shot, girlfriend,” she smirks.

I step back, and this time I kick full force, knocking her back a step. “Step into it. Hard, from underneath,” I repeat to the group. “That’s where you’ll do the most damage. All you’re trying to do is buy a split second to run for it.”

Cloistered in the corner at the back of the group, I spy Sabrina. Her long dark hair hangs in her face and she’s doing her best to hide from herself. She’s so petite, she almost could. But her haunted eyes tell me she can’t hide from the memories, no matter how hard she tries.

She came to the shelter a few months ago with bruises everywhere and two black eyes. Every time I look into her terrified eyes, I see her shattered soul, and it makes me want to hurt the person who did this to her.

I break the group into pairs by size and hand out pads to each pair, then go for Sabrina in the corner.

“You ready to try this?” I ask gently.

She peeks at me through her hair for a long moment, and I’m expecting the same shake of her head I always get, so when she nods, I feel my eyes widen.

“Great. That’s great, Sabrina.” What I really want to teach her is how to scream, but she’s yet to open her mouth since she’s been here, as far as I know. I hold my pad up. “Don’t worry about kicking hard for now. Placement is the key.”

She bites her lower lip and just looks at me, unsure.

“Go ahead,” I say with an encouraging nod.

I watch without moving as she takes a deep breath, then tucks her hair behind her ears. She’s pretty, with big brown eyes in a delicate, heart-shaped face, and even the fact that her nose isn’t quite straight anymore doesn’t detract from it.

“Right here,” I say, giving the pad a shake.

She lifts her foot and kicks. In actuality, she moves so slowly all she’d do is give her attacker a chance to grab her leg, but it’s a start.

“Good, Sabrina. Try it again.”

She steps back, and this time when her foot comes up, it makes a solid thud into the pad.

“Great. That’s better. Keep going.”

With each kick, she puts a little more of herself into it. Her face starts to change, becoming more determined as the fear melts way. She wipes away beads of sweat with the sleeve of her ratty sweatshirt, all her focus on the pad I’m holding, then lets loose again. This time, as she kicks, a growl rips out of her. She kicks again, and again, harder each time, her growls becoming louder and more agonized, until she’s wailing and pounding her fists against me, tears streaking down her pale face.

I wrap my arms around her and pull her to my shoulder. “Sabrina, it’s okay,” I say low in her ear as she struggles against me. Her shrieks turn to sobs and she buries her face in my neck. “It’s okay,” I say again, stroking her hair.

Her knees buckle and I lower us both to the floor, where I hold her as she cries. Everyone is watching, and Izzy moves toward us with wide eyes.

“Get Janice,” I tell her with a tip of my head at the door to the shelter. “She should be at the desk. White hair and glasses.”

She nods and jogs off in that direction.

“Keep practicing,” I tell the rest of the group.

They look at me warily, but then move back to their places.

A minute later Izzy is back with Janice, the women’s counselor. She helps me scoop Sabrina off the floor, whispering to her the whole time that she’s safe. She gives me a sad smile and a nod as she guides Sabrina back to the shelter.

I watch after them and wish there was more that I could do to help her.

Once the group has kicks down, I move on to the knee-to-the-balls maneuver, the ripping-off-of-the-pinky maneuver, and the thumb-in-the-eye maneuver.

After class, when I go to check on Sabrina, Janice tells me she’s with Dr. Harris and she’s finally talking.

“Thank God,” I say, blowing out a relieved breath. “What happened to her, anyway?”

“It’s a little sketchy,” she says. “She doesn’t have any known family, and so far she’s not really been talking, but the police found her and another girl chained up in the basement of a condemned building in Oakland, beaten and starving to death. They brought her here when she was released from the hospital. The other girl didn’t make it. The police are hoping she’ll be able to tell them what happened eventually.”

“Jesus,” I say, acid rising in my throat. “Do you think she’ll be okay?”

Janice pushes her glasses up her nose and leans her elbows on the desk. “It’ll be a long road to recovery, but at least she’s on it now. With support, I hope she’ll be fine.”

My eyes flick to the closed door of the counseling room and I’m reminded how I got here in the first place. I took up karate when I was a kid because, even though they called the place Mom took me a “mix martial arts” studio, that’s all they taught. Kicking the crap out of all the big cocky football players in my class was how I kept all my teen angst in check.

When I first met Katie in seventh grade, she’d just moved to town. She was very overweight and painfully shy, and she relentlessly got picked on by class bitch Stacey McCarran and her group. I wish I could say I was brave enough to jump in and tell Stacey to leave her the hell alone. I wasn’t. But one day I waited until the bus pulled away from our stop, then grabbed Katie and brought her home with me. I spent the next month teaching her some basic karate moves. Thankfully, she never ended up needing to use any of them, but during that time we got to know each other, and I realized she was one of the coolest people I knew. When she finally got up the nerve to tell Stacey McCarran to go to hell, I decided I needed to be brave enough to be her friend.

That’s when I realized that helping people is a two-way street. You gain as much as you give. I took self-defense at the Y and started teaching my friends at school some of the stuff I’d learned. By high school it sort of grew into a club. So when this opportunity to help at the shelter came up, even though it was Mom’s suggestion, I jumped all over it. That was four years ago. I’ve met a lot of really scared women during that time, but I’ve never seen anything like this.

I want to walk into the counseling room and give Sabrina a hug. I want to tell her to keep fighting and she’ll be okay, even though I can’t imagine how that could ever happen. But more than that, I want to kill whoever did this to her. “When she’s done, tell her to call me if she needs anything—or if she just wants to, I don’t know, hang out or talk or whatever.”

“Will do,” Janice says, then smiles up at me. “Good work today.”

“Thanks,” I say. “See you next week.”

But as I go back to the multipurpose room to collect Izzy, I can’t help wishing there was something I could do to unbreak girls like Sabrina.

Izzy and I walk out of the shelter a few minutes later, sweaty and hungry. We stop at a diner near the BART station.

“That was pretty intense,” she says once we’re seated.

I nod. “A lot of those women have been through hell.”

“That girl . . . will she be okay?”

“I hope so.”

The waitress comes and takes our orders. I don’t let her escape until I have a steaming mug of coffee in my hand.

When she’s gone, Izzy looks at me. “So, what’s been going on with you?” she asks. “I know we don’t know each other that great, but the last week you’ve been . . .”

“Off,” I finish for her.

It’s true. Since that night with Harrison eleven days ago, I haven’t been feeling it like I was. I try to tell myself it’s not because of him, but I know in my gut it is. My tips this week have taken a hit, and Nora moved me off center stage. I’m sure she’d cut back my shifts, and maybe even fire me, if she had anyone else to cover. But it’s all made me realize maybe this job isn’t a long-term solution. Problem is, I don’t have another one, and even with my crappy tips, I don’t know where I’d find one that pays this well.

“So, feel free to tell me to shut up, but if there’s something you want to talk about . . .” She trails off with a lift of her perfect black eyebrows.

I sip my coffee. “There was this guy at the club. He was there my first two nights.”

“The guy that shook you up in the VIP room?” she asks.

Felt me up, is more like it. I look up at her and nod as I feel my cheeks warm at the memory.

“How bad did you break Ben’s rules?”

“I let him touch me.” I wince a little as I say it, but she doesn’t even react.

“That’s all?” she says.

I take a long swallow, feeling my face pull into a cringe. “I wanted more.”

“You wanted more? Or he did?”

“I did. But I’m pretty sure the feeling was mutual,” I add, remembering the feel of him grinding himself against me.

She props her chin in her hand. “Are you seeing him again? Because you know, what happens outside of the club on your own time isn’t any of Ben or Nora’s business.”

Something jumps in my chest. I hadn’t thought of that. But it doesn’t matter. “He’s gone. He went back to L.A.”

She tips her head at me. “So, if he’s gone, what’s the problem?”

I plant my elbow on the table and rub my forehead. “I can’t stop thinking about him. I’ve spent a grand total of ninety minutes with him, but I can’t get him out of my head. And I’ll never see him again, so it’s just . . . so fucking stupid,” I finish, tugging on my hair.

She sighs. “Well, if it makes it any easier, most of the guys that come into Benny’s aren’t all that hot, so you’re probably safe from here on out.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I blow out a sigh and let go of my hair, twisting it into a knot at the back of my neck. “You’re off tonight?”

She nods.

“Jonathan’s got a gig at Astray. I was planning on hanging out there with his girlfriend. You in?”

Her eyes widen, white saucers in the middle of her black-coffee face. “J has a girlfriend?”

“Yeah . . . though he seems to have trouble remembering it sometimes.”

“Damn, that boy is tasty.” A slow smile breaks over her face. “You two seem pretty tight. You ever done the deed?”

I smirk at her. “That’s pretty personal, don’t you think? Especially considering you just said you barely know me.”

“I’ve seen you naked, girlfriend. That makes us . . . something.”

I blow out a laugh and lean back in my seat. “How long have you danced at Benny’s?”

She lifts a shoulder in an almost shrug. “About two months. I just moved up here from L.A.”

“Where do you live?”

“I moved in with Stephanie and Jen from the club last month. It’s just a crappy three-bedroom in San Bruno, but it’s on the BART.”

I take a long swig of coffee and flag down the waitress for a refill. “What do you pay for rent?” I ask as she tops me off.

“Five hundred.”

“Five hundred?” I say, slapping my hand on the table and sloshing my coffee. The three old men sitting at the table across from us stop eating and scowl at me. I lower my voice. “Kevin’s charging me nine hundred a month to sleep on his sofa.”

She bursts out laughing. “And you paid it?”

I shrug. “I didn’t really have a choice unless I wanted to sleep in the park.”

She gets herself together as the waitress shows up with our food. The waitress plunks Izzy’s vegetarian scramble down in front of me and gives Izzy my blueberry pancakes. “Anything else you want?” she asks without looking at either of us.

Izzy switches our plates and smiles up at her. “World peace, affordable health care, and a thong that doesn’t chafe when I dance.”

The waitress spares Izzy an annoyed glance, then spins and walks away without another word.

I reach for the syrup. “If I could find an apartment for less than nine hundred a month, I could sock some serious cash away.” And look for a real job.

Izzy pulls her plate closer and pokes at her eggs with a fork. “I think Brittany was saying her roommate was moving out. You could ask.”

I just look at her.

She laughs again. “She’s not that bad.”

“For hell spawn, you mean? Because I swear every time she looks at me it’s like she’s trying to suck out my soul.”

She rolls her eyes. “The demon thing is a costume, Sam.”

“Then you move in with her,” I say, throwing a hand at her, “and I’ll take your room with Stephanie and Jen.”

She grins at me. “Nice try, but there ain’t no way I’m letting that demon bitch suck my soul.”

I roll my eyes. “So, you coming to Astray with us or what?”

She gives me a wily smile. “Yeah. I’m coming.”

“ALL I’M SAYING,” Ginger says, waving the bartender down from her stool, “is that dancing like you guys do objectifies women.”

The opener—some local band that seems to have only one rhythm, so all their songs just blend together into a monotonous drone—is tearing down after their set. The lead singer is a hot Asian chick, and I’m betting Jonathan’s nailed her already.

“It also pays the tuition,” Izzy says from my other side.

I give her a look as Ginger orders another cosmo. Who knew Jonathan’s girlfriend would turn out to be a raging feminist? And I can’t miss the irony here—that the biggest womanizer I know is dating Gloria Steinem. She hasn’t let up since we got here a half hour ago. Though she’s trying to be careful to not full-out diss Izzy and me, that’s tough to do when she seems to believe our current job is solely responsible for the oppression of women.

“You go to school?” I ask Izzy.

She nods. “Got accepted into biochemical engineering at UC Berkeley.”

“Wow. Is that why you moved up here?”

She swirls the thin red straw through her mojito. “Yeah. I’ve always wanted to go, but I couldn’t afford all four years there, so I started at JC and worked full-time to sock enough money away that I could apply as a junior transfer.”

“I’m impressed. Berkeley’s super hard to get into.”

She shrugs like it’s no big thing. “I guess.”

There’s no way I’m telling her I just flunked out of Santa Cruz. And it makes me think maybe Mom was right. Izzy had a goal and busted her ass to make it happen. I’ve never had to work for anything. Mom and Greg took care of everything, and I’ve always just expected they would. Maybe I have taken everything for granted.

“See!” Ginger bites the cherry from her drink off the stem. “That’s what I’m talking about. Here’s a girl with a serious brain,” she says, pointing the cherry stem at Izzy, “and she’s selling her body to a bunch of horny men who have no respect for her as a person to fuel their fantasies of superiority over women as a whole. They slip cash into your g-string to establish their ownership—to demonstrate that you’re an object to be bought and—”

“To finance my education,” Izzy cuts in. “And I don’t wear a g-string.”

Ginger looks past me at Izzy and throws her hands up, exasperated. “You should be interning at Lawrence Livermore and discovering the cure for cancer, or developing sustainable food sources for third world countries.”

“I looked into it,” Izzy tells her. “Couldn’t make the rent on what they pay interns, so the cure for cancer will just have to wait until they revamp their salary structure.”

“No offense here, Ginger,” I say, turning to watch Jonathan and the guys as they sound-check up on stage. “You know I love Jonathan like a brother, but I’m pretty sure you knew he was one of the biggest man-whores in the Bay Area before you started sleeping with him. I can’t speak for what goes on between you two, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t have a whole lot of ‘respect as a person’ for most of those girls,” I say, making air quotes. “He was just fucking them.”

“No offense taken,” she says, and I can tell from her expression she means it. “The difference is, sex is a basic instinct. It’s organic and necessary, and, when it’s consensual, both partners benefit. How do you benefit by dancing on stage?”

“Other than the money?”

“What’s the price of your self-respect, Red?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.

“Four hundred a night,” I say a little defensively, then add with a shrug, “and it makes me feel desirable and sexy.”

“You are sexy and desirable,” Ginger counters. She waves a hand across the crowded bar. “Any guy here would give his left nut to get into your pants.”

I give her the skeptic’s squint. “So, you’re saying sleeping with those guys would be less degrading than dancing for them?”

She points at me as her eyes brighten, thrilled that I’m finally getting it. “Exactly!”

I don’t even have a response.

Jonathan saves me from needing one when he leans into the mic and says, “This first song goes out to my all my favorite girls.” He grins and flicks a salute in our direction, and two girls at a table in front of us squeal and wave their arms in the air, bouncing in their seats. I’d bet tomorrow night’s tips that Jonathan’s slept with both of them.

As Jonathan and the guys launch into their first set, Ginger stands and drags Izzy and me off our bar stools. “C’mon, you guys,” she yells as she tows us to the dance floor. “Time to use your siren powers for good instead of evil.”

On stage, Topher whips his long blond hair in and out of his face, and his lead guitar is like an extension of his long lean body as he cranks out a riff that has everyone is the place moving. Three-quarters of everyone in the bar sings along as Jonathan wails about how girls are like pizza toppings, each one different but none of them bad. It’s one of the first songs he and Topher wrote together when they started the band two years ago, and it’s become their anthem. Any Astray regular knows it.

Ginger, Izzy, and I dance up front, near the stage, and while Jonathan seduces every woman in the room with his voice, I can’t help but notice where his eyes linger. Ginger moves her body to his urging, like a snake to her charmer, and his gaze stays locked on her.

Maybe there’s hope for that boy yet.

Chapter Nine

WHEN JONATHAN DROPS   me at the club on the way to his gig the next night, Izzy and Brittany are already in the dressing room. Brittany smirks at me as I grab my stuff from the closet. She’s back on center after my demotion.

Izzy mouths, Ask her, then flips her eyes at Brittany.

I give her back a subtle shake of my head and a wide-eyed look that screams, Shut up!

She rolls her eyes at me and heads to the closet for her costume.

God, I should ask her. My only other alternative is to watch Jonathan walk around naked from my nine hundred dollar a month sofa for the foreseeable future.

I shove Izzy aside and grab my stuff, weighing the pros and cons as I change.

“So . . .” I finally say as I’m lacing up my last boot and Brittany finishes her makeup, “I heard you might be looking for a roommate?”

She shoots a glare over her shoulder from the vanity. “Maybe.”

“Um . . .” I say, fighting to keep the grimace off my face, and focus on tying my boot. “I’m sort of looking for a place, so . . .”

Her eyes narrow. “So, what?”

“So . . .” I continue. “I was wondering what you pay for rent . . . or what you’d want me to pay, I guess.”

She spins her stool and stands. “You want to move in with me. Seriously?”

“Maybe.”

“Seven hundred,” she says, turning her attention to straightening her nylons.

“Where is it? And how big and all?”

“It’s a two bedroom in the Haight.”

“San Francisco?” Izzy screeches from across the small room. “You have a place in the city for fourteen hundred a month?”

Brittany looks up at her. “It’s rent controlled.”

Izzy turns to me. “Hell! I’ll sell my soul for that. You can have my place.”

We all just look at each other for a second, then Brittany surprises me by plucking at her devil costume and cracking up. When she stops laughing, she flips a hand at me. “My roommate’s moving out at the end of the month. You want to come by and check it out later this week?”

“Um, yeah . . . okay.”

She nods and pushes through the door into the hall.

I give Izzy another wide-eyed look, then follow her out.

We hit the stages and Pete does our intros, and I can’t stop myself from searching the crowd for Harrison as I dance. I know he’s gone. I know I’ll never see him again. But the stupid truth is, even though I know he’s not going to be there, I can’t stop wishing for it.

So, just like every other night for the last week, I suck, my crowd is sparse, and my tips blow.

When I finish my stage shift and Nora tells me I have a private, I’m more shocked than she is. No one’s hired me for the last week. She pushes open the door to the VIP room and I brace myself for Sweaty Man or Horny Guy. But when I step into the room, my heart stalls. All I can do is stare.

Because Izzy was wrong. I’m not safe.

Harrison is standing there, his hands crammed deep in the pockets of his jeans, gazing at me from under long blond lashes.

“I owe you an apology,” are the words that come out of his perfect mouth when I can’t find any. He sinks into the sofa and rubs a hand down his face. “I was totally out of line. I shouldn’t have assumed it was okay to . . .” He shakes his head, and when his eyes rise to mine again, they’re dark with desire. “You are incredibly attractive, Sam, and I imagine myself . . . doing things with you. But what I did was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

I slide onto the other end of the sofa. “It was my fault. I just . . .” I wave a hand at him. “You have to know how hot you are, right? I mean . . .” I feel myself cringe. “But I never should have . . . there are rules and . . .” Damn. I’m such a moron.

“Can we start over?” he says when I can’t figure out how to finish that sentence in any coherent way.

“Start over?”

He gives me a questioning tip of his head. “If you can pretend I’m not a total bonehead, I’ll try not to act like one.”

“But . . . why are you even here? Didn’t you go back to L.A.?”

“We’re going with the San Francisco location, so we’re here setting up.”

My heart pounds out of my chest. “For how long?”

“Until Friday.”

“Friday,” I repeat. Three days. “Will you be back after that?”

His glacial gaze melts. “If I have a reason to be.”

God, I want to be his reason. I think about what Izzy said: that what I do on my own time isn’t Ben and Nora’s business. Could I ask him out? My heart pounds as I open my mouth to ask if he wants to meet up after work, but what comes out is, “Did you see your fiancée when you were home?”

He shakes his head. “She was gone by the time I got back. Only thing she left was the engraved cake knife, presumably so I could stab myself with it.”

I crack up, even though it’s totally inappropriate, and after a second his mouth tugs into a reluctant smile. “So, you were living together?” I ask when my nervous giggles slow.

“For the last three years.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Guess I shouldn’t have waited so long to marry her.”

“Then you’d be getting divorced now and she’d get half of all your stuff, so . . .”

“Most of our stuff was hers anyway.” He blows out a long, slow breath. “Her family has money.”

“So you were marrying up?”

He huffs out a humorless laugh. “In more ways than one.”

I have this irrational compulsion to want to know more about this woman, as if she’s somehow my competition. It’s ridiculous. I bite my tongue and we just sit here staring at each other for a long time.

“You were great out there tonight,” he finally says, but I can tell from the way he says it that he doesn’t really mean it.

“I sucked.”

He settles deeper into the cushions, resting an arm over the back of the sofa, but to my disappointment, he doesn’t touch my hair. “Any particular reason?”

You. Or the lack thereof. “Just wasn’t feeling it.”

“Why do you do this?”

I tip my head at him, confused. “Do what?”

“This,” he says, waving a hand at the room. “Not to disparage your chosen career path, but despite your academic issues, I can tell you’re intelligent, and you’re sweet, and caring, and beautiful . . . why would you choose to take off your clothes for money?”

I’m torn between wanting to kiss him and slap him. “I don’t take off my clothes for money.”

“But you go out there night after night, playing to the debauched fantasies of a room full of miscreants—”

“You’re a miscreant with debauched fantasies?” I interrupt, raising my eyebrows at him.

That gets his smug almost-smile. “Touché. But my point is, you could be so much more.”

“Not according to my mother.”

“Your mother?”

I slouch into the cushions. “The rest of my sad story is, my parents threw me out after I flunked out of school. ‘Tough love,’ Mom said,” I say, making air quotes. “She thought they were enabling me to make bad decisions. My stepdad said he was done throwing good money after bad. So, basically, they finally gave up on me.”

He reaches for my hair and twirls a strand between his fingers, just like he did that first night. “I’m sure they haven’t given up. They probably just hope you’ll learn some responsibility.”

I pull back, yanking my hair out of his grasp. “Are you calling me irresponsible?”

His expression goes wary. “I didn’t say that.”

“But you implied it.”

He holds up his hands. “Just playing devil’s advocate. You said you failed out of school because you didn’t go to class, right?”

I slouch deeper into the sofa and press my palms to my face. “I’m such a fuck-up.”

“You’re not a fuck-up, Sam. You just need some direction.”

His voice is soft and so hopeful that I almost believe him. “So, where do I find that, anyway?”

He shifts closer. “You said you liked your major—film and media. What were you thinking you’d do with it after college?”

“I really wanted to be a sound designer for one of the big studios in Hollywood. It just sounds so cool, you know?”

He nods. “Have you looked into qualifications? Do you need a degree?”

I shrug. “You tell me. You work in the industry.”

He just looks at me for a long second, then clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck again. “I’d have to ask the guys in sound.”

“If I give you my number, could you have one of them call me?”

He nods slowly. “Sure. I’ll pass your name along when I’m back in L.A. next week.”

I get up and look for something to write on, but only find a pen on the stereo stand. No paper. I bring it back and reach for Harrison’s hand, scribbling my name and number across his palm.

I look up to find him watching me with an amused smile.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re touching me.”

My eyes go wide when I realize I’m breaking the rules. But I don’t let go of his hand.

After a moment he flips it, so our hands are palm to palm and our fingers line up. My heart pounds as he weaves his fingers between mine and closes them, enveloping my entire hand in his. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” he says, his voice low.

All I can do is shake my head.

His other hand, on the back of the sofa, lifts from my hair to my face, and he trails a fingertip over my cheekbone. “Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?”

My heart slams against my rib cage and there’s no way I can answer. When his finger trails to my mouth and he traces it along my bottom lip, I forget to breathe.

But then he lowers his hand and lets go of mine. “Sorry. You just make it really hard to follow rules, you know?”

I nod, my lips still burning from his touch.

There’s a knock and Nora pokes her head in. “Time’s up.”

I stand, and Harrison does too. “I’ll pass this along,” he says, holding up his hand with my number.

As great as that would be, I can’t help hoping he decides to call me himself. “Don’t stab yourself with the cake knife, okay?”

He smiles.

I turn for the door, but before I step through, I look over my shoulder. “ ’Bye, Harrison.”

He nods as Nora closes the door behind us.

“What was that all about?” she asks.

“He just wanted to talk.”

“He paid two hundred dollars to talk to you?”

I shrug. “I guess.”

She scowls at me and shakes her head. “You must be one hell of a conversationalist.”

I head to the dressing room feeling so much lighter. I feel like all the tension from that last time we were together was eating me alive, and now that I’ve seen him again, and we’ve talked, that I can move on from whatever that was. Maybe that whole closure thing isn’t just a bad cliché.

BUT THE NEXT night, when I see Harrison giving me that liquefying gaze from a table near the back, I know nothing is closed. Because, at just the sight of him, things start happening in my body. So I pour it all into my dancing. My body moves to the music, trying to dispel all the desire—the aching need. As the crowd forms around my stage, I lose sight of Harrison. But I know he’s still there. I feel him in the way the air is electrified.

After shift, I’ve got four privates, and it’s pure hell as each one stalks through the door and isn’t Harrison.

The second to the last is an Asian-looking guy with pocked skin and a droopy right eyelid, and there’s something about the way he looks at me that totally creeps me out. “Mr. Chang is a VIP, Sam,” Nora tells me after she leads him in. “Give him what he paid for.”

I look at her with wide eyes and mutter, “What did he pay for?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Just give him your best,” she says, and clicks the door closed.

What the hell?

The guy settles into the sofa, and I dance without looking at him. I’m counting songs in my head to keep track of the time, and by the fourth song I’m starting to feel a little better. He’s still creeping me out, but if he was going to try something, I think he would have done it already. So when, at the end of the fifth song, he stands and moves to the stereo, turning off the music, I sort of freak. I back toward the door, in easy reach of the knob.

“Take off your top,” he says in a choppy accent.

That’s all I have to hear before I’m out the door. Nora’s just coming out of the dressing room when I get to it.

I shove her back inside and close the door behind us. “That guy wanted me to take off my clothes.”

She blows out a slow breath. “I’ll take care of it. Just wait here.”

I sink against the dressing room door after she slips out, but when I hear Ben’s voice I crack it open and peek out in time to see him usher Creepy Asian Guy into his office.

“Let’s get this done before you sail,” he says just as the door clicks shut.

I pull the door closed and drop onto the sofa. I still have one more private, and if it’s not Harrison, I’m going to do some serious bodily damage to the poor bastard.

Nora pokes her head into the dressing room. “All clear. I’ll go get your next.”

I take a second to fix my makeup, then cross the hall to the VIP room and head to the stereo, turning up the music again.

“Hi, Sam.”

I spin and find Harrison just closing the door. His eyes give my body a long, slow caress before they rise to my face.

I’m shaking as I tip my head at the sofa. “Sit. I’m dancing for you tonight.”

He takes his beer to the sofa and sits as I turn up the music. I close my eyes for a second, trying to get the adrenaline pumping through my veins to settle, then start to sway my hips to the rhythm. I weave my fingers through my hair and let my body pulse to the beat, but I don’t turn to face him until I have the tidal wave of desire under control.

The air becomes static with a palpable electric charge, and when I turn to him, he’s got his arms spread over the back of the sofa, grasping the fabric as if he needs to hold on to keep himself seated. I dance closer and stop just in front of him, smoothing a hand down my body. I see him draw a breath and hold it as I let my fingertips slip beneath the low waistband of my shorts.

I close my eyes and roll my hips in a circle, imagining myself straddling his lap, rocking against him. He rewards me with a low groan that I just hear over the music.

I move my hands over my skimpy costume, brushing every part of me I’ve dreamed of Harrison’s hands touching. I’m so lost in my fantasy that I don’t even know time’s up until the music snaps off.

I spin and find the door open and Nora standing at the stereo, scowling at me. “I said, time’s up!” She grabs me by the arm and yanks me out the door. Just before it closes, I glance back at Harrison and see him blow out a breath and drop his head onto the back of the sofa.

Chapter Ten

I’M GRASPING AT  any distraction, so when Izzy calls and invites me to the movies the next afternoon, I suggest a double header. We’re in the middle of our second—the new Star Trek—when Izzy nudges my knee with hers.

“Is he hotter than that?” she asks with a jut of her chin at the screen, where Chris Pine and his yummy blue eyes gaze out at us.

“Yes.”

Her eyes widen, glowing white in the silver light. “Oh, girlfriend! You got to go for it.”

I slouch deeper into my seat and stare up at the screen. “What if he says no?”

“Have you seen yourself? He’s not going to say no.”

“He’s on the rebound.”

“So?”

I look at her. “So . . . I don’t want to be his rebound girl.”

“Why not? It’s not like you’re looking to marry the guy. It’s just a hook-up.”

I turn that over in my head and realize she’s right. “So, you think I should just ask him on a date or something?”

“Don’t overthink this, Sam. If he comes into the club tonight, just tell him you want him to take you home after shift. It’s that easy.”

“You sound like you’ve done this before.”

She smiles and turns back to the screen, and I know I’m right.

WHEN WE GET to Benny’s, Izzy helps me with my boots in the dressing room because my hands are shaking so hard I can’t get the laces right.

“Chill,” she says, resting a hand over mine. “It’s going to happen.”

I let her slip my hands off my boots and lean back in the sofa. “He’s going to say no.”

“Then he’s an asshat,” she says, tugging on my laces. “But if you want him, you’ll never know if he wants you back unless you ask.”

“I feel so stupid,” I lament, throwing my hands over my burning face.

She finishes my laces and pats my leg. “You’re consenting adults. Ben and Nora have no say over who you see on your own time. There’s no reason for you not to go for it, and I’ll bet half my tips he doesn’t say no.”

I peek out from between my fingers. “You think?”

She grins at me. “I know.”

“Then why didn’t you bet all your tips?” She laughs and I cover my face again. “Oh God,” I groan, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

She pries a hand loose and pulls me up by it. “Showtime, girlfriend.”

Nora’s in the hall when we step out of the dressing room. “Move your tails. You’re late!”

She shoos us up the hall to our stages, and when I step out onto mine, the first thing I do, as always, is scan the crowd for him. It only takes a second to spot him, up near the bar, leaning against the rail that separates the mezzanine from the pit. He looks so relaxed, so sure of himself, that he stands out from the rest of the clientele. He tips his beer at me in a salute and smiles when he sees me gawking.

I suck the drool off my lower lip and watch him watching me on the stage. With every passing song, I gain more confidence when he hardly seems to notice the women circling him. Even on the occasion one swoops in, he brushes her off and his eyes never stray from me. I feel them move over me like a gentle caress as I dance just for him.

“Girlie!” Nora calls between songs, and I realize I’m totally lost in my fantasy. It seems like I’ve only been out here a few minutes. It can’t possibly be the end of my three hour shift.

I turn and find her at the door, peering out from behind the curtain, crooking her finger at me that I should come. I grab the last few tips being waved in the air at the front of my stage, and Jen brushes past me to take my place as Nora hooks my elbow and pulls me out the door.

“Did I do something wrong?” I ask, afraid maybe she found out about my plan.

She doesn’t let loose her grasp on my elbow as she marches me up the hall to the office, and my stomach is in knots until she grins at me. “You did something very right. You’ve got five privates. Had to pull you off early so there’ll be time before closing to make all your fans happy.” But then she lets me go and holds up her notebook, tapping the last name on the list with the end of her pen: Harrison Yates. “He’s paid for an hour again. If there’s something going on between you two, you better be keeping it outside this club, girlie,” she warns.

I roll my eyes and try to come off all casual, but my heart is racing. “I’m following the rules, Nora. I promise.”

One at a time she leads the first four in and I dance. I stay on my game by remembering that every passing minute brings me closer to my target. Two hours later, when Harrison walks in, all I can think about is what I want to do to him—what I’m going to do to him.

Nora gives me a meaningful look and closes the door.

Harrison’s gaze takes possession of me as it sweeps over my body. “I’m not sure I like sharing you with so many other men,” he says, stepping closer.

Say it, I coach myself. Don’t chicken out. “I know a way you could have me all to yourself.”

He tips his head in a question and something feral flares in his eyes.

“Where are you staying?” I ask, working to keep the shake out of my voice.

“I have a hotel.”

“Bring me home with you.” My heart is hammering against my ribs and I can barely breath, but I manage to get it out.

But when his face pulls into a grimace, I want to shrivel up and die. “Sam . . . one of the crew is staying in my room tonight.”

I back toward the door, embarrassed. “If you don’t want to—” But that’s as far as I get before he’s cut me off, a hand twisted into my hair and his mouth devouring mine.

His kiss isn’t gentle. It’s hungry and insistent. It’s rough and hot and angry. It’s so desperate that I ache with his need. His tongue slashes through my lips and I open wide, letting him have me, letting him taste all of me.

But then he lets me go and staggers back as if I’ve burned him. “I’m sorry. I just . . .” He shoves a hand through is hair and lowers his gaze. “You make me crazy. I can’t even think when I’m around you.”

“I don’t want you to think.”

His eyes lift to mine as I stalk toward him. They burn with need as I lay my hands on his chest, then smooth them up to his shoulders.

“What about the rules?” he asks, breathily.

“Screw the rules.” I push him backward until the sofa takes his legs out from under him, then climb astride his lap.

His hands glide over my curves, setting every nerve ending on fire. “I could almost forget the rest of the world exists when I’m in here with you.”

I know he means his fiancée, and it sends my heart racing. I want him to forget her. And I know how. I rock myself into the bulge in his jeans and start on the buttons of his shirt. When they’re undone, I let it fall open, then sit back and admire the view.

He’s incredible; sculpted and lean. And inked. A black tribal design runs up the left side of his torso from the waistband of his jeans over his left pec, and disappears behind his shirt.

I lean in and kiss him hard. He hesitates at first, but then his tongue swirls possessively through my mouth. His fingertips glide over the thin nylon of my vest, along the sides of my rib cage, raising goose bumps and tightening my nipples. His progress slows when they brush the curve at the underside of my breasts, but I shift on his lap, simultaneously bringing my breasts into his palms and grinding myself into his erection, straining hard against the fabric of his jeans.

“God, Sam,” he breathes, “you are so fucking incredible.”

The sound of his desire boils my blood and makes me bolder. I sit back and slowly unfasten the three buttons down the front of my vest. His lips are parted and his eyes cloud a little as he watches, seemingly frozen in place. I lift his hands to my breasts and rock myself against him again.

He closes his eyes and his head drops back on the sofa. “Sam.” His voice is course with pure animal need, but I can’t miss the tinge of despair in it too.

“Forget her,” I whisper in his ear. “She’s gone. I’m here.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. I run my lips and my tongue up his throat to the angle of his jaw and he groans. The next second he’s kissing me as if I were his beginning and his end. The feel of his hands—one on my breast, rolling my nipple under his thumb, and the other cupping my ass, grinding me harder against his erection—causes every muscle south of my waist to contract. He starts rocking his hips under me, finding a rhythm, and I move on top of him, unable to stop the moan as his pressure on my sweet spot sends shock waves through me.

He grabs my hips, quickening our pace, and I’m breathing hard, every nerve ending buzzing. But then he breaks our kiss and sucks in a sharp breath, growling as he wages some internal battle.

He tips his head onto the back of the sofa as I trace the pattern of his ink with my finger, and his chest heaves as he struggles for air. “What are we doing here, Sam?” he pants.

Looking into those blue eyes, I want to climb right into his soul and live there. “Whatever you want.” I grasp his face and pull him to me, kissing him deeper as my hand skims over the taut skin of his cut abs to the prize. “Everything.”

He rolls his head back and groans deep in his chest, and the sound causes a ripple through my groin. “You would have sex with me? Here?” he asks, his smooth drawl rough with need.

“I would have sex with you anywhere.”

This is so against Ben’s rules, but there’s no stopping now. My body is wired and it’s not going to be satisfied until it gets what it wants. My heart slams into my ribs as I reach for his zipper and drag it down.

He grasps my wrist as I start to slide my hand under the waistband of his black boxer briefs. His eyes burn bright in the dim light. “I need to be very clear here, Sam. You’re asking me to have sex with you. Right now.”

I press myself against him. “Yes,” I whisper in his ear.

He grasps my arms, easing me gently away from him, and something sad flickers through his blue eyes as he holds me fixed in his gaze.

I hold my breath, half afraid he’ll change his mind and half afraid he won’t. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I’m going to explode if I don’t have him.

He lifts a hand, cupping my chin, and brushes his thumb softly over my swollen lips. I part them, and as I take his thumb tip between my teeth and touch my tongue to it, his breath catches and his eyes slip closed in a slow blink. He lowers his hand and looks at me again, his eyes searching my face for something, before slowly shifting me onto the sofa. He gains his feet, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet.

Protection.

I’m so far gone I never even thought of it. A thrill skitters through me, pebbling my skin into goose bumps, and I can hardly breathe. This is it. We’re really doing this.

But he zips his jeans with his other hand as the wallet unfolds, and a glint of brass flashes in the dim room just as something else flashes in his eyes.

Regret? Pain?

He drags a hand down his face and closes his eyes, and for several beats of my racing heart he just stands there, breathing hard and saying nothing.

I sit here staring, not sure what’s happening, until he finally opens both his eyes and his mouth.

“Samantha West, you are under arrest for solicitation.”

Chapter Eleven

“YOU HAVE THE  right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . .” Harrison trails off, hauling a labored breath. “Sam? Are you hearing me? This is important.”

And that’s when I realize I’m just sitting here, open-jawed, staring at him. “What . . . ?” is all I can manage. I feel totally disoriented, like I fell asleep in front of an episode of Law and Order and it’s seeped into my dream.

His brow furrows as he fights to keep his gaze from dropping to my open vest. “Get dressed, Sam.”

We both fasten our buttons as he continues with my rights. By the time he’s done, I’m dressed, but I didn’t hear anything he said over the buzzing in my ears. As the weight of what’s happening slams home, the lights start to flash and my ears ring louder.

I stagger up off the sofa and, a second later, I’m on the floor without knowing quite how I got here.

“Shit!” Harrison barks as he drops to my side. “Sam?” He shakes me a little. “Sam, say something.”

His voice echoes in the distance as he says something else, but I don’t hear what it is. Gradually, I get my bearings, and when I open my eyes, I find him leaning over me, holding me in his arms. I lift my hand to his face and his gaze softens. But then I slap him. Hard.

He lets me go as his head snaps to the left.

“Bastard!” I leap to my feet and feel instantly dizzy again. I drop into the sofa as my head spins. “You’re a cop?”

He rubs his face and stands. “DEA.”

My mind reels as I try to make sense of this. I feel blindsided and betrayed, and even though I realize how ridiculous that is, considering I barely know Harrison, I can’t stop the torrent inside me as it all comes to a head.

“You fucking bastard,” I growl. “That’s all this was about? Just so you could arrest me?”

He takes a step toward me. “Sam, this isn’t about you.”

“Really? Because I’d swear you said I was under arrest.”

His jaw grinds tight. “This will all go away for you if you cooperate.”

And that’s when I remember what Nora said that first night. The cops are always snooping around, looking for a reason to shut Ben down. “Damn you!”

“Do you understand your rights?” He stoops down in front of me and reaches for my hand. “Sam?”

I yank it back and cover my face with it, suddenly disgusted by the same touch that set me on fire not five minutes ago. “You son of a bitch,” I mutter, more to myself than him.

Harrison pulls his phone from his pocket. “It’s a go,” he says, then tucks it back. “Sam, I need you to tell me if you understand your rights.”

“Yes,” I mumble into my hands.

“I’m sorry Sam.” His voice is low and soft, and I can tell he’s standing right in front of me.

I still don’t look at him. I want to rant. I want to scream. So, when “You know I’m not a hooker” comes out of my mouth sounding totally pathetic and defeated instead of furious, I hate myself.

In the silence that follows my statement, the sounds from outside the door change. The constant buzz of chatter from the club is punctuated by a scream, then shouting, and the steady pound of music abruptly stops. There’s more shouting, right outside my door, then the door flies open. I lift my head and see a black guy with a shaved head, maybe in his late forties, step through the doorway, gun drawn.

He reaches behind him and pulls a pair of cuffs off his belt, tossing them to Harrison. “Everything under control in here?”

“Arroyo and his wife should be in the office across the hall,” Harrison answers with a jerk of his head at the door.

“We’ve already got them,” the guy says, stepping back and peering down the hall.

“Who’s on collection?” Harrison asks.

“Jenkins.”

Harrison blows out a sigh and looks at me. “Stand up, Sam.”

I cross my arms over my chest and look away, fighting to keep the panic off my face. The only clear thought in my head is that this has to be a mistake. This can’t be happening.

OhGodohGodohGod.

“Sam, I need to—”

“No!” I snap, because right now all I want to do is choke the life out of him. I feel so dirty when I think of his hands on me. How did I fall for him so fast? First Trent, and now Harrison. What the hell is wrong with me that I’m so horrible at reading men?

He looks at me a moment longer, something deep in those glacial eyes hardening, becoming unbearably intense. But just when I think I’m going to have to drop my gaze, he spins for the door, slapping the cuffs into the other guy’s hand on his way out. “Can you get this, Cooper? I’m going to make sure Jenkins isn’t screwing up evidence.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

Cooper comes over and stares down at me, jiggling the cuffs in his hand. “If you just do as you’re told, this will go so much smoother.”

“Fuck you,” I tell him without budging.

He rolls his eyes. “You’re so original. Did Casanova give you your Miranda warning, by any chance?”

“Yes.”

My breathing is coming in short pants as panic starts to get the better of me. In the hall past Cooper, I see cops moving back and forth. A big guy I recognize from the pit, with a buzz cut and one of the hugest heads I’ve ever seen, stops in the door. He’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans, but now there’s a gun on his belt.

Cooper frowns in his general direction. “What the hell’s going on, Jenkins. I thought you were on evidence.”

“Montgomery’s got it. She our star witness?” he asks, jerking his enormous chin at me.

“The one and only,” Cooper answers, stepping back.

Jenkins claps his giant hands together, making me jump. “Let’s get her loaded up.”

I glare at Cooper. “So am I a hooker or a witness? I’m a little confused here.”

“Both,” he answers, grasping my arm. “Come with me, Jezebel.”

My head spins as Cooper drags me to my feet and clicks cuffs onto my wrists, tightening them until they pinch. I can’t help glancing in Ben’s office door as he pulls me past. Harrison’s broad back is to me as he stands at Ben’s desk. He turns his head and his gaze catches on mine for a spit second as he picks up a file and drops it into a box. The ice in those blue eyes now is so different than the warm pools I lost myself in when he kissed me just minutes ago. And that’s when I know for sure.

It was all just a means to an end. Everything I thought I felt was based on a lie.

In the last year, since I lost both Lexie and Trent, I haven’t really opened up to anyone. Katie knows what happened, of course, because she’s friends with both Lexie and me, but I’ve never really confided in her how much it tore me apart. I’ve never told Jonathan. I kept it bottled up inside of me because it was embarrassing to talk about. But I felt like I could open up to Harrison. I felt like we connected.

My fatal mistake.

Shame and betrayal slam into me like a freight train and my whole body goes cold. I stumble as Cooper guides me through the door into the club. He keeps me on my feet with a yank of my arm. When I catch my balance and look around, the lights are up and the club is nearly empty except for police and guys dressed in button-down shirts and either jeans or slacks, guns on their hips. Shouts cut through the low drone and I look up to see Big Pete pinned against the wall by three uniformed cops. Marcus is nowhere to be seen. As we cross the room to the front door, I see Brittany, Jen, and Izzy, still in costume, sitting at a table near center stage with a couple of guys in blue button-downs. Brittany looks up and glares at me. Izzy catches her glare and follows her gaze to where Cooper is ushering me none too gently toward the front door. Her face scrunches, and I’m sure I see sympathy in her eyes.

Damn.

Cooper tugs me to a black Charger in the alley and presses on the top of my head as he tucks me in back. Jenkins climbs in the driver’s seat.

We drive, but I can’t focus on our surroundings enough to know or care where we’re going. I close my eyes and tip over onto the seat so I’m lying on my side. I want to die. I am truly too stupid to live.

I’ve so thoroughly checked out that I don’t even know how long later the car rolls to a stop. I don’t sit up. Even when Cooper opens my door, I just lay here. Because the gravity of this is just now sinking in. I’ve been arrested for prostitution. My wheels are spinning, thinking of how to get out of this without anyone finding out.

Mom.

My gut tightens at the thought of her knowing what happened. She threw me out because she thought I was a fuck-up, and just to prove her right, here I am, going to jail. This is a nightmare.

“Come on, Jezebel,” Cooper says, nudging my thigh.

I drag myself to a sitting position and find we’re in a parking garage. “Who the hell is Jezebel?”

He gives me a cynical smile as he pulls me from the car by my arm. “A biblical succubus. She used sex to lure men to their deaths.”

“Great.”

Jenkins follows as Cooper directs me up a hall to a door. He presses his ID against the sensor and the door clicks open to a lobby inside. Jenkins skirts past us and punches the elevator call button. The middle door opens and we climb in, and when the door opens again, Cooper takes my arm and scans his ID at the glass doors, where UNITED STATES OF AMERICA DRUG ENFORCEMENT AGENCY” is printed in large gold letters. He guides me through into a reception area with a desk and a few chairs. The only person at the desk now, in the middle of the night, is a uniformed security guard.

We walk toward a door to the right of the desk. “When Special Agent Montgomery comes in, tell him to find us in Interrogation 3,” Cooper tells the guard on our way by.

We march up a corridor and he stops at a door, scanning his card again. The door clicks open and he escorts me into a small white room with a metal table and four chairs. At the end of the table is a tripod with a camera. He drops me into the chair it’s pointing at and pulls off the handcuffs.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells me.

He slips out the door into the hall, and Jenkins leans his back against it, glaring down at me.

I fold my hands on my lap under the table so he can’t see them shake, because I get the pit bull vibe from this guy—if he senses fear, he’ll go for the jugular. “Are you ‘bad cop’?”

A self-satisfied smirk spreads over his ginormous face. “I am your worst nightmare. Give me five minutes and you’ll be spilling your guts.”

What do they think I know? I open my mouth to tell Jenkins there’s nothing to spill, but then close it again. Maybe, as long as they think there’s something I know that they don’t, I’ve got some leverage. I put up the bravest front I can despite my sweating palms and short-circuiting brain. “I’m not telling you anything.”

The doorknob rattles as someone turns it from the other side, but Jenkins doesn’t move to let them in. A prickle of panic flashes through me. Yep. He’s got “bad cop” down solid.

“Jenkins!” comes Cooper’s irritated voice from the other side of the door. “Move your sorry ass and let me in!”

Jenkins shifts off the door, giving me a menacing smile, and Cooper comes through with a thick manila file folder in his hand, a pad of while lined paper and an iPad on top of it. “What the hell is going on in here?” he asks.

“Just making sure we understand each other,” Jenkins says, settling into the chair near the camera.

Cooper lowers himself into the one across from me and fiddles with his stuff for a minute, opening the cover of the iPad and then the folder. “So, this is a pretty easy concept,” he says, his gaze lifting to me once he’s organized. “Tell us what we want to know and this will all go away for you. Don’t, and you’re looking at jail time.”

“What do you want from me? I’m not a hooker. I didn’t . . . I didn’t do anything wrong. I shouldn’t even be here!” I bite my tongue when I feel myself start to come unhinged.

Jenkins snorts out a laugh and mutters, “Just keep it up and see where it gets you.”

Cooper blows out a weary sigh. “How about we start with the easy stuff? Your full name is . . . ?”

I lean heavily on the table, fisting my hands in my hair and using it to hold up the weight of my aching, thousand pound head. “Samantha West.”

I sound totally defeated, and a smirk curls Jenkins’s mouth as he drums his sausage fingers on the table.

Cooper’s eyes flick to me from the page as he writes that down. “Middle name?”

“Erin.”

He makes a note. “And you’ve worked for Ben Arroyo for how long?”

“Two weeks.”

The pencil in Cooper’s hand flips into the air and clatters to the table in front of me as his eyes flash to mine. “What?”

I swallow hard. “What, what?”

“You’ve only worked at Benny’s for two weeks?” he says, exasperated.

“Yes.”

He plants an elbow on the table and rubs a hand down his face in a weary gesture. “Christ, Blake. What the hell were you thinking?” he mutters.

“I knew he’d screw this up,” Jenkins sneers from across the table. “Don’t know why Navarro thought she needed to bring that sanctimonious prick in from L.A. when I could have gone deep.”

Cooper pulls his face out of his hand and looks me over. “Shut up, Jenkins.”

Jenkins slams his palm down on the table, making me jump. “If Arroyo walks on this because of Montgomery, I swear I’ll rip his misguided dick off and cram it down his throat.”

“Jenkins,” Cooper warns, “why don’t you go see if Blake’s in the house?”

He jerks out of his seat and slams through the door, grumbling something I can’t quite catch, except it still has to do with this Montgomery person and his dick.

“Okay,” Cooper says, opening the folder. “First things first. Did you ever see illegal drugs on the premises of Benny’s Gentlemen’s Club?”

“No.”

His eyes flash to mine. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

His gaze hardens. “Did you ever hear of any transactions between Arroyo or his wife and the other dancers?”

“Never.”

He purses his lips and thumbs past a few pages before slipping a paper out and turning it to face me. “So, as you know, this is Benjamin Arroyo,” he says, tapping the end of his pen on the top corner. The page is a collage of candid shots of men’s faces, and the one he’s pointing to is Ben. In the shot, he’s standing on the sidewalk outside Benny’s, talking to Marcus.

I nod.

“These pictures are of his known associates,” he tells me, sweeping his hand over the rest of the page. “Do any of them look at all familiar to you?”

“What if I say yes?” I ask, knowing if I do, it would be a lie.

“Then I’ll see what I can do to make this all go away for you.”

“And, if I say no?”

He shrugs. “Then there’s nothing I can do to help you. You’ll be held until your hearing, and you’ll go to trial.”

I haul a deep breath, then give the photos a cursory glance. “I’ve never seen—” But my gaze catches on a face in the middle of the page. It’s the guy who was flirting with Nora. The one who had Ben all uptight.

“You recognize someone?” he asks just as the door is flung open behind me.

“Montgomery’s in the house,” Jenkins’s says. “But he’s on the line with Special Agent in Charge Navarro.”

Cooper ignores him, sliding the pictures closer. “Which one, Jezebel?”

“None of them. I told you, I only worked there for two weeks. I don’t know anything. And I didn’t prostitute myself. Harrison Yates is a manipulative asshole. Can you say ‘entrapment’?”

Cooper just looks at me, but Jenkins breaks out laughing.

“Harrison Yates,” he guffaws. “May as well have called himself Prince fucking Charming.”

I look between him and Cooper, confused.

Cooper cuts him a glare then levels me in his sharp gaze. “Providing a perpetrator opportunity to commit a crime does not constitute entrapment.”

I think about all of our encounters. He told me he wanted to touch me. I’m pretty sure he kissed me first tonight. Is that enough? At just the memory, my skin prickles into goose bumps, my heart races, my breathing gets shallow, and a thin sheen of sweat breaks over my whole body.

Damn. How can I still want him?

Behind me the door clicks open, and I don’t have to turn around to know it’s him, as if my thoughts summoned him.

“Find anything?” Cooper asks, looking over my shoulder.

“The evidence team is going through it now. Hopefully we’ll have something by morning.” That warm honey drawl causes me to shudder and I want to slit my wrists. “How’s it going in here?”

Cooper scrapes his chair back. “Excuse me for a minute, Jezebel.” He looks past me to where I know Harrison is standing. “I need to talk to Agent Montgomery in the hall.”

“Don’t call me Jezebel,” I grumble, but I don’t turn around as he passes me on his way to the door. I can’t look at Harrison. My body’s reaction to just being in the same room is totally unacceptable, and that’s without even seeing him. I won’t let him know he still affects me.

“Your boyfriend’s looking a little rough around the edges,” Jenkins tells me with a smirk after the door clicks closed, and that’s when I realize Harrison must have gone outside with Cooper and that Montgomery person that Jenkins seems to hate so much.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, turning and finding the room behind me empty.

Muffled voices come through the door, Cooper’s and Harrison’s, as best I can tell. The door opens a minute later, and the chair next to me scrapes back. I don’t look as Harrison lowers himself into it, but I feel the weight of his gaze.

Cooper finds his seat across from me and sets my bag on the table. “This is your purse?” he asks me.

I nod.

He reaches in and pulls out my phone. “And this is your phone?”

“Can I have it?” I ask, holding out my hand.

He flips it in his hand and looks at the screen. “What would we find if we went through your texts, I wonder?” he muses.

I think about that for a second and realize there would be nothing incriminating. I didn’t even text anyone about Harrison. “About a hundred raunchy texts from my friend, Jonathan; a couple of conversations with Katie and Izzy; and, I suppose if you go back far enough, you’ll find a thousand to-do lists from my mom.”

“Nothing from Ben Arroyo?”

“It wasn’t like we were friends.”

He sets the phone down. “Jezebel here was just telling me that she recognizes someone on this page,” he says to Harrison, sliding the collage in front of me again.

I blow out a weary breath and hang my head. “No. Actually, if your hearing wasn’t so selective, you’d remember I said I didn’t know anything. And you’d also remember I told you not to call me Jezebel.”

“Sam,” Harrison says, too close to my ear. “If you work with us, things will go a lot easier for you.”

I spin on him and find he’s leaning his elbows on his knees. He’s so close I can feel the heat of his skin and I scoot my chair back. But he gives me a focal point for all the fear and anger and betrayal. The cyclone of chaos tearing my insides apart spirals into a sharp point, and all I want to do is stab him with it. “You know what? Fuck you.”

“Your girlfriend’s a little pissed, Montgomery,” Jenkins scoffs. “Think you need some work on your dating skills.”

Harrison cuts a look at Jenkins, but I’m still trying to work out what he said. He called Harrison, Montgomery.

When it all clicks, I stand so abruptly the chair flips over behind me. I glare down at Harrison. “Who the hell are you, exactly?”

Chapter Twelve

HARRISON . . . OR WHOEVER   he is, gets up and straightens my chair behind me. Then he stands and locks me in his icy gaze. “Special Agent Blake Montgomery. L.A. unit, DEA.”

“Harrison Yates,” Jenkins snickers under his breath from across the table.

It’s a relief when Harrison/Blake shifts his gaze toward Jenkins. His voice turns sharp as broken glass. “That was the cover Special Agent in Charge Navarro put in place. I’ll be sure to give her your thoughts on it, though.”

Jenkins chokes on his snicker, suddenly looking like he swallowed a canary.

Cooper splits a glance between them. “Can we finish this pissing match when we don’t have a suspect to interrogate, gentleman?”

I sit and bark out a laugh.

Cooper’s eyes shoot to me, none too pleased. “You have something you want to share?” he asks, clearly fed up with this whole circus.

I shrug. “It’s just that I don’t see any gentlemen here. Just a couple of horny boys fighting over who got to feel up the girl.”

“Point taken,” he says, rubbing his forehead.

I was hoping to get a rise out of Harrison/Blake, but his expression is aggravatingly blank. “I’ll leave the suspect to you,” he says to Cooper, ignoring Jenkins’s snort. “If you need me, I’ll be in Evidence.” He spares a glance in my direction as he turns for the door, and as much as I hate myself, I can’t deny the tingly rush when our eyes connect. But his stay glacial. No crack in the ice or the cool exterior. “Somebody should get her some clothes,” he adds. Then he’s gone.

It’s just then that I realize I’m still in my skimpy Benny’s uniform. Without even thinking, I cross my arms, covering my bare midriff. “Can I call someone to bring me some clothes?”

“When we have what we need,” Cooper says, shoving the collage in front of me. “So, which one?”

“I want a lawyer.”

He drops his head in defeat. “This is going to be a long night.”

TURNS OUT, I don’t need clothes. The DEA has something special for me. A gray jumpsuit that could double as a potato sack.

It was dawn when Cooper finally led me out of the interrogation room to a holding cell, which really is just another white room. But instead of a table and chairs, this one has a cot. And a window. I watched the sun come up over the city, then laid on the cot and closed my eyes as my body burnt through its last ounce of adrenaline. I might have slept for an hour, tops.

My door clicks open and Cooper steps through. His face is strained and he looks like he hasn’t slept in three weeks.

“You look like shit,” I tell him, though I haven’t looked in a mirror in a while, so it’s probably one of those glass house deals. I really shouldn’t be throwing stones.

He sets a paper coffee cup and something in a McDonald’s wrapper on the table near the door. “Your lawyer will be here in an hour,” he says without acknowledging my comment.

“Thank God.”

His eyes flick to me, and it’s clear I’m getting on his last nerve. “Eat if you want, then we’ll show you where you can get washed up.”

“Fine.”

He nods and disappears out the door.

A combination of my caffeine headache and my growling stomach draws me off the cot, and I drain the coffee, then pull the wrapper off the food to find an Egg McMuffin, which I devour. I’m just licking my fingers when the door clicks open again. I brace myself for Cooper, but it’s a woman in her late twenties with long dark hair pulled back in a sleek bun. And she’s pregnant, a definite baby bump under her blue top.

“If you want to shower, I’ll take you to the bathroom,” she says.

I round up my trash and she takes it as I follow her out the door.

“I’m Special Agent Nichols,” she tells me as she leads me up the hall. “If you need anything, I’m your gal.”

“I need to wake up from this nightmare,” I grumble.

She glances over her shoulder at me. “Can’t help you there.”

“Where’s Cooper?” I ask.

“He’s with the team in Evidence.”

The team. Is Harrison in there?

Harrison doesn’t exist, I remind myself, acid rising in my throat. The guy I wanted was a figment of my imagination. Fake.

Every door we pass has a card scan on it, and when Nichols scans her card and opens a door for me, it’s into a small bathroom, complete with a stall shower. “There’s a shampoo and soap dispenser in the shower, and a towel, fresh toothbrush, toothpaste, and a comb for you there,” she says with a nod at the shelf over the sink. “Take your time and knock when you’re done. I’ll be right here.” She closes the door and I hear it latch behind me.

I pull open the glass door and start the shower, then shuck off my jumpsuit. The water is super hot when I step in, but I don’t turn it down. I stand here for a long time as it scalds my skin, thawing me a little. Once I’ve shampooed, washed, and dried off, I climb back into the same jumpsuit I just took off.

I try tugging the comb through my thick hair for a few minutes before giving up and peeling the plastic wrapper off the toothbrush. I look at my pink face in the mirror as I brush. Without my stage makeup, I look younger. Really young. And scared. I pull my eyes away from the mirror as my face crumples and spit into the sink. I’m not going to cry.

But as I brace my hands on the sink, I do. Tears trickle over my lashes and into the basin.

I rest on my elbows and let them flow for a minute to get them out of my system, then take a few deep, calming breaths and drag my sleeve under my eyes. I move to the door without looking back into the mirror. When I knock and the door opens, my heart stalls and an electric jolt zings up my spine.

I didn’t expect Blake.

I lower my face. He’s never seen me without my layers of stage makeup, and I feel suddenly too exposed without a mask to hide behind. Vulnerable. “Where’s Agent Nichols?”

“Elsewhere,” he says, his tone as flat as his expression. Without a word, he leads me to a room and scans his ID, then pushes open the door.

Sitting at a table is a gray-haired woman in a charcoal business suit. She looks up and sees me, and her voice is a deep purr as she says, “I’ve got to go, but I’ll check back later,” into her phone. She tucks it into a briefcase on the table next to her and pulls out a file, then stands and holds out her hand. “I’m Yvonne Grantham, your court appointed lawyer. You must be Samantha.”

“Sam,” I say, shaking her hand.

She gives Blake a narrow-eyed look. “You can leave.”

My bunched insides relax, and I immediately know I can trust her.

Blake splits a glance between us. “We’ve got some questions for her,” he says through a tight jaw, obviously not happy with his dismissal.

She gives him a hard look. “They’ll have to wait until I figure out if you’ve even got a case against my client, Agent.”

His icy gaze cuts through her as he steps into the hall and closes the door.

“This is highly unusual,” Yvonne says, sliding into a chair and indicating I should do the same. “I wasn’t able to find another case of the DEA arresting someone on solicitation charges. They usually leave that to the local police.”

“He set me up. I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, flicking a hand at the door.

“Him?” she says, her eyes widening. “He’s your arresting agent?”

I nod. “He came into Benny’s the night I started and sat at my stage, then he hired me for privates that night and the next. He got all touchy and told me—”

“Back up,” she says, jotting notes on a pad. “What do you mean, ‘he got all touchy’?”

I squirm a little in my chair. “He said he wanted to touch me . . . and I sort of let him.”

“At any point in all this . . . touching, did he identify himself as a federal agent?”

“No, never,” I say, shaking my head adamantly. “At least, not until he pulled out his badge and arrested me.”

“So, let’s talk about that,” she says, her eyes lifting from her pad to my face. “They haven’t disclosed if there are tapes yet, so tell me, what exactly happened?”

A jolt of fresh panic freezes me in my seat. “Tapes?”

She nods. “It’s unlikely your arresting agent wore a wire because they can’t try you in federal court for solicitation, and California has a two-party consent law. If they taped you without your knowledge, that would be grounds for dismissal, and they know that. But the Feds don’t always give a rat’s ass about state law, so it’s possible.”

I picture Blake’s body as his shirt fell open: ink over sculpted perfection. “I didn’t see any wire.”

“It would have been concealed under his clothing.” She’s riffling through some papers in her briefcase and stops at the look on my face, which I’m sure is somewhere between mortification and chagrin. “How far did this go, Sam?” she asks warily.

“Um . . . just . . . not too far, but I saw his chest. There was nothing on it.”

Her lips press into a line. “So tell me in as much detail as you can exactly what happened.”

I take a deep breath. “He hired me for a private dance, and . . .” Shit. “We’d been flirting for a few days and all, and I told him I wanted to go back to his hotel with him.”

“Did you ever ask for money in exchange for sex acts?” she asks, unfazed by my admission.

“No!” My fingers dig into my knees. “I mean . . . he didn’t agree to go back to his hotel because he said someone else was staying in his room with him. And then, somehow, we ended up kissing and I sort of started taking off his clothes—”

Her eyes flick to me again. “Right there in Benny’s?”

My face is burning. “Yes. In the VIP room. But I never asked for money.”

“How do private dances work? There’s a fee involved?”

“Yeah.” I swallow. “Two hundred for a half hour. He bought an hour.”

So, I guess I did ask for money. I hang my head and my face pulls into a grimace.

“And, did he ask you for sex?”

My stomach tightens, and I swear I’m going to be sick. “Not in so many words, but he kissed me . . . and I could tell he wanted it . . . if you know what I mean.”

The pen in her hand stops moving, and she levels me in her severe gaze. “You were clear that he’d paid for your services.”

“Yes.”

“And to the best of your knowledge, was he clear those services did not include sex acts?”

Panic starts to cloud my brain, twisting my thoughts into a jumble. “I told him he wasn’t allowed to touch me. There was a three feet rule.”

She jots another note. “At any point would you have given him reason to believe it was okay to break this ‘three feet rule’?”

I rub my forehead as the sinking feeling in my stomach intensifies. “I modified it to one foot.”

“But you didn’t tell him he could touch you.”

“No. He said he wanted to and I told him he couldn’t.”

“And did he?”

God, it’s hot in here. I wipe beads of sweat off my upper lip with the back of my hand. “Yes.”

“Who initiated the contact?”

When I don’t answer right away, she looks up from her pad. “I need you to be honest if I’m going to be able to help you.”

All I remember is his body pressed against mine, but I don’t know for sure how we got there. “That’s a little bit fuzzy.”

“Fuzzy,” she repeats.

I want to say it was Harrison, but I honestly don’t remember. What I do remember is that I wanted him. “I don’t know . . . it was pretty mutual.”

Her expression takes on a cynical edge. “So you just sort of collided in the middle of the room?”

“No.” I close my eyes and picture the room—where we were. I was at the door, totally embarrassed that I’d just propositioned him and he’d turned me down, and then the next second, we were kissing . . . “Up against the door. He came to me.”

She nods. “Good. If we’re going to go with an entrapment defense, that will help.”

“What if it’s just his word against mine? What if I can’t prove it?”

“The beautiful thing about the United States of America, Miss West,” she says, arranging the papers in front of her into a stack and tucking them into her briefcase, “is that you’re innocent until proven guilty. The burden of proof is on them.” She snaps her briefcase shut. “I’m assuming they can’t produce a witness?”

I shake my head. “We were alone.”

“Even if they have tapes, they won’t show proximity.” She scrapes her chair back and stands. “Don’t talk to anyone about the case without me present. I expect they’ll get your arraignment on the docket within the next day or two. I’ll come back before then to fill you in on what to expect.”

“So . . . how will this work? Can I go home?”

She leans her hands on the table. “Because you have no criminal record, and this isn’t a violent crime, I don’t think they’ll hold you here until trial.”

I lean back in my chair. “When will I know?”

“The judge will make that decision at the arraignment.”

I’m suddenly cold as my blood returns from my face to my bloodstream, the mortification ebbing. “So, I’m stuck here until then?” I say, wrapping my arms around my middle.

Her face softens. “Let me talk to them. I’ll see what I can do.”

She turns for the door, and as it clicks closed, I slouch into my chair, feeling more alone than I ever have in my life.

Chapter Thirteen

THERE’S A COBWEB in the corner of the window. No spider. Just a cobweb. I tried doing my karate kata to calm myself down, but this room is so small I nearly broke my foot on the cot with my first kick, so for the last three hours I’ve been watching that damn cobweb sway as the air conditioner kicks on and off.

I can’t stop my mind from running over everything that happened in the VIP room last night: the thrill of kissing Blake, the heat of his body against mine, the disorientation when he pulled out his badge. I’ve been over every detail a thousand times, trying to pick out signs I missed that he wasn’t who he said he was. So far I have nothing—no way I could have avoided this. I swear to God, I’m ready to dig out my own eyeball with a spoon just to give my mind something else to obsess over.

I haven’t seen my lawyer since she left me sitting in the interrogation room yesterday morning. Agent Nichols has brought me food and coffee, and taken me to the bathroom when I needed it, and that’s been the extent of my social interaction.

So when she steps through the door with a McDonald’s bag and sets it on my table, I jump off my cot and blurt, “When are you due?” just so she won’t leave right away.

Her hand migrates to her paunch, and her expression turns wary. “A little over three months. September twentieth. Why?”

“Just curious.” Or desperate. “Is it your first?”

She nods.

I reach for the bag and pull out a burger. “You want some of my fries?” I ask, holding the bag out to her.

Her wary expression pulls into a cringe. “I bought some for myself too. I crave french fries all the time,” she says with a swirl of her hand over her belly, “but my husband won’t let me have them. Says they’re bad for the baby. You’re my excuse to get my fix every day.”

I smile, plucking one from the bag and popping it in my mouth. “Glad I could help.”

She closes the door and moves deeper into the room, giving me a chagrined squint. “I know you’d probably like something other than McDonald’s for every meal.”

I shrug. “If I could get a chicken sandwich for dinner instead of a burger, you know, for a little variety . . . and a large order of fries, which I may or may not be able to eat.”

She smiles. “Hey . . . do you play cards?”

“Um . . . not really.”

“If you’re bored, I have a cribbage board.”

I need something to do before I drive myself crazy. “You’ll teach me?”

She nods. “Be right back.”

She’s back a few minutes later with a small plastic board and a deck of cards. We spend the better part of the next hour playing cribbage, but just as I’m figuring it out, my door clicks open and Harrison drags through with a file in his hand. He looks tired. I’m not sorry.

“Come with me, Sam.”

“Why?” I ask, splitting a glance between him and Nichols.

“Your lawyer’s on her way.”

My heart kicks in my chest. I hand Nichols my cards and follow Blake up the hall.

We settle into chairs in the interrogation room, and Harrison tosses his folder onto the table. He tents his fingers over the top of it and just stares at me, his gaze cold as ice. I’m starting to sweat a little, but I won’t break his gaze. I wonder if this is his version of Jenkins’s bad cop thing.

I put up the toughest front I can muster, which I’m sure isn’t all that tough, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he still affects me. I don’t want to show him anything I’m feeling. “You can use your intimidation tactics all you want. I’ve got nothing to tell you.”

He arches an eyebrow at me, and that’s the biggest reaction I’ve gotten out of him since he left me standing in the VIP room. “Am I intimidating you?”

I feel like the mouse as the cat bats it around in the air before snapping its neck. I should have kept my mouth shut, so now I do.

It feels like hours later, though it’s probably only minutes, when the door clicks open and Yvonne sweeps into the room. She swings her briefcase onto the table and lowers herself into the chair next to me. “How are they treating you, Sam? Is there anything you need?”

“Just for you to get me the hell out of here before I chew off my own arms and try to shimmy down the air duct.”

I can’t read her expression, and I wonder if that’s a skill all trial lawyers cultivate.

She looks down her nose at Blake, where he sits across from me. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

He stands and rests a hand on my shoulder on the way to the door. “We’ll be in as soon as you’re ready.”

My hand migrates to the burning path his fingers leave on my shoulder, and I force myself to lower it as he steps out of the room.

Yvonne watches after him as the door closes. “I could be mistaken, but isn’t he the bad guy?”

As I contemplate that, I realize how fluid good and bad are. Though I was only there for two weeks, I really liked working for Ben. He and Nora treated me well, paid me well, and believed in me enough to give me a shot, even when my own parents hadn’t. And now I know why their rules were so important. I never would have thought of them as bad.

And Blake.

It was more than his looks that drew me to him. He was so amazing: passionate and smart and sweet and vulnerable. Yes, if he’d never zeroed in on me, I’d still have my life, but could he really be the “bad guy”?

“I guess.”

Her expression turns skeptical. “So why is he touching you like you’re precious cargo?”

I glance at the door and my hand goes to my shoulder again. “I didn’t know he was.”

She looks at me another long heartbeat before pulling her iPad from her briefcase. “First order of business, your arraignment is tomorrow and I’ve petitioned to have your preliminary hearing immediately following. Once we’re in the courtroom, this will to go pretty fast,” she says, poking at her iPad. “This isn’t a trial. We won’t get a chance to present our case. The judge will read the charges against you and we’ll enter our plea.” She looks over a document on the iPad. “I’m assuming we’re going with not guilty?”

I nod.

“I’ve been looking over what little I have and it seems the entrapment defense is going to be our best shot, so I’ll continue to peruse that. In the meantime, if Special Agent . . .” She glances down at her iPad. “. . . Montgomery does anything inappropriate, I want you to document it. It will only help your defense.”

I nod again.

“Honestly, the fact that this whole case is your arresting agent’s word against yours means they’ll probably get the summary judgment, and we’re not going to be able to mount any defense until the actual trial, but it may force them to show more of their cards than they want.”

My heart sinks as I get what she’s saying. “So, there’s no chance I’ll just be done tomorrow?”

The skin around her eyes creases. “It’s possible, but not probable. They don’t need to prove anything. They only need to show the court that they have enough to maybe prove it later.”

I prop my head in my hand and rub the sharp pain in my temple. “Great.”

“But, even if the judge decides to hold you over, we can ask for bail. You have no priors, and you’ve lived here all your life, so flight risk is minimal. I think he’ll set a reasonable bail.”

The image of my mother coming in and posting bail is enough to tighten my stomach into a hard knot. Greg said he was done throwing good money after bad. I’d bet my bail he’d consider this “bad money.” I can’t call them. “What if no one can afford to post my bail?”

“It will be a bail bond, so they’ll only need to come up with a deposit. It’s not the whole amount.”

“But . . . what if no one has any money?”

She tips her head. “You must have a friend or family member who can come up with a few thousand dollars?”

I bite my lips together. “I doubt it.”

She leans on the table, her expression going all sympathetic. “I’ll push for getting you released on your own recognizance.”

“Thanks.”

“So, as far as the agency’s questions. Keep your answers short. Yes or no when possible. Only answer what they ask. Never volunteer any information. But you also want to answer honestly. If there’s something you’re not sure about, or that you think might incriminate you further, consult with me before answering. And if I tell you not to answer something, zip it.”

“Okay,” I say, feeling a little dizzy.

Her hand is warm as she lays it over mine. “It’s going to be okay, Sam.”

I just look at her, because nothing is okay.

“You ready?”

“Yeah.”

She gets up and knocks on the door. It opens a second later, and Cooper comes through with Blake on his heels. They take seats across from Yvonne and me and Cooper slaps his file on the table. He flips a recorder out of his pocket and clicks it on.

“Special Agent Ellis Cooper and Special Agent Blake Montgomery interviewing suspect Samantha Erin West. Lawyer present,” he says, nodding at Yvonne.

She nods back.

“Miss West,” he continues, opening the folder. “During your employment, did you ever see any illegal drugs on the premises of Benny’s Gentlemen’s Club?”

“No.” I start to add that Blake asked me to hook him up, but remember Yvonne telling me to keep it to yes or no.

He flips out the collage of men’s faces that he showed me two days ago. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

“Are you alleging that my client prostituted herself to these men?” Yvonne asks, laying a hand on the collage and pushing it back toward Cooper.

“No,” Cooper says, “but whether any of these men were on the premises is relevant to the case we’re building against Benjamin Arroyo, and if your client is able to help us with that case, we might be able to reduce or drop her charges.”

Her face twists into a scowl. “So you made the arrest to strong-arm information out of my client for your case against this Arroyo character?”

“No,” Cooper says again as Blake’s jaw tenses.

“But he told me right after he arrested me that it wasn’t about me,” I offer, holding Blake’s gaze.

“Really . . . ?” Yvonne drawls, jotting a note on her pad. “I’m sure the judge will be interested to know that.”

Blake presses back in his chair, and his eyes betray nothing as he stares me down.

“Go ahead and answer, if you can,” Yvonne tells me with a nod at the collage.

Cooper pushes the picture at me again. “Which one?”

“I don’t see how it could matter if I saw one of these guys. It’s not like Ben let me sit in on his meetings.”

Cooper’s gaze becomes more pointed. “But the fact he was having a meeting with any of them could be significant.”

I stab a finger at the face of the guy I saw come in the back door of Ben’s office with Nora. “Him. He met with Ben at the club.”

“When?”

I shrug and look up at Blake, whose eyes are trained on me. He’s got one elbow hooked over the back of his chair and an ankle propped on the other knee, like we’re talking about the latest Super Bowl commercials or the weather, instead of my future. I feel an irritated burn start under my skin, like an itch that can’t be scratched. “What night was it that you couldn’t keep your hands off me? A week ago Friday, maybe?”

He holds my gaze without flinching. “The twenty-sixth.”

Cooper jots a note then turns back to me. “What did he say?”

“Blake? Something like, ‘Jesus, Sam. Are you sure I can’t touch you?’ ”

Yvonne barks a laugh, but Blake is still cool as a cucumber.

I picture wrapping my hands around his neck and squeezing. I bet that would get a reaction.

Cooper looks like he’s had just about enough of this whole extravaganza. “This guy,” he says, stabbing a finger onto the paper on the table with more vigor than necessary. “Did he say anything?”

“No. But Ben didn’t seem all that happy to see him. I thought it was because he was flirting with Nora.”

“This guy was flirting with Arroyo’s wife?” Cooper asks, stabbing the picture again.

I nod. “He was.”

Cooper picks up the collage and pokes at the guy’s face. “Talk to me, Montgomery.” He motions toward the hallway, and Blake follows him out the door.

“This is starting to make sense now,” Yvonne says. “They don’t care about your prostitution charge. It was just their in to your employer’s inner workings.”

“So, how does that help me?”

“First, if they get something they can use on this . . .” She glances down at her pad. “. . . Arroyo person, they’re not going to blink at dropping your charges.”

“So I should help them?”

“Let me work out your deal before you give them more, but my gut is to say yes. If you can help them without incriminating yourself, you should.”

“But I really don’t know anything else. I only worked there for two weeks.”

She cracks the first real smile I’ve seen from her. “That’s almost funny.” But then her expression clears. “They seemed pretty interested in the man you indicated. If there’s anything else you can remember . . .”

“No. He came in and Ben asked me to leave.”

She taps her fingernail on her pad. “I’ll see what I can do with that.”

I’M DRAGGING A McDonald’s french fry through a puddle of catsup five hours later when Cooper lets Yvonne into my holding cell. Her expression is a mix of hopeful and grave, and my heart speeds up.

“Is this what they’re feeding you?” she asks, frowning at my McChicken sandwich.

“So far,” I say, setting it aside and standing from my cot.

She indicates with the wave of her hand that I should sit again, so I do. She sits next to me. “There’s been a development.”

My stomach knots, and all of a sudden the greasy fries I ate feel like a really bad idea. “What happened?”

“The man you pointed out? His name is Richard Weber. For the last few months he’s been under investigation by the FBI, and he turned up dead in a Dumpster in the Tenderloin twelve days ago.”

All the blood drains from my head and I feel suddenly dizzy. I rest my elbows on the table and prop my head in my hands, trying to steady it. “Oh, Jesus.”

“You’re sure you saw him in Benjamin Arroyo’s club on Friday the twenty-sixth?”

I can’t think at all at the moment, but I dig deep and try to remember. “I started at Benny’s two weeks ago Thursday, so . . .” It was the next night; Blake’s second private, that I let him closer than three feet. “Yes. It was definitely the twenty-sixth.”

Her lips purse and she nods once. “They’re going to ask you to place Richard Weber in Benjamin Arroyo’s office that night. They’ll want any details you can remember, and a time, as close as you can estimate. And, for that, they’ll drop your charges.”

What if I’m wrong? I like Ben, and they’re asking me to help them prove that he killed someone? “Can I see the picture again?”

She nods and clicks open her briefcase. She pulls out a file and spreads three new pictures on the cot, different than the one Cooper keeps shoving in my face. And it’s definitely him. I feel suddenly sick. “What if I don’t want to testify against Ben?”

“I still think we can get you off on entrapment, but it will mean going to trial.”

And it will be in the newspapers, and Mom and Greg will see it and say, Yep, we always knew she’d go bad. Good thing we threw her out before she ruined the golden boys.

My stomach twists harder, sending a sharp pain through my insides. I hang my head between my shoulders. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“I think it’s the right decision, Sam. From what I can tell about your former boss, he’s not an upstanding guy.”

I take a deep breath and bob a nod. Deep inside I know that. I’ve always known it. But I wanted him to be the guy he seemed to be when he told me I was family.

She lays her hand on my knee. “I’m sorry they’re putting you through all this. But the good news is, if you agree to their offer, I think they’ll send you home tonight.”

I smile, but it’s forced. More than anything, I want to go back to my life, but all of a sudden I’m not really sure what that is or where I belong. Lexie, Trent, Mom, Dad, Blake, Ben: they’ve all either given up on me or let me down. No one is turning out to be who I thought they were. “Thanks.”

Chapter Fourteen

“RED?”

At first I wonder what Jonathan’s doing in the VIP room with Harrison and me. It takes me a minute to shake off the remnants of the dream, then I rub my eyes and push the blanket aside. The lights flip on in the dark room, and I sit up and look at Jonathan through bleary eyes, standing in the door of my holding cell, a backpack slung over his shoulder.

Cooper took Jonathan’s number and told me he’d call him after he milked my brain for every insignificant thing I could remember about that night, from what the dead guy was wearing to every word he said in my presence, which was none. Apparently, Cooper made good on that promise, because here Jonathan is.

He steps into the room and I spring off the cot into his arms. Anything I think I want to say is choked off by the lump pulsing in my throat.

“Fuck, Red,” he says low in my ear, his fingers stroking my hair. “I can’t believe this shit happened to you.”

I swallow hard and pull back from his shoulder. “Did you talk to Ben? How pissed is he?”

He cringes a little. “They’ve got him. He might even be here somewhere,” he adds, his eyes flicking to the door, where Special Agent Nichols stands, arms folded over her bulging stomach. He unloops the backpack from his shoulder and hands it to me. “The guy who called said you needed some stuff.”

I take it from his hand. “Thanks. What time is it?”

“Like, nine.”

“Christ, it’s been a long day.” I look past him at Agent Nichols. “Can I use the washroom?”

She nods and I grab my towel and move to the door. “Don’t go anywhere,” I tell Jonathan. “I’ll be right back.”

I throw some water on my face, then slip on the clothes Jonathan brought: some of my sexiest underwear, a snug Victoria’s Secret Pink T-shirt, and my most comfortable jeans. He also remembered socks and my green Chuck Taylors.

He really is a good friend.

When I knock, Nichols opens the door, and I find Cooper waiting with her. Nichols hands me a white plastic sack. “This is everything you came in with.”

I peak inside and find my shoulder bag and my Benny’s costume, complete with boots. I pull my bag out and sling it over my shoulder, then dig for my phone . . . which is totally dead. “You don’t happen to have a charger . . . ?”

Cooper gives me a look, then turns and starts walking me back to my holding cell, Nichols trailing behind. “We recommend that you don’t talk to anyone about the case,” he tells me. “And don’t leave the Bay Area without talking to us first. We’ll need you to come in next week and give a sworn statement. We’ll set it up through our attorneys.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll leave the country?”

“No.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that it makes me want to prove him wrong. I start plotting where I could go. Cancun? Paris? Mars, maybe?

I hoof it up the hall toward where I hear Jonathan’s amazing voice wafting up the corridor as he sings. When I step through the door, he’s lying on my cot, his earbuds in and his eyes closed. His fingers are laced behind his head and one ankle is propped on a bent knee, his legs rocking to the beat of whatever’s playing on his iPod. I know he’s spent a few nights in jail here and there, but he’s looking way too comfortable.

“Jonathan,” I say, nudging his elbow with my knee.

He opens his eyes and sits up. “Oh, Red,” he says, a Cheshire grin lighting up his entire face as he scans my outfit. “I chose well. You look hot.”

I roll my eyes. “Can we try to stay a little focused here, Jonathan? I’ve been arrested.”

He rubs a forearm over his face and stands. “But you’re good now, right? They’re letting you go?”

I look a question at Cooper, who’s propped on the door frame.

“Your charges have been dropped. You’re free to go.” There’s something in his eyes as he says it that makes me uneasy.

“Get me out of here,” I tell Jonathan.

“Damn straight,” he answers, looping an arm over my shoulders.

I lean into him as we ride the elevator down, and ignore Cooper as he escorts us out of the building. But when I look up, Blake is just stepping through the front doors. My feet stall halfway across the lobby, and Jonathan slows to my pace.

“You okay?” he asks, low in my ear.

I nod and force my feet to move again.

Cooper peels off and Blake steps forward. “Be careful, Sam.”

“That’s it?” I ask. “That’s all you have to say? No ‘I’m sorry I screwed up your life’?”

He just nods and steps back, his expression flat and his eyes giving nothing away.

I glare at him, then Jonathan and I push through the doors into the dark of the night.

He follows us out and watches from the door as we cross the street.

I focus on breathing and force myself not to look back as we walk the few blocks to where Jonathan parked. The light drizzle cools the fever burning under my skin, but it’s not enough to quell the tumult of emotions that presses tears into my eyes and blurs the sidewalk in front of me. I stagger and Jonathan steadies me, then loads me into the van.

“You okay?” he asks again once we’re in, reaching for my hand.

“No,” I say, and the floodgates open. All the tension, and frustration, and fear from the last twenty-four hours, everything I refused to let Blake see, comes pouring out of me in tears that I can’t stop.

Jonathan pulls me to his shoulder. “I got you.” He strokes my hair and holds me tight until the tears slow.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” I snivel between hiccups.

“I never would have brought you there if I saw this coming.”

I pull away from his shoulder and wipe my eyes. “What is Ben into, Jonathan?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t really know. I thought it was just minor drug stuff.”

“They want me to testify against him . . . say I saw a guy in his office that they think he killed.”

He groans a little and hangs his head. “This is so fucked up.”

I pull my foot up and hug my knee. “I was so stupid. I can’t believe I didn’t know Blake was a cop.”

He runs a strand of my hair between his fingers. “You really liked him?”

With his question, I realize I’m crying again. I tip my head and rest my forehead on my knee. “I would have slept with him right there at Benny’s. I wanted to. I just never thought . . .” I trail off, too ashamed to finish.

“It’s not your fault he turned out to be a narc, Red. He played you. The guy’s a dick. You can’t beat yourself up over it.”

Sure I can.

I click my seat belt, then crank the stereo, a Hell’s Gate demo reel, and listen to Jonathan singing about pizza toppings through the speakers as he pulls out his phone. “Ginger’s dying to see you. She was getting her legal panties all in a bunch,” he says, his thumbs flying across the screen.

He tucks his phone into his pocket and we glide away from the curb. When we hit the Bay Bridge, I lean into the window and close my eyes as the adrenaline drains from my system, trying to forget about Blake, Benny’s, and everything else.

Minutes later I realize I’m dozing when there’s a loud crunch and I’m jostled in my seat.

“What the fuck!”

The freaked pitch of Jonathan’s voice chases away any remnants of sleep and sends my heart shooting into my throat. I brace my arms against the dashboard when a car darts in front of us and Jonathan slams on the brakes. I’m thrown against the door of the van as he jerks the wheel to the left, and the screech of tires tells me we’re skidding. When we roll, it sounds like the whole world is shattering all around me. My seat belt locks me in my seat, but as we slam onto my side of the van, a rock or something smashes through the window and I hit my head hard.

It feels like we’re spinning and flipping forever before the van finally settles, creaking and groaning, in the ditch on the side of the highway. The sputtering hiss of the radiator in the sudden silence sounds like the rattle of a snake.

We’ve come to rest on Jonathan’s side of the van, so I’m dangling over him from my seat belt. My head throbs, and when I look around, it’s dark and my vision is blurry.

“Jonathan?” I croak.

I squint at his shape below me and see a dark splotch growing on his shirt. It takes me a second to realize that it’s blood. Mine. It drips in a steady stream off the tip of my nose.

“Jonathan!”

He just lays there, unmoving.

“Damn,” I say, my shaking hands trying and failing to work the buckle and free me from the seat belt. The throbbing in my right temple becomes a splitting pain with the effort. “Jonathan! Wake up!”

Adrenaline surges my bloodstream as I get my bearings. I finally manage to get the belt loose and fall out of my seat on top of him. I cry out at the stabbing pain that shoots from my right shoulder through the whole rest of me at the impact. He grunts and opens his eyes.

“We’ve got to get out of here, Jonathan!” I say, shaking him.

He blinks a few times, then seems to realize where we are. “Shit!” he groans, feeling around in the dark for his seat belt latch. “What the fuck happened?”

I snap open his buckle and untangle his seat belt from his body, then stand and reach for the passenger door above us and let out another shriek at the pain in my right shoulder. I yank the handle with my left hand and try to push it open, but it’s too heavy, or stuck, or something.

I scramble between the seats into the back, and when I reach the cargo door and tug the lever, it falls open with a groan and a thud. “Come on!”

He topples over the seat and staggers back to where I am. I get down on my belly and slither out. When I stand, I see the silhouette of a man looking down at us in the streetlights up on the road.

“Help!” I call.

My head pounds and through my double vision I see the streetlights glint off something in the guy’s hand. There’s a pop, then a chink on the door of the van at my feet. For an instant I stare up at the guy, my brain unable to register what’s happening. Jonathan drags himself through the door and is still on his stomach in the dirt when two more pops sound from up on the road. A patch of dirt near Jonathan’s face explodes.

He grunts and then sucks in a hissing breath. “Fuck! Get down, Red!” He grabs my legs and rolls me in the dirt so we’re behind the van. “He’s shooting at us!”

Chapter Fifteen

HE THROWS ME onto the ground behind the van, covering me with his body, and I’m sure my head just exploded with the impact. Shouts sound from up on the road, and my mind struggles to put together the pieces of what’s happened in the last ten minutes in a way that makes any shred of sense. I wait, disoriented and facedown in the ditch, my heart pounding and Jonathan on top of me. My eyes dart through the dark, assessing our surroundings and looking for a way out. There’s really nowhere to run. We’re in a ditch maybe ten or twelve feet below the road, with a cement sound wall behind us. It’s too high to get over. And if we run to either side, we’ll be in plain sight of the guy up the embankment.

On the road above, there’s the squeal of tires.

“Sam!”

Blake’s voice cuts through the night and my racing heart races faster with the renewed adrenaline.

“Sam!” There’s a rustling in the dead grass at the side of the road. “Sam! Are you down there?”

“Jonathan,” I say, bucking against him, but he doesn’t move. “Jonathan, let me up.”

I slither out from under him, rolling him onto his back, and that’s when I see the crimson bloom on his T-shirt below where my blood stains his shoulder.

“Oh, God!” I stagger to the end of the van and see Blake skidding down the embankment toward us. “Blake! Help! Jonathan’s shot!”

He looks up and sees me. “Stay there!” He half runs, half slides down the rest of the embankment and skids to a stop in front of me. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” I say, pushing him back. “But Jonathan is shot. He needs help!”

My voice shakes so bad it doesn’t even sound like words, but Blake seems to get it. He lurches around the side of the van, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Direct pressure,” he tells me, kneeling next to Jonathan and bunching his T-shirt in his fist over the wound.

I kneel at Jonathan’s side as Blake calls for an ambulance. “You’re going to be okay,” I tell Jonathan, lifting his T-shirt to find the wound. He’s bleeding from a spot low on his right side, and I press my hand into it and lean my face near his, saying what he’s said to me so many times. “I’ve got you.” A tear leaks over my lashes as I slip a hand around his neck and rest his head on my knee. “I’ve got you, Jonathan. You’re going to be okay.”

Despite the fact that I’m starting to feel dizzy, I keep talking to him, and it seems like forever later when I hear the sirens. As they get closer, I bend down to be sure he’s still breathing, leaning my cheek near his nose and mouth. I feel his breath on my face and drop my forehead onto his, relieved.

“Hey, Red,” he whispers as a hand cups my breast.

“Don’t you die on me,” I tell him.

A ghost of a smile curves his lips as his fingers give a weak squeeze. But then his hand falls away and his eyes flutter shut again.

I look up to see Blake staring at us.

“Are they almost here?” I ask.

He nods.

I lower my face into Jonathan’s shoulder and press harder against the wound on his side. “Stay with me,” I whisper.

I hear people crashing through the night, and I’m being pulled back from Jonathan. I let them move me, as much as I don’t want to, because I know Jonathan needs more than what I can give him.

I watch, numb, as the paramedics load him on a stretcher and drag him up the hill. It’s only once he’s gone that I realize I’m sitting in the dark, on the ground, leaning against Blake’s body. Blades of light slice through the dark, catching the steam rising from the van like something out of Jonathan’s stage show. As a flashlight beam glides over my face on its way to door of the van, a stabbing pain shoots through my head and I gasp.

Blake’s arms tighten around me. “I need some help over here!”

His voice, so close to my ear, sends another spike of pain through my skull.

“Let me look at your face,” a uniformed woman says, crouching over me with a flashlight.

“I’m fine,” I say, trying and failing to pull myself to my feet.

“Hold still, Sam. You’re bleeding,” Blake says, and for the first time I detect a tiny shake in his voice. I look at him and, in the periphery of the flashlight beam, his eyes are too wide and the icy blue has melted into something deeper.

The paramedic is careful not to shine the beam directly into my eyes as she prods my right cheekbone with her gloved fingers. “This might need stitches,” she says. “I need to bring you in so we can get a closer look at this and check you for concussion.”

“I’m fine,” I repeat, louder. My voice reverberating around my skull sends another shooting pain through my brain. I gasp and lift my hand to my temple to stop it.

“You’re not fine,” Blake says. “You have a concussion.”

“Shut up, Blake,” I say, softer, gaining my feet. It’s harder than I think it’s going to be, and I stagger.

Blake puts his arm around my waist. “I’ll help you get her up the hill,” he says to the paramedic.

I jerk out of his grasp, and I swear the effort ruptures my brain. I cry out with the pain in my head and drop to my knees when my legs won’t hold me. But the next second, Blake scoops me into his arms, cradling my head firmly to his muscled chest. He scrambles up the embankment toward the flashing lights up top.

I try to protest, but the pain in my head stops me and I give up and sink into him. He makes the road and lays me on a gurney near the ambulance, and the blare of sirens nearly kills me. I want to press my palms to my ears, but my arms feel too heavy to lift. Headlights wash over me, and the light is too bright, shocking my brain. I whimper and close my eyes as a black car skids to a stop next to the ambulance and the lights click off.

“How is she?”

I recognize Cooper’s voice, and I want to tell him I’m fine, but my voice won’t obey.

“She’s pretty banged up,” Blake answers. “Did you get him?”

“No,” Cooper says. “I lost him off Grand. The locals are sweeping the area.”

I’m jostled as my gurney is hoisted into the ambulance.

“Where are you taking her?” Blake asks.

“General,” the paramedic answers.

I don’t open my eyes, but the light through my eyelids as I’m loaded into the ambulance is painful. I groan as the paramedic presses my eyelid open with a thumb.

“Light,” I say, trying to twist my head out of her grasp.

She lets me go and reaches up for a switch. The light dims and the pain in my head instantly recedes.

When the paramedics get me settled and strap the gurney in, one of them pokes at my face again and then roots through a drawer in a stand at the head of the bed, pulling a gauze bandage from a packet and pressing it hard to my face. The pressure stings and I let out a groan.

A warm hand grasps mine. “You’re going to be okay,” Blake says quietly. He must believe it, because I can hear the relief in his voice.

“If you’ll step out of the ambulance, sir,” someone says. “We need to get her to the hospital.”

“I’m coming,” Blake says. “DEA. She’s in protective custody.”

The same someone cuffs a laugh. “Then you guys are doing a pretty shitty job of it.”

I open my eyes in time to see Blake flashing his badge at a guy in a paramedic uniform.

“I don’t want him in here.” It comes out garbled, and I’m having trouble thinking straight enough to remember why.

What happened?

The image of Jonathan lying on the ground, bleeding, is the last thing I see before everything goes black.

I HAVE NO idea where I am when I wake up, but as I look around the room, it all comes back.

“Jonathan,” I say, but it comes out a weak croak.

“He’s going to be okay.”

Blake’s voice is the last thing I expect, so when it comes, so close to my ear, I suck in a breath.

The room spins as I turn my head to see him. He’s sitting next to my bed, his short sandy hair smashed on one side in a sexy case of bed-head. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re in protective custody, Sam.”

“Where’s Jonathan?”

He nods toward the closed door. “Just down the hall. He’s out of surgery and they say he’s in stable condition.”

“I want to see him.” I try to pull myself to a sitting position but my head pounds at the effort.

“Stay still,” he tells me. He sits back in his chair and scrutinizes me. “How’s your head?”

“Fine. Why am I in protective custody?”

“In case you missed it, someone was shooting at you. I don’t know how he found out, but Arroyo must know you’ve agreed to testify.” He looks hard at me. “You haven’t talked to anyone about the case, have you?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re blaming this on me?”

“I didn’t say that,” he says with a shake of his head, “but he found out somehow.”

“The only people I told where Yvonne and . . .” Jonathan.

“Who?”

“No one.”

His intense gaze drills through me. “I can’t keep you safe if I don’t know who I’m keeping you safe from.”

“I told Jonathan, but it was just a few minutes before we were run off the road. And he’s the one who got shot, so I think the chances he’s in on any big conspiracy are pretty minimal.”

“Well, someone’s obviously gotten word to Arroyo.”

“Ben’s in jail, right? So how could it have been him?”

Blake shakes his head. “Arroyo rarely does his own dirty work, and he’s got a long reach. If he decides you’re a threat, he’ll find a way to take you out. It’s his pattern.” His brow creases and he drops his gaze. “And whoever’s leaking information has a direct pipeline, because he knew you were out within minutes of your release.”

I feel that defensive knot rise in my chest. “It wasn’t Jonathan.”

“We’ll see.” He leans back in the chair, tenting his fingers and tapping his lips.

I lift my hand to rub my face and find a thick gauze bandage fixed to my right cheek. “How did you find us in that ditch?”

“I had a feeling.”

“A feeling?”

He hauls a deep breath and rubs the back of his neck. “People who cross Arroyo tend to go missing.” His eyes flick to mine. “Or show up dead in Dumpsters.”

“So you knew he’d come after me? Is that why you told me to be careful?”

A shadow of guilt passes over his face. “Just for the record, I didn’t want to let you go. As long as we had you in custody, you were safe.”

What if he really did this? What if Ben’s really trying to kill me? My lungs feel like blocks of ice and I’m having trouble getting a breath.

“Sam, you’re going to be all right. I’ll make sure of it.”

There’s something about the sudden softness in Blake’s voice that cuts through my panic like the sharpest blade. If he hadn’t arrested me, none of this would be happening.

I stuff back the panic and glare at him. “This is your fault. If anything happens to Jonathan, I swear to God, I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly what you did. I’ll go to every newspaper who will hear me and tell them what a douchebag you are and how you set me up and got my friend shot.”

His mouth presses into a line and he lowers his eyes from mine. “I suppose I deserve that.”

“Leave.”

His eyes lift and lock on mine. “If that’s what you want.”

“What I ‘want’ is to have never met you. What I ‘want’ is my job and my life and my friend back. What I ‘want’ is for you to die a slow, painful death a thousand times over. But I guess I’ll have to settle for never seeing you again.”

He winces. “Like it or not, you’re sort of stuck with me for now.”

“Get out!”

He stands and moves toward the door, but before he steps through, he turns back to me, and the almost-smile on his lips makes me madder than I already am. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

Chapter Sixteen

“RED? WAKE UP.”

I open my eyes and look down at Jonathan’s blurry form. “What?”

His image in the hospital bed sharpens as my eyes focus, and I realize I must have fallen asleep at his bedside. It’s been three days since we got run off the road, and my head is finally clear enough that they’re discharging me. There’s a bandage covering the gash over my right cheekbone, but it didn’t need stitches. What hurts more are the bruises across my right shoulder and left ribs where the seat belt was, and my right arm’s in a sling because my shoulder’s sprained. But I still came out of everything better off than Jonathan.

His eyes flick to the other side of the room and I follow his gaze to find Blake, leaning into the door frame with a gun strapped to the left side of his chest. I straighten up in my seat and wipe the drool off my chin with my sleeve.

“We’re ready to move you to the safe house,” he says, all business.

“Is Jonathan coming?”

Blake splits a glance between us. “No.”

“But . . .” I look at Jonathan. “You said you thought this was Ben.”

Jonathan’s eyes widen and shoot to Blake. “Seriously, man?”

For just an instant Blake’s jaw tightens, then he shrugs off the doorjamb and fixes me in his gaze. “As long as Jonathan is here, he’ll have our protection. But Arroyo wasn’t after Jonathan. He was after you. We need to get you somewhere safe.”

I’m stuck in Blake’s intense gaze until I feel Jonathan’s fingers thread into mine. “You need to go.”

I look down at him in the bed, then back at Blake. “Where am I going?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t tell you. If anyone knows,” he says with a glance at Jonathan, “it would defeat the purpose.”

It kills me that he still doesn’t trust Jonathan. “What about my family . . . my parents? Can I call them?”

“If there’s anyone you need to call, you have a few minutes now, before we go. You can use your cell, but you’ll be leaving it here when we leave.”

I feel my eyes widen. “You’re taking my phone?”

He shrugs. “Sorry. We need to take every precaution.”

“What about the rest of my stuff. All my clothes are at Jonathan’s.”

“We’ve taken care of it,” he says, his eyes catching mine before he lowers them.

“I’ll hold onto your stuff, Red. You’ll be home soon,” Jonathan says. He lifts a hand and touches my bandages. “Did I mention how hot a chick with scars is?”

I’ve been avoiding thinking about that. “Yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes. “They’re all over the fashion magazines.”

His eyes spark as he pokes at the ring through his lower lip with his tongue. “You think I’m joking? I’ll show you how hot when I get the fuck out of this hospital bed.”

I roll my eyes again. “One word, Jonathan. Ginger.”

He grins. “She’ll want one too. It’s gonna be the new thing. Plastic surgeons’ offices will be flooded with hot chicks wanting scars.”

You can question his methods all you want, but Jonathan’s heart is always in the right place. I squeeze his hand and turn to Blake. “I can call people now . . . before we go?”

“Anyone you want. But please don’t give them any details of your situation.” He lays a hand on the doorknob. “Do you need some privacy? There’s a room up the hall.”

“Give me a minute?”

Blake nods and slips through the door into the hall.

I wrap Jonathan in a one-armed hug. He squeezes me hard and it hurts my sprained shoulder, but I don’t let go.

“Listen,” he says in my ear, suddenly sounding uncharacteristically serious. “I don’t really think this was Ben, but I’ll see what I can find out. If I got you into this, I’m going to get you out.”

“You didn’t get me into anything but a job. A perfectly legal job,” I add with a glare at the door.

He gives me that cocky sideways smile and tweaks my chin. “There’s no way anything that hot is legal, Red. You’ve gotta know that.” I lean in to kiss his cheek, and he pulls me to his shoulder. “You’re gonna be okay,” he says into my hair.

“You too.”

I pull back and find him grinning. He pounds a fist into his chest, but then winces. “Indestructible, baby.” I stand and he reaches for my hand. “Stay in touch, Red.”

“I’ll try.” I start to the door, but then shiver as something cold fingers up my spine. I turn back to him. “Jonathan?”

He grins at me. “Are you going to profess your undying love? Because I already know.”

I smile despite myself, but it falters when dread that I can’t explain coils in my gut. “Stay away from Ben, okay?”

He tips his head in a question.

“Just . . . please,” I say, my face scrunching in embarrassment. I have no idea where this is coming from but . . . “I have a bad feeling.”

He gives me a slow nod.

I move to the door and glance over my shoulder at him as I open it. “And I do love you.”

He smiles sideways. “I know.”

When I step into the hall, Blake is waiting for me. We dodge hospital staff, bustling all around with carts and gurneys, as he leads me up the wide corridor to a small conference room.

“Five minutes,” he says, closing the door.

I stare at my phone for a minute, working up all my courage and forcing the shake out of my limbs before dialing Mom. I don’t want her to hear how scared I am. When it goes straight to voice mail, I’m one part disappointed and three parts relieved. “Hey, Mom. I know I’m thrown out and all, but . . . I just wanted to tell you . . . I have to go away for a while. Everything’s okay but I just wanted you to know in case you called my cell and I didn’t answer or it was disconnected or whatever. I’ll call you when I can.”

I disconnect and blow out a breath.

Next, I call the shelter.

“Janice, it’s Sam,” I say when she answers. “How is Sabrina?”

“She’s doing better,” she says. “Finally interacting with the other residents, and she’s asking for you.”

My heart clamps in my chest. “I’m not going to be able to come in for a while.”

“Is something wrong, Sam?” she asks, alarm lacing her words.

“It’s just . . . something happened and I have to go away for a while. But give Sabrina a hug for me, okay. And tell her that I’ll come see her when I can. I’m so happy she’s doing better.”

“Is there something you need . . . something we can do to help?”

“It’s nothing anyone can really help with, but thanks, Janice. I’ll call when I can, okay?”

“I have to say, you’re worrying me a little bit. Can you just tell me what it’s about . . . if you’re okay?”

I rub a hand over my forehead. “I’ll be fine,” I tell her, and hope to God I’m not lying.

“Okay, Sam. Keep in touch.”

“I’ll try.”

I hang up and dial Izzy, not sure if she’s going to answer. Last I saw her, she was at a table in Benny’s, being questioned by the police. Is she under arrest too?

“Sam!” she says when the phone connects. “Where are you?”

“I’m okay. How are you?”

“I’ve been trying to call you since they dragged you out of Benny’s the other night. Jonathan is missing and Ginger and the guys are flipping out, and no one knows what’s going on, and with Benny’s shut down, I can’t get a hold of—”

“I’m okay, Izzy,” I interrupt. “But . . . there was an accident. Jonathan and I are in the hospital.”

“Oh my God,” she gasps. “Is he . . . are you—”

“We’re both fine, but Jonathan has to stay here for a while. They’re letting me out today.”

“How are you getting home? Do you need help?”

“They won’t let me go home right now.”

There’s a pause as she tries to reason that out. “What?”

Can I tell her that Ben might have tried to kill me? I’d never forgive myself if I did something to put her in danger too. “I can’t really say much more, Sorry.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?” she asks warily.

“Promise. Can you let Ginger know Jonathan’s okay?”

“You got it,” she says. “Call me when you can, Sam. I’m worried about you.”

“I will. I gotta go.”

My next call is to the only other friend I have who might care if I fall off the face of the planet. I’m halfway through explaining to Katie that I’ll be out of touch for a while when Blake pokes his head into the room and gives me a look. I finish up and he holds his hand out for the phone.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

His mouth presses into a line. “It’s the only way we can keep you safe.”

“I would have been perfectly safe if you’d never walked into Benny’s,” I counter, throwing it at him.

He makes the grab before it hits the floor and his expression darkens as he takes a step back into the hall so I can pass. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

He urges me up the hallway and Cooper meets us at a back door marked EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY. He looks over my shoulder at Blake. “You ready?”

Blake nods. “We clear?”

Cooper pushes the door open. “Jenkins cleared the area. We’re good to go.”

I’m shaking again as we slip through the door because I know the reason for the sinking feeling in my stomach. This is really happening. Ben is really trying to kill me. Nothing else makes sense. I feel stupid for the tears pressing at the backs of my eyes, but it felt really good that someone finally gave me a chance. He told me I was a natural. Nora put me on center stage. For the first time in my life I didn’t feel like second best.

And now he wants me dead.

Cooper and Blake flank me, and I don’t shake him off when Blake grasps my upper arm, because I don’t feel quite steady. He opens the door to a black Escalade and I scramble in. He closes the door and looks at me through the window for a second before striding around the front and climbing into the driver’s seat. Cooper slips into the driver’s seat of one of two black Chargers.

“Sam? Are you okay?” Blake asks.

That’s when I realize I’m bracing my good hand on the dashboard, digging my fingers into the vinyl, right on the edge of hyperventilating. I lean forward, with my forehead on my knees, and focus on taking slow, steady breaths. “No,” I finally say.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise.”

All my insides have turned fluid, and they’re roiling around like lava in a volcano, ready to erupt. “How is this happening to me?”

When he touches my back, it surprises me. He doesn’t rub, or stroke my hair. He just lays his hand softly over my ribcage. But it’s warm and solid, and seems to help bring things back into focus.

After a minute I straighten in my seat and his hand drops away.

He doesn’t say anything else as we slip out of the garage between the black Chargers, one in front and one behind. I lean into the window and watch in the side mirror as the Charger with Cooper behind the wheel follows us through the city streets. As we’re accelerating up the ramp onto the Bay Bridge, the sound of a phone rings out of the car speakers, slicing through the silence and making me jump.

Blake punches a button on his steering wheel. “How’s it looking back there, Coop?”

“We’re clear. Jenkins is going ahead to recon.”

“Ten-four.”

He pushes the button on his steering wheel again, and I slap my hands over my ears as something that I think is supposed to be music assaults my fragile brain.

“Oh my God! What is that?”

He turns down the stereo and shoots me a sideways glance as the Charger in front of us takes off at well over the speed limit. “What? You don’t like country music?”

I scrunch my face at the stereo. “Is that was this is? It sounds like someone’s torturing a cow,” I say, lowering my hands and punching the Seek button. “I didn’t know there was even a country station in San Francisco.”

He arches an eyebrow at me and thumbs a button on his steering wheel. The country song is back. “Some people have taste.”

“Did you grow up in a barn or something?”

He scowls at me. “Because only rednecks like country?”

“Well . . . yeah, pretty much.”

He answers by turning up the music another notch.

“You’re making my brain bleed again, just so you know,” I mutter, dropping my head onto the headrest.

He flashes me a concerned glance and turns it back down. “The answer is yes. I did grow up in a barn . . . partly.”

I just look at him.

“There wasn’t enough space in the house for all us kids when we got too old to share a room, so my uncle converted the tack room into a bedroom for me and my cousin.”

“That explains a lot,” I mutter.

We whoosh into the Treasure Island tunnel at the center of the bridge a few minutes later, and when we come out the other end, Oakland is laid out in front of us. Jonathan’s apartment was never really “home,” but I long for it now. I want more than anything to hit the rewind button and go back to my life before all hell broke loose, when all I had to worry about was paying for my nine hundred dollar a month sofa.

“Where are we going?” I ask again.

“Somewhere safe,” Blake answers without looking at me.

“How long am I going to have to stay there?”

He shoots me an irritated glance. “Until we know you’re safe.”

I feel suddenly heavier as the weight of all of this presses down on me. I start to lift my right hand to rub my face before I remember my shoulder. It reminds me with a sharp twinge that shoots across my back, making me wince. “So, how long do I have to hide? Are we talking days? Weeks?”

His mouth presses into a line. “Maybe months,” he answers without taking his eyes off the road.

“Months? Seriously?” I realize I sound a little hysterical and try to rein it back. “Can I . . . I don’t know . . . see my friends? Or my family? Ever?”

He shakes his head slowly. “I’m sorry Sam. No.”

“For months?”

He just stares straight ahead as he navigates us off the bridge and through the maze of highways that merge and split on the other side.

The blend of fear, frustration, and anger brewing inside me feels toxic, like mixing ammonia and bleach. I’m choking on the fumes and struggling for air nearly ten minutes later when we exit the highway in Berkeley.

Blake finally flicks me a glance. “We have to know Arroyo is neutralized before I’ll agree to let you back out into the world. I’m not going to let anything else happen to you.”

I glare at him. “What, something like you?”

He winces as we weave into traffic on the crowded surface streets. Cooper’s black Charger cuts off a white Prius to tuck in right behind us. “I’ve told you, Sam, it wasn’t personal. I was just doing my job. We needed something to get us legal access to Arroyo’s financials in order to prove he’s laundering drug money through his club. We’ve spent three years trying everything else. We’ve tapped his landlines, offered deals to all his known associates, and we put Nichols inside Benny’s undercover for six months. We still came away with nothing. This was the last resort.”

I cross my left arm over the sling on my right and slump deeper into the seat. “I’m a resort. Great.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” I can hear the frustration in his voice, and I’m glad. It’s the first real emotion I’ve seen from him since the VIP room. “I just needed you to agree to have sex with me.”

“So, it was just an act? I must have imagined you grinding your hard-on against my ass in the VIP room.”

He stands on the brakes, skidding us to a stop at the side of the road, and there’s something desperate in his icy gaze that sends a shiver through me.

Chapter Seventeen

COOPER NEARLY SLAMS  into the back of us, but Blake doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Damn it, Sam!” he says, pounding his palm into the steering wheel. “It wasn’t an act!” His voice comes out a growl, and just as he opens his mouth to say something else, the electronic ring of his phone comes through the speakers again.

“Everything okay up there?” Cooper asks.

When I look behind us, he’s out of his car, one hand holding the phone to his ear and the other on the butt of the gun in his holster.

“We’re good,” Blake answers pulling back onto the road and hitting the disconnect button on the steering wheel. “Look, Sam,” he says after a long, strained silence. “You know I find you attractive. I haven’t made any secret of that. But as far as what happened in that room, I was just—”

“Doing your job. I know.” I turn to face the window. “Was anything you said true?”

He blows out a sigh. “I’m obviously not a movie guy . . . and, as you already know, my name’s not Harrison Yates, but most everything else . . . yeah.”

I tip my forehead into the window and watch UC Berkeley pass by.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he says.

“Hmm . . . thanks. That really makes up for ruining my life.”

Neither of us says anything else as we wind into the Berkeley Hills—somewhere my family never could have even dreamed of living. I watch the multi-million-dollar homes flit past my window for a while, then close my eyes.

“Home sweet home,” Blake says a few minutes later.

I open my eyes and see we’re slowing near a brown, shingled garage. From the road the front of the garage is the only thing I can see. The land drops off sharply down the hill in front of us, so any house that might be associated with this garage would be well below where we are in the street. Still, I might be able to see it if it weren’t for the dense, twelve-foot hedge to the right of the garage that extends all the way to the corner of the road, obscuring the view of anything beyond it, including the house and San Francisco Bay, forever below us.

Jenkins is already parked at the curb and Cooper pulls up next to us. Blake rolls down his window. “Take a sweep of the perimeter.”

“Got it,” Cooper says.

Blake clicks a button on the console of the Escalade and the garage door goes up. He eases the Escalade into one of the garage bays.

“Wait,” he says when I reach for the door handle. He clicks the button again and waits for the garage door to close. “Okay.”

We spill out of the car and he directs me to an elevator door at the side of the garage. He slips a key from his pocket into a lock, then presses in a code on the panel. The door slides open as soon as he finishes.

We step in, and, when the door on the opposite side of the elevator slides back, it’s into a foyer, which opens on a huge great room, bright and sparsely decorated. What catches my attention immediately is the view out the wall of windows across the room. A mile below us San Francisco Bay and the city beyond is spread out as if it’s on display just for me. The fog has burned off and the water sparkles under a sapphire blue sky. It’s stunningly beautiful.

I glance at Blake, then wander to the window. My eyes follow the lines of the Bay Bridge to the city, where sunlight flashes off the windows of the skyscrapers. To the right, behind the city, the Golden Gate Bridge stretches to the north, and in the foreground, just at the tip of San Francisco, I can make out Alcatraz.

There’s a French door leading to a balcony on this level, and below is an expansive redwood deck. A stone path winds down the hill from the deck to a pool with a bathhouse, at least forty feet below me. The same tall shrubs I saw at the road next to the garage surround the entire place, and even though I know there are neighbors to the left and across the street past the pool below, it’s completely private. A sanctuary.

“Whose house is this?” I ask without turning.

“It’s a government seizure. The owner is a second-string drug runner from Miami. He was just convicted last month and all his U.S. property seized.”

I turn and see Blake is standing near the sofa, watching me. I step away from the window. “Why me?”

“Excuse me?”

“When you came into Benny’s, you came right to my stage. Why?”

His eyes flick wider for just a second before his lips press into a tight line. He opens his mouth to answer but then closes it again and moves to the kitchen, at the right side of the great room. He steps around the black granite breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the living room and pulls down a tumbler from the glass-front mahogany cupboards, filling it at the tap. “Would you like some?” he asks, lifting his glass.

“No. Thanks.” I turn back to the window and gaze out over the city, and a minute later Blake steps up to my side.

“I made a mistake,” he says, his voice low.

I turn to him.

He sips his water, staring out over the spectacle below as the sun starts to dip over the water, and I feel my insides tighten at the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows. He is so incredibly masculine—so unbelievably gorgeous. As he answers, my eyes follow the contours of his face: the strong angle of his jaw, his high cheekbones, the straight line of his nose. “The way you moved . . . the way you looked up there on the stage . . . it just drew me to you. But I was stupid to target the girl I was attracted to. This would be so much less . . .” He rubs a hand down that amazing face. “. . . complicated if I’d gone in another direction.”

His admission stirs something deep in my belly. “I’m complicated?”

He finally turns to look at me. “This is complicated,” he says, gesturing between us with a wave of his hand.

The desire pulsing through me flows into waves of frustration and anger, and they’re all so intense, it’s impossible to decipher one from another. I spin from the window. “Well, maybe if you hadn’t set me up, and put me in so much danger that you had to kidnap me and drag me off to . . .” I throw my good hand at the window, but then my gaze follows. This is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been.

I was eleven when Mom married Greg—old enough to remember the cockroaches and bedbugs in our tiny one bedroom apartment. It was the best Mom could do on what they paid her at Food for Less, but I know she wanted something better for us. I’m not really sure if she loved Greg or not when they got married three months after they met, but he was stable, with a decent paying job and small house in Fremont that we moved into. We had the things we needed and not much more. These were the houses that we drove by when family came to visit. The Berkeley Hills were a tourist attraction, not someplace any of us ever imagined living.

But here I am.

My eyes flick to Blake and there’s a subtle twist to his face that could be chagrin.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I never expected things would go this way.”

At the anguish in his eyes when they find mine, I feel myself softening. But then I remember where I am. I’m trapped here, with no ability to contact the outside world for months, maybe. “Mom didn’t answer when I called. Can I try her again?”

He looks at me for several long heartbeats. “I’ll see what I can do.” He backs away from the window and starts across the great room. “Your room is over here.”

I follow him past the elevator and a wide staircase with a wrought-iron rail behind it, through a door into a palatial master suite. Just like in the living room, the western wall is solid glass, with an unobstructed view of the bay and San Francisco. Through French doors there’s a private balcony with a lounge chair and a small table. At the foot of an immense king-sized bed with gold linens, a fireplace opens over a whirlpool tub in the bathroom on the other side, and above the fireplace there’s a huge flat-screen TV. I step through the door next to the fireplace into a bathroom bigger than my bedroom at home. Next to the tub that I saw through the fireplace is a stall shower I could throw a small party in—if anyone was allowed to know where I was. Everything is black granite and brass fixtures. “Wow.”

“I trust you’ll be comfortable here?”

I glance at Blake, who’s leaning against the door frame, and I want to say no. I want to rail against him and tell him that I’ll be miserable here. But I can’t force the lie from my mouth. Instead, I pluck at my top—the same one Jonathan brought me before our fateful trip home. “Despite the posh shower, I’m going to get pretty unbearable to live with if I don’t get a change of clothes.”

He tips his head, indicating that I should follow, and shrugs off the door frame. He moves through the bedroom and opens a set of double doors on the opposite wall from the windows, then steps back to let me pass. Inside, I find a closet as big as the bathroom. There are drawers stacked down the middle of hanging rods on each wall. It’s mostly empty, but on the hangers I see a few blouses, sundresses, a cotton granny nightgown, and a bathrobe. “Check the drawers,” he says with a nod at them.

I pull open the middle drawer. Inside are a four pairs of faded Levi’s, almost identical to the ones I’m wearing. I open the drawer above it and find several T-shirts and cotton tops. And in the one above those there are bras and underwear. I pick up a pair of panties. They’re white cotton Fruit of the Loom bikinis, and though they’d probably fit, I can’t imagine anyone younger than my mother actually wearing them.

I hold them up. “Who bought this stuff?”

“Nichols and me.”

I pull a face. “And you thought these were my style.”

He shifts in the doorway, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “That was Nichols.”

“What did you pick out?” I ask, dropping the underwear back into the drawer.

“The jeans, those,” he says with a wave of his hand at the dresses, “and the swimsuit.”

“What about this?” I ask, fingering the thick cotton of the nightgown.

“Nichols.”

I hold his gaze. “I sleep nude.” It’s a lie, but I’m going for the reaction.

To my disappointment, he stays totally cool. “That’s your prerogative.” He scratches the top of his head and backs out of the closet. “I know there are things we didn’t think of, so if you make a list, we’ll be sure you get it. You know where the kitchen is. It will be fully stocked for you. And I’ll sleep downstairs, in case you need anything.”

Whoa! “You’re staying here with me?”

He nods slowly, his eyes lifting to mine again. “Someone needs to be here with you at all times . . . for your protection.”

A thrill skitters through me, but I keep my voice flat. “You.”

It’s not a question, but he nods anyway.

“Why you?”

He shrugs. “It just made sense. I’m not from around here, so I needed a place to stay anyway.”

“Where is your room?”

He looks at me a long second, then turns. “I’ll show you.”

I follow him to the staircase behind the elevator, and he leads me down one flight to a large room with a pool table on the far side. There’s a fully stocked bar with a black granite top along the back wall, and two large sofas positioned in a wide V, both facing a giant fireplace with a huge screen TV above it in the middle of another wall of windows. From this floor, we’re not high enough to see over the hedges to the bay, but the view is of the deck and the yard beyond. It’s like a park.

“Access to the pool is through those doors,” he says, gesturing to the French doors to the deck. “It’s heated. The perimeter is secured, so you’re welcome to use it anytime you want.” He crosses the room to a door behind the pool table. “This is the panic room. If there’s ever a breach of security, I need you to get in here and lock the door until help comes.” He steps in and I follow. “This door is bullet resistant and it dead-bolts with a pull of this lever,” he says, indicating a small red handle just inside the door.

“You think I’ll need this?”

“No. But it’s here in case you do.”

We step back into the poolroom and he leads me to a short hallway next to the bar. “My room is here,” he says, pushing open a door.

I step through into a room smaller than my digs upstairs but at least twice as big as my room at home. There’s a bathroom off to the side, and in the middle a queen-sized bed with a blue duvet and lots of pillows. He has the same view out the windows as the room next door.

I spy a pile of pocket change and a bottle of aftershave on the old wooden dresser under the mirror, and a pair of jeans crumpled at the bottom of the open closet, where clothes hang on the rod.

“How long have you been here?”

“I moved in when you were in the hospital. We needed to get the place secured before we brought you up.”

I stroll deeper into the room and peer out the window onto the large redwood deck. “Seems comfortable. Is this anything like where you live?”

He barks out a laugh. “Yes. My place is the Playboy mansion.”

I turn back to him, leaning against the windowsill. “This is the Playboy mansion?”

There’s irritation on his face that he can’t totally cover. “On the rare occasions I’m home, I live in a one bedroom apartment in Santa Monica—which now that my ex has moved out I can no longer afford. So, no. It’s nothing like this.”

“So what you said about her? That was real?”

He nods.

“What’s her name?”

His hand goes to the door frame and there’s a second where he just looks at me without answering. “Vanessa.”

“Did she really leave you because of this?” I say, flicking a hand at the room. “Because of your job?”

“She wanted more than I could give,” he answers through a tight jaw.

I open my mouth to ask if this job is really worth it, but before I can get the words out, he’s out the door. “Come on. I’ll get you some dinner.”

We climb the stairs and he moves to the kitchen. When he said he’d get me some dinner, I was picturing takeout, so I’m surprised when he opens the fridge and pulls out a bag of zucchini, red and green bell peppers, and an onion.

“What are you making?” I ask.

“Veggie frittata.” His eyes lift to mine. “If that’s okay?”

I shrug and it hurts. “Never had it before.” I open my mouth to ask if he wants help before I remember I’m trying to hate him, but as he moves around the kitchen, it becomes clear he knows his way around. As much as I hate to admit it, it makes him even sexier. Which means I have to focus even harder to remember to be mad.

He starts slicing veggies and spreading them all in the bottom of a cast iron skillet. “You want something to drink? I didn’t know what you like, so there’s a variety in here,” he says, opening the fridge.

I step up next to him as he grabs a carton of eggs and find at least five different kinds of soda, two kinds of beer, a bottle of white wine, and bottles of water.

I pull a beer out. “Is there an opener?”

“Me.” He takes the bottle from my hand and the muscles in his forearm ripple as he twists off the cap. He hands it back with a smirk just as someone clears his throat in the living room.

I jump, dropping my beer, as Blake spins toward the living room, the gun from his holster appearing in his hand as if by magic.

Chapter Eighteen

I SPIN AND  find a wide-eyed Cooper standing at the elevator, his hands in the air, with what I’m beginning to realize is his regular expression, a frown. “Just wanted to tell you we’re all clear. The perimeter’s secure and the wire is hot. Jenkins and I are heading back.”

“Son of a bitch,” Blake mutters under his breath. I turn back and find him hopping on one foot as he reholsters his gun. He bends down to scoop up the beer bottle, which apparently didn’t smash to smithereens on the granite-tile floor only because it hit his foot first. His expression is dubious as he straightens up, holding the fizzing bottle over the sink.

I’m still frozen in place, shaking with the adrenaline rush.

“Everything under control in here?” Cooper asks, splitting a glance between us.

Blake nods, cutting him a look.

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” He steps into the elevator and the door slides shut.

I turn to Blake, finally finding my voice. “Can anyone just walk in here?”

He grabs a dish towel from the counter and drops it onto the puddle, swishing it around with his foot. “You need the opener to get into the garage, then a code and key for the elevator. Only Cooper and I have the openers, a code, and the key. So, no.”

“Do I get a code and the key?”

He looks up at me. “No.”

I frown at him. “So I’m trapped here.”

“Yep,” he says, going back to mopping up the mess.

My frown turns into a glare, and I’m tempted to pull the bottle out of the sink and pour the rest of its contents over his head.

He looks up, notices my expression, and his perfect lips pull into a smug smile. “Joking. You only need a code and key to get into the house. Just push the button to get out,” he says with a nudge of his chin toward the elevator.

I consider walking over there and doing just that, but where would I go? Instead, I lean my backside against the counter as Blake scoops the sopping towel up and drops it into the sink. “What does he mean, ‘the wire is hot’?”

He turns on the water to rinse it out. “The guy who lived here was serious about his security. You’ve seen the panic room, and there’s also an alarmed electric fence that runs through the hedges along the entire perimeter.”

I just look at him.

“That’s why this was the perfect place to bring you,” he continues when I don’t say anything. “No one’s going to get to you without doing serious bodily damage—and my knowing about it.”

The image of the guy with the gun, shooting at Jonathan and me, surfaces in my mind at the thought. I give the counter more of my weight as my legs tremble. Less than a week ago all I wanted was sex with Blake—who was still Harrison then—on the sofa at Benny’s.

And now we’re here.

He’s not my lover; he’s my protector . . . and my persecutor. This is real. This is all real. What I hoped would be a mind-blowing fling with a totally hot stranger has turned into this nightmare.

My head spins as my new reality comes crashing down on me. This is my life now. I can’t undo any of it. I stagger to a kitchen chair at the small table near the window and sit heavily, my legs no longer willing to hold me.

“Sam? Are you okay?”

I’m staring at some random point on the floor, unable to lift my eyes. “No.” It’s true. All of a sudden I feel adrenaline-charged and shaky as panic takes hold of me. I rest my elbow on my knee and hold my head in my hand as a cold sweat breaks over my skin.

“Is it your head?” he asks, supporting me with a hand on my shoulder while he snatches his phone out of his pocket. “Cooper, get your ass back here,” he barks into it.

I lift my head and slip the phone out of his fingers. “Cancel that, Cooper. Everything’s fine.”

There’s a snicker from the other end. “You giving Casanova fits, Jezebel?”

“Trying my hardest.”

He laughs. “Put Blake on, will you?”

I look up to see Blake staring at me, a scowl fixed on his face as he takes the phone back from me. “Yeah,” he says into it, then rolls his eyes and hangs his head at whatever Cooper says. “No. I think maybe she was in shock.” His eyes lift and scan up my body, finally coming to rest on my face. “She seems okay now.”

I reach out and pluck the phone out of his hand again. “Good-bye, Cooper,” I say, disconnecting.

“You’re okay?” Blake asks, his forehead creasing with concern as he reclaims the phone and stuffs it in his pocket.

“Yeah. I just . . . I can’t believe this has all happened to me. I mean, it’s been one hell of a month, you know? Getting fired from the pharmacy, getting arrested, this,” I say, gesturing around the room. “If my mom wanted to prove I’m a total fuck-up, she couldn’t have scripted it any better.”

He settles into the chair next to mine. “I don’t know what your mother was thinking, Sam, but she couldn’t have anticipated this.”

“She was thinking I’m useless. She’s always thought that.”

“I doubt that’s what she thinks,” he says.

“You don’t know her,” I tell him with a shake of my head. “She’s always thought she needed to tell me what to do every second of every day, like I would forget to get out of bed if she didn’t remind me.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Would you have?”

“Probably not,” I say, throwing my hands in the air, “but it was everything with her. I wore my skirts too short and my hair too long. I either had the wrong friends or not enough of them. She corrected my homework every night all my life, and got mad when I refused to send her my college assignments. She didn’t trust me to do anything right without her input.”

“So, she was a little overbearing. At least you knew she cared.”

“Then why did she throw me out? That’s, like, the opposite of running my life. Everything to nothing.”

He presses back into his chair. “Maybe it was as much for her as it was for you.”

I glare at him. “Okay, Dad. Thanks for that useless pearl of wisdom.”

“I just mean, maybe she realized you would never learn to be responsible for yourself if she didn’t let go.”

My whole body tenses as I fight to contain my frustration, because if I have a hot button, it’s my mother. Nothing makes me want to punch something quite so much as someone defending her to me. But, deep inside, I’m totally relieved he’s making it so easy to hate him. “You think I’m irresponsible?”

He shrugs. “All I’m saying is, there comes a point for everyone when you pretty much need to sink or swim.”

I stand and glare down at him. “I was swimming just fine before the DEA decided to drown me.” I spin for my room. “I’m not very hungry. I’m going to take a shower.”

“Fine.” He moves to the counter and starts aggressively cracking eggs into a bowl. “If you want dinner, it’ll be ready in a few.”

I lock my door, then pull off the sling holding my arm against my ribs. When I straighten it, it’s stiff, and my shoulder’s a little sore, but not too bad. I throw the sling in the trash, deciding I’m done with it.

I strip, using my right arm gingerly to help, and toss my clothes on the floor as I move to the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror over the sink isn’t a pretty thing. I step closer and press my fingers to the bruises at my shoulder. They’re that in between color, transitioning from dark purple to green—the same color that surrounds the white gauze bandage taped to the right side of my face and fills in the semicircle under my right eye.

I lean into the counter and slowly pry back the bandages. Underneath, there’s a gash, held together with some sort of clear tape. The redness and swelling that were there the first time I saw it are mostly gone, and it’s just a thin red line with a little dried blood. I poke at it and it’s tender but not too bad.

I brush my teeth with the fresh toothbrush and new tube of toothpaste on the counter, then step into the hot water. The shower helps me to relax a little, and I stand in it for a long time after I’m done washing up, letting the warm spray massage out all my knots. When I’m finished, I wrap myself in a towel and move to the bedroom.

The room is dark, the sun having set sometime during the hour I spent in the bathroom. Out the window, San Francisco sparkles like a jewel across the black swath of the bay. I push open the French doors and the smell of fresh air and roasted vegetables wafts in on the gentle spring breeze.

My stomach gurgles like a drowning man, but I decide to skip dinner. There are definitely some things I need to figure out, and if I’m stuck here for months with Blake Montgomery, how I feel about him is one of the biggest. I can’t do that when I’m looking at him, because the memory of that body pressed against mine jumbles my thoughts.

I drift out the French doors, expecting it to be cold after the hot shower, but the air’s unseasonably warm tonight. A thin crescent of a moon hangs over the city, casting almost no light, and below it, a blanket of fog is rolling in off the water. The only thing that ruins the beauty of the scene is the country music wafting out the open French doors of the living room balcony.

“My eardrums are going to rupture,” I mutter.

“Give it time. It grows on you.”

I jump and look to my right. On the balcony off the living room, I see a dark silhouette, leaning on the rail. I pull my towel tighter and back a step toward my door. “I didn’t know you were out here.”

Blake pushes off the rail and moves to my side of his balcony. “You have everything you need?”

I nod, then realize he probably can’t see that gesture in the dark. “Yeah.”

“Good.” For several beats of my heart neither of us moves, but I feel the weight of his gaze traveling slowly over me. “How’s your arm?”

I roll my shoulder in a circle. “A little sore, but okay.”

“I’m glad it’s better.” He backs toward the open French doors behind him. “There’s dinner in the fridge if you want to warm some up. I’ll be downstairs . . . if you need anything.”

“I’m fine.”

He hesitates again at the door. “Good night, Sam.”

His smooth drawl roughens into something that says sex, even though those weren’t his actual words, and it turns the tingle in my tummy into an ache. “ ’Night.”

He slips through the doors and closes them behind him, and a minute later the music stops and I hear him on the stairs across the hall from my room. I step inside and move to my closet. There’s no way I’m going to wear the granny gown, but a tank and a pair of underwear will do. I reach into the drawer and pull out a pair of the white cotton panties, and that’s when the red strap of something deeper in the stack catches my attention. I dig to the bottom of the stack and pull out a strappy red thong, very similar to the one that peaked out from my black satin shorts the night I met Blake.

I drop my towel and slip it on, then pull a long white tank top over it. And as I pass my bedroom door on the way to my bed, there’s one thing I know for sure.

Nichols didn’t pick out all my new panties.

Chapter Nineteen

THE SMELL OF coffee and my empty stomach wake me. I tug on jeans and crack my door open. Blake’s in the kitchen, and I consider waiting him out, but I’m shaking from both caffeine withdrawal and starvation. I make a beeline to the cupboard I’m pretty sure I saw coffee mugs in last night and open it. Sure enough, there are several mismatched mugs from different tourist destinations. I choose the one from Alcatraz, huffing out a sardonic laugh at the symbolism.

Blake looks at me curiously as he peels a waffle out of the waffle iron with a fork. His short hair is damp, sticking up as if he toweled it dry, and for the first time, he’s in a T-shirt instead of his typical button-down. I see the black lines of the tattoo that covers the left side of his torso and chest extend down his arm to just above the elbow. His faded jeans fit him just . . . mmm. It’s taking some serious self-control to keep my eyes off him.

I concentrate on filling my mug from the pot, then start back to my room.

“Sam, I can’t let you starve to death.”

I look over my shoulder at him and see him holding up a plate with a waffle on it. I spin and give him my best smirk. “Would that look bad on your résumé?”

He flings the plate onto the counter, where it clatters for a few seconds before coming to rest dangerously close to the edge. “I’m usually pretty good at reading people, but not you . . .” His eyes narrow a little, as if he’s trying to see past my skin. “One second you’re . . .” He tosses a hand in the air. “. . . and the next you . . .” His jaw tightens again, and he shakes his head in dismay. “You’re the most frustrating individual I’ve ever met, and I’ve only known you for, like, five minutes.”

“If it’s any consolation, the feeling’s mutual,” I say, turning for my room.

“If you eat, I’ll let you call your mom.”

I stop. The thing is, I don’t really want to talk to Mom, so I could just keep walking. But I should talk to Mom. And I’m seriously starving. “Isn’t coercion against the Geneva Convention?”

“The Geneva Convention only applies to prisoners of war.”

I turn and give him my most cutting glare. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking this isn’t war.”

“Strawberries?” he asks with a tip of his head, picking up the waffle plate.

“Fine.”

“Whipped cream?”

I take a mental fly swatter to the image of what I’d really like to do with that whipped cream and start back across the living room. “Fine.”

Blake loads my waffle up and sets it on the table. “The maple syrup is hot.”

Yep. Now the fantasy’s complete.

We eat in silence, and when I’m done, Blake holds his cell phone toward me over my empty plate. “Go ahead and call your mom, but unless you want to put both you and her in danger, please don’t talk about what’s going on or tell her where you are.”

I reach for the phone. “Will you get in trouble for letting me use this?”

He pulls it back. “Only if you say something you shouldn’t.”

I stand and snatch it out of his hand. “I’ll think about it.”

He looks at me a moment before standing and clearing our plates. “You can take it to your room.”

I cross the living room and close my door behind me as I dial. It rings twice before she picks up. “Hello?”

My heart pounds in my throat. “Hi, Mom . . . It’s me.”

“Oh, thank God! I’ve been beside myself since your message. Are you in trouble, Sam?”

Of course. Not, Are you okay? or What happened? but, Are you in trouble? But I can’t give her too much shit, because I am, in fact, in trouble. “I’m okay.”

“Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

“I can’t tell you. Sorry.”

“What do you mean, you can’t tell me?” She sounds a little hysterical, but anything I could say to calm her would be a lie.

I toe the carpet, cringing. “Something happened and I’m sort of in protective custody. I’m not allowed to tell anyone where I am.”

“You’re in jail?” she screeches into the phone.

“No, Mom. I’m not in jail. But I’m somewhere where the police can keep me safe.”

“From who? Who do you need to be kept safe from?”

“It’s just . . . I was just sort of in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Her voice is wary, some of the panic slipping away. “But you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

There’s a long pause, and in the background I hear my brothers fighting. The pang in my chest surprises me. It’s not like we’ve ever been close. They’re thirteen years younger than me. My golden half brothers, who can do no wrong. Offspring upgrade 2.0.

“This is . . . I just don’t know what to think. It’s all so cryptic,” she finally says.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’d tell you more if I could.” I swallow. “How are the boys?”

“They miss you.”

My chest clamps at her lie. They barely know I exist. “Tell them hi for me.”

Another long pause. “When will you be able to come home?”

Come home? Am I unkicked out? “You want me to come home?”

“I’m so sorry, baby. I should have never insisted you leave. You just scared me so much.” Her voice hitches on the last word. “There are things we need to talk about—things you need to know.”

I’m not quite sure what that means. Mom has never been a big talker, other than to tell me what to do. “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to leave here. It could be a while.”

“Oh, baby. Please take care of yourself. And I expect to hear from you.”

“I’m not sure if I’ll be able to call again.”

“I don’t like this.”

I look around the room, far nicer than anywhere I’ve ever lived, and think about who’s waiting for me on the other side of the wall. As mad as I am at him, I don’t think there’s any doubt at this point that his priority is keeping me safe. “I promise I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, baby. I love you.”

I don’t answer. I know she’s waiting for me to say it back, but I can’t. Everything that happened between us is still too raw. “ ’Bye, Mom.”

I disconnect and stand here staring at the phone. When I finally open the door, Blake is at the kitchen sink, his sleeves rolled up, drying the last of the breakfast dishes.

“Everything okay?” he asks warily.

And that’s when I realize my face is frozen in a pained grimace. I force it to relax. “Yeah.” I move across the living room and lay his phone on the granite countertop. “So . . . what now?” I ask, looking around.

“Feel free to make yourself comfortable,” he says, gesturing at the room. “This is all yours, for now.”

“For months,” I say.

“Come on,” he says, moving past me. “We never finished the tour.”

I follow him to the stairs.

“You saw there’s a pool table downstairs,” he says, gesturing that way with a nod of his head, “and there’s a small gym and a poker table in the bathhouse next to the pool.”

He starts up the spiral stairs across from my bedroom door to the next level up. The stairway opens into a large room above mine. The wall behind us is glass, the view just as stunning as from the windows below. To the right, over an immense mahogany desk, there are framed San Francisco 49ers jerseys, an autographed football under a glass cube, and Joe Montana, my stepfather’s idol, smiles out of the wall, his arm slug across some guy’s shoulders.

“Wow,” I say, staring at it. “This guy knew people.”

Blake follows my gaze. “That’s what money will do.”

My eyes migrate around the room. Past the fireplace on the back wall, to the left, is a wall of books. Bookshelves stretch from floor to ceiling from the windows up front to the back wall near the fireplace. I move in that direction and peruse the titles, plucking a John Lescroart hardcover off the shelf.

“That’s one of his best,” Blake says from over my shoulder.

“I like that they’re set in San Francisco.” I flip it open and find it’s autographed to someone named Bernadette. “Sweet.” I settle onto the sofa that faces the window and flip to chapter one. When I look up, Blake is lingering near the bookshelf, watching me.

He clears his throat. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” he says, inching toward the landing.

I nod and go back to my book, but I’m not really reading. Out of the corner of my eye I’m watching him watch me as he slowly descends the stairs. When he’s gone, I close the book and set it on the sofa, then stand and move to the window. A minute later Blake steps onto the balcony below and clamps a hand on the rail, hanging his head between his shoulders and rubbing the back of his neck with the other hand. After a long minute, he steps back and looks out over the view, and it’s not until he starts to turn toward my window that I realize I’ve leaned into it, pressing my palm against the glass. I stumble back before his gaze finds me and sit hard on the sofa.

Not only is Blake my jailer, but the whole reason I’m here in the first place. I have to stop lusting after him . . . which would be so much easier if he would stop being so hot.

I pick the book up and try to focus, but it’s useless. I stand and move cautiously toward the window, and when I look down, he’s gone. I breathe in a deep breath and look out over the city from my glass cage. It’s a sunny day, with the marine layer already out at sea. The sun glints off the tall buildings in the city, and the water of the bay shimmers. My eyes focus on the foreground, the pool below, down a long set of stone stairs. Didn’t Blake say he’d picked out a swimsuit?

I’ve never been much of a swimmer, but I look down at the pool again. Maybe the water would be good for my arm. And with no phone and no internet, I need to do something besides sit around obsessing over Blake or I’ll go insane.

I bring the book with me as I descend the stairs and slip into my room. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure Blake said he bought me a swimsuit.

Tossing the book on my bed, I head to the closet and root through the drawers until I find what I’m looking for—a black string bikini. I move into the room, stripping off my jeans and T-shirt and strapping myself into the skimpy suit. It fits, and I look pretty damn good in it, if I do say so myself. If you ignore the tie-dye bruises covering the upper half of my body, the black suit with my red hair and fair skin is striking.

I tie my hair back and dig through my bag for my sunglasses, then head across the hall to the stairs. When I reach the bottom, I peek into the poolroom to make sure Blake’s not there. It’s empty, so I scoot across to the French doors and let myself out onto the lower deck. I follow the stairs and the stone path all the way down to the pool, my arms wrapped around myself against the slight chill of the spring air. I dip my toe in the water and find Blake wasn’t lying. It’s heated, just short of bathtub warm.

The bathhouse is almost as big as my parents’ real house. There are two doors in the front. I open the first and find a large room with two leather recliners and a sofa pointing at a big screen TV on the wall over yet another fireplace, a black granite, fully stocked bar along the right-hand wall, and a poker table near the windows looking out over the pool. On the opposite wall is a gym of sorts: a free weight rack next to a weight bench, and a treadmill. There’s more sports memorabilia here, and the smell of stale cigar smoke and sweat, giving it a definite man-cave feel.

I close the door and move to the next one. It opens into a bathroom, complete with a mammoth, glass-enclosed shower and a tall antique cabinet full of towels and a variety of floats. Grabbing a towel, I head back out to the pool.

I drop the towel on a lounge chair on my way to the deep end, where I stand staring at the smooth water before I lower myself in and float on my back, moving my shoulder through its range of motion.

Something buzzes over the water and I jerk upright, worried it’s a bee. But when I look at the edge of the pool, there’s an enormous greenish blue dragonfly perched there. I move closer to inspect it and am surprised when it doesn’t fly away. It just sits there, open-winged, staring at me with its gigantic eyes.

“Can I borrow your wings?” I ask it.

It doesn’t answer.

Something moves on the balcony, and I look up to find Blake leaning his elbows on the rail, watching.

I’m living in a fishbowl. But as a tingly rush skitters through me, I can’t help wondering how sick it makes me that I don’t I hate it.

Chapter Twenty

I SPEND THE next week sleeping late, swimming, and focusing on staying mad at Blake. My dragonfly keeps me company a lot of the time, just sitting on the same spot on the pool edge, watching me. I’ve even started consulting it on all my plans to get back at Blake.

As much time as I’m spending at the pool, I’m starting to get some of my color back. Under my tan, my bruises have faded to a pale yellow, and my arm only hurts when I tweak it.

Blake and I have eaten most dinners together, though I rarely come up from the pool for lunch. He’s started stocking the fridge behind the bar in the bathhouse with fruit and cheese and yogurt for me to nibble on. I refuse to thank him.

When I come out of my room, he is filling a travel mug with coffee from the pot.

“Going somewhere?” I ask when I see his messenger bag on the sofa.

He presses the top onto his mug and turns. “I’ve got to head into the office for a few hours. Cooper is on his way.”

“Is it something with Ben?”

He just looks at me for a heartbeat. “We’re not coming up with the evidence we’d hoped.”

“Meaning?”

“His office is clean. No blood or any trace that would indicate Weber died there.”

“Meaning . . . ?” But I know what it means and my stomach knots.

“Meaning, at the moment, all we have to tie Arroyo to the murder is your testimony.”

I wrap my arms around my middle at the sudden cold that sends a shiver through me.

“We’re going to get him, Sam,” he says. “But this is why it’s so important that we keep you out of harm’s way.”

The elevator door slides open and Cooper is standing there, his usual scowl fixed to his face. “Get a move on, Montgomery. You’re going to miss the meeting.”

Blake gives me a look, then steps into the elevator. As soon as he’s gone, Cooper drops into the armchair and starts channel surfing. He stops on a rerun of Myth Busters.

I get myself a cup of coffee and sink into the sofa.

He points the clicker in his hand at the TV and looks at me for the first time since walking in. “You know they’re from here, right? Adam and Jamie? I saw them film the one where they tried to blow up a bathtub.”

“They didn’t try to blow up a bathtub,” I say. “They were trying to bust that movie myth that you can survive an explosion in a bathtub.”

“Whatever. They do most of their stuff over in Alameda.” He settles deeper into his seat, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table.

There’s a long, awkward silence, and finally I stand. “I’m going to head down to the pool and work my shoulder. Blake usually watches from up here,” I say with a wave of my hand at the balcony, because I really, really don’t want Cooper to come to the pool with me. But then I realize how that sounded. “I mean . . . he stays up here when I’m down there . . . and . . . watches.”

Cooper’s scowl deepens.

I spin for my room before I dig the hole any deeper and change into my suit. When I come out, Cooper is in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

I tiptoe across the hall and down the stairs before he sees me. When I dive into the pool, I find I can actually take a full stroke overhand without my shoulder hurting. After ten laps I’m tired, but not sore. I climb out of the pool and sprawl across a lounge chair, talking to my dragonfly and waiting for my shoulder to start aching. When it doesn’t, I dive back in and swim some more.

When I finally make my way back to the house hours later, the sun is hanging low over the bay and I’m medium rare. But I feel really good. The best I have in a while.

It’s quiet upstairs, so I move to the stereo in the wall and turn on the music so Cooper will know I’m here, but some twangy female voice floods my ears—one of Blake’s country favorites, no doubt. I turn it off fast and move to the big open area between the stairs and the pool table.

I take a cleansing breath, then bow. I gave up karate classes when I went to college, but even when I was partying hard, I kept up my kata, my solo routine. I’ve been dying to get back into it. I tentatively throw my first punch and a rush skitters through me when there’s no pain. I settle into the comfort of the familiar kata, but about halfway in, when I get to the first reverse punch, a searing pain shoots through my shoulder. I grab it, bending at the waist, and suck in a sharp breath.

“Do you need ice?”

At the sound of Blake’s voice, I jerk upright and find him standing at the base of the stairs, two white shopping bags dangling from one hand.

“No. I’m fine,” I say, rolling my shoulder.

“Karate or tae kwon do?” he asks, stepping off the bottom stair into the room.

“What?”

He moves closer and looks me over, sizing me up. I hate that my insides warm under his scrutiny. “Both use Kankû-shô,” he says with a nod of his head toward me. “That is what that was, right?”

“You know martial arts?”

He gives me a slow nod. “Kankû-dai is my preferred kata.”

“Karate,” I answer.

“Shotokan?” he asks, stalking closer.

I nod.

“How long?”

He stops right in front of me. Really close. And with the pool table behind me, I’ve got nowhere to go. I force my eyes to stay on his face and try to concentrate on answering his question. “Seven years.”

A smile tugs at his mouth as he hands me one of the bags. “I knew you were a force to be reckoned with.”

“What’s this?” I ask, taking it from his hand.

He backs off a step. “The things you asked for.”

I peek inside and find things from my list—makeup and various toiletries, mostly, plus a big bag of Skittles. “Thanks.”

“And . . . here are a few other things I thought you might want,” he says, handing me the other bag. When I start to pull open the drawstring, he grasps my arm. “When you get to your room.”

“Okay,” I say, tucking it under my arm. I move to scoot past him, up the stairs, but he doesn’t let go.

“Cooper’s on is way back with the doctor. He wants to check you over.”

My fingers go automatically to my cheek. The tenderness is gone and the Steri-Strips are starting to peel up at the edges. “I’m fine.”

“I know. We just need to be sure,” he says, stepping back to let me pass. “Liability. Wouldn’t want you suing us.”

I give him my best smirk. “There plenty of other things I can sue you for.”

I scamper up the stairs to my room, and when I open the bag Blake gave me, I find a black silk sleep shirt and matching robe, some loose workout shorts, and a handful of very sexy thongs—all the things in my closet that I’d complained about. Butterflies alight in my chest at the thought of him picking this stuff out for me.

I think about showering and changing but then remember that the doctor is going to want to see my shoulder. When I head back out to the living room, Blake’s in the kitchen and something smells amazing.

“What’s for dinner?” I ask.

He looks over his shoulder at me. “Chicken Provençal over rice.”

“Smells good.”

He nods, his gaze flickering over me again, then turns back to the stove, and I wonder if there’s ever going to be a time this won’t be so awkward. I think about how easy everything was between us when he was Harrison Yates, and even though it was only for a few days and nothing about it was real, I want that back.

I go to the fridge and pull out a Diet Coke, popping the top and downing most of it. “How long?”

“I figured we’d eat when you were done with the doctor.”

“Need help?” I ask, stepping up to the counter next to him.

He holds up the knife he’s using to trim the chicken breasts and his eyes spark. “When I’m wielding a weapon of mass destruction, it’s probably wise to stand back.”

“You just don’t trust me not to stab you with it.”

He gives me a slow nod, fighting a smile. “There’s also that.” He sets the knife down, out of my reach, I notice, and tosses the chicken into a pot with some kind of sauce in it. “I guess I haven’t asked if there’s anything you don’t eat.”

I shrug. “Not really a big fan of sweet potatoes or pork products other than bacon, but almost anything else goes.”

“So I guess that means no Spam?” he says, peeking out from under his long lashes.

How can anyone make Spam sound sexy? Why can’t he just be a jerk? It would make it so much easier to stay mad.

“So, chicken?” he asks, pulling a rice steamer out of the cupboard.

“Better than beef.”

“Fish?”

“It’s okay as long as it’s not super fishy. Some of it smells really bad,” I say, holding my nose.

“What about other seafood—shellfish and whatever?”

“Love scallops and shrimp. Not a huge fan of clams.”

“Abalone?”

“What’s abalone?”

“It’s a shellfish.”

“Never had it.”

“It’s my favorite, but you don’t see it around much. Sometimes in restaurants.” His eyes seem to lose focus for a second. “My sister and I used to dive for them with our dad when we were kids.”

“In Texas?” I ask, confused. “That sounds like something that would require an ocean.”

He focuses back on my face. “No. Here . . . or up north really, near Mendocino.” He clears his throat and turns to the sink, pouring himself a glass of ice water. “You want a beer with dinner? Or wine?”

There’s obviously more to that story, but from the way he not-so-smoothly changed the subject, it’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it. I jiggle my Coke can. “I’m good.”

“Holy macaroni,” a voice says from near the elevator. I turn and find Cooper standing there with Dr. Martin, his eyes wide. They shift to Blake. “You couldn’t have picked a whole bathing suit?”

Blake shakes his head, then stands and moves to the doctor, holding out his hand. “Thanks for coming, Doc. She seems to be doing pretty well, but see what you think.”

Dr. Martin shakes Blake’s hand then smiles at me. “Is this true, Samantha? How’s that arm?”

“It’s fine. Just a little sore here and there if I twist it or move too fast.”

He motions for me to sit on the sofa and I do, then he takes my arm and moves it. “That hurt?”

I shake my head.

“How about this?” he asks, lifting it over my head.

“No. It’s good.”

He sits on the coffee table in front of me and pulls out a penlight. He flashes it in my eyes. “Your head’s been okay? No blurred vision?”

“Nope.”

“Headaches?”

My eyes flick to Blake, who’s pulled himself up onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “Only the ones he gives me.”

Dr. Martin huffs a laugh through his nose, and fingers the Steri-Strips on my face. “Usually we just wait for these to fall off, but I can remove them if you’d like.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He moves to the kitchen and washes his hands, then sits again and gently pulls the tape off my face. “This is barely going to leave a scar. You’re lucky.”

“Not according to Jonathan,” I say.

He smiles. “Jonathan went home yesterday, in case you’re wondering. He’s doing fine.”

Thank God. “I want to see him.”

Blake tips his head in a warning. “We’ll talk about this later.”

I glare at him. “I want to talk about it now. My best friend got shot at because you put me in danger. I think the least you can do is let me see him to be sure he’s okay.”

“This isn’t forever, Jezebel,” Cooper says, giving me a pointed look, and I know he doesn’t want to say too much in front of the doctor.

“Well, it sure as hell feels like it,” I grumble.

The doctor finishes up with me, and Cooper sees him out. He’s back a few minutes later with his iPad and a folder. “We need to go back over what happened after you saw Weber in Arroyo’s office,” he says.

I cross my arms and settle back into the cushions. “After you let me see Jonathan.”

“So, you’re harboring a death wish,” Cooper says, his frown deepening.

“I just want to know he’s okay.”

“He’s fine, Sam,” Blake says, sliding off his stool.

I drop my face into my hands and feel them shake. I’ve never felt so trapped. “I’m going insane in this cage,” I mutter into my palms.

For a long time the room is silent except for the gentle clank of the lid on the simmering pot on the stove. When I lift my face, Blake and Cooper are staring each other down, as if having some silent argument.

Cooper settles onto the coffee table. “We’re not coming up with the physical evidence we need in Arroyo’s office,” he says, fixing me in his serious gaze. “Without that, all we have is your testimony, and it might not be enough. Any little thing you can think of might be important.”

I toss up my hands. “So, because you guys suck at your jobs, you’re hoping I can remember Ben pulling out a gun and shooting that guy?”

“This will all be for nothing if Arroyo walks,” Blake pushes.

Something inside me snaps at his irritated tone. “Hmm . . . let me think. What do I remember from that night . . . ?” I say, tapping my temple. “Oh yeah! I remember seeing Ben kill that guy while Special Agent Montgomery, here, was copping a feel inside my vest and grinding his hard-on against my ass.” I smile sweetly at Cooper. “Is that what you were looking for?”

Cooper hangs his head in defeat.

I hate feeling so helpless. I hate that I have no control over my life. And more than anything, I hate Blake for putting me in this position.

There’s a shallow sense of satisfaction when he blows out an agitated sigh and rolls his eyes.

It seems the only thing I can control is Blake’s frustration level, so from this moment forward, I pledge to channel all of my energy into finding creative ways to make his life miserable.

So far it’s going pretty well.

Chapter Twenty-One

“I WANT TO go home,” I say for the thousandth time, swirling my glass of wine and staring into the vortex. I’ve been trapped here for two weeks, and I don’t know how much more I can take.

Blake turns from the stove, where he’s sautéing shrimp in butter, and gives me a sharp look. He’s been more irritable the last few days, and I hope I’m finally starting to get under his skin as bad as he’s under mine. “You know that can’t happen.”

“If you keep me here much longer, you are the one whose life will be in danger,” I say with a tip of my head at the knife block.

His jaw clenches the way it does when he’s getting frustrated. “My job is to—”

“Keep me safe,” I cut in. “I know. But I swear to God, I’m going to stab you in your sleep if I have to stay in this cage for the next six months.”

He takes the two steps across the floor to the other side of the island and leans heavily against it, his gaze fixed on me. “Jonathan is missing, Sam.”

Spots flash in my eyes as all the blood drains out of my head. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to tell you. But you need to understand. This is serious. As long as there’s any chance he’ll be cleared, Arroyo in jail barely slows down his network. But he knows they’ll desert like rats on a sinking ship if he’s convicted. He’ll do whatever it takes, and right now his focus seems to be on keeping you quiet. Until he’s neutralized, we have no choice but to keep you here.”

I can’t breathe. “Where is Jonathan?”

“We don’t know.”

My mind spins, trying to find a rational answer. “He plays down in L.A. a lot. He’s probably down there on a gig.”

“I’m sure it’s something like that.” He says it, but I can tell by the way his brow furrows that he doesn’t believe it.

“Have you talked to Ginger?”

His lips press into a line. “She doesn’t know where he is.”

Something kicks hard in my stomach. “I want to talk to her.”

“I’m sorry, Sam. I can’t let you do that.”

I jump off my stool and level him with a glare. “I want to talk to her.”

He just looks at me.

I spin in a circle, tugging on fistfuls of my hair as a black haze of panic settles over me and pounds in my throat like a second heart. “I have to help my friend,” I choke out on the edge of a sob.

When I look back at him, I see sympathy in his eyes, but the rest of his face is set in determined stone. He’s not budging.

I turn for my room as tears start to track down my face.

The sun is setting over the bay, crimson and purple streaks in the sky, as the lights of San Francisco begin to shimmer on the water. I sink into the armchair near my door and draw my knees to my chest, pressing my face into them. Did Ben do something to Jonathan? Is he okay?

God, please let him be okay.

There’s a knock on the door. “Sam?”

I ignore Blake. If something happened to Jonathan, it’s his fault. I wouldn’t be here in this hell if it wasn’t for him. This is all his fault.

“Sam, open the door. You need to eat.”

I grab my book and hurl it at the door. It hits with a solid thunk and flutters to the floor.

“Sam,” he tries again, and I know he has a plate, because the smell of shrimp is seeping through the door.

My stomach growls, but I ignore him.

Finally, I hear him move down the hall.

I sit and stare out the window as the sky goes dark, and little by little the city across the bay becomes brighter as it comes to life.

I follow the lights of the Bay Bridge and my eyes trace the lines of streetlights in the city to the area where I think Benny’s should be. Why did I ever let Jonathan talk me into working there? If I’d never taken that job, we’d be at his apartment right now, curled on the sofa watching Doctor Who.

I have no clue what time it is when I finally change and get ready for bed. I brush my teeth and slip into my black silk nightshirt, buttoning the middle three buttons, then crawl into bed and close my eyes, determined to sleep. But between my worry for Jonathan and my growling stomach, I can’t.

After I’ve stared at the ceiling for the better part of forever, I get up and go to my door, cracking it open and poking my head out. The living room and kitchen are dark, the only light from the full moon, shining through the picture windows. I move silently to the kitchen and flick on the stovetop light. The clock on the microwave says it’s 2:00 A.M. I blow out a sigh and pull open the fridge. There’s a plate of shrimp scampi over pasta covered with cling wrap on the shelf. It looks amazing, but I’m not going to give Blake the satisfaction of eating it. I grab a bag of baby carrots and squirt some ranch dressing into a bowl, then slide onto a bar stool at the counter.

“You set off the motion detector,” Blake drawls from the stairs. He’s in gym shorts and a T-shirt that’s bunched around the shoulders, as if he hastily threw it on . . . which makes me wonder what he sleeps in. He moves to the box for the alarm system on the wall near the elevator and punches in a code, then leans against the door frame, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and watches me eat. Finally, I can’t stand the weight of his gaze. I glare up at him and catch him mid-ogle, his eyes slipping down the front of my thin nightshirt. I realize I didn’t button it all the way up, and one or both of the girls very well may be in full view, but I don’t move to fix it.

He catches his lower lip between his teeth and pushes away from the door, moving to the window and looking out over the bay.

“I know this is hard for you, Sam. If there was any choice, I’d let you go,” he tells the window, “but we just can’t risk it. We can’t risk you.” He turns to face me, leaning his hands on the back of a kitchen chair, and his eyes lock on mine, pleading with me to understand.

I don’t. All I feel is blind rage, and all I want is revenge.

I bite the tip off my carrot more forcefully than I need to. My eyes flick to him and find him watching me, his lips parted and his eyes ravenous as they fight to stay on my face. And that’s when I see my opening.

I dip my carrot again, then slide it deep into my mouth. As I pull it back, I roll my tongue over it and my eyes flutter closed. I suck it deep again and moan.

I smile at his obvious discomfort as his fingers curl hard into the wood of the chair back, and I swear he stops breathing for a second as I bite off the tip.

“I’m going for a swim,” I tell him, slipping off the stool and skipping down the stairs.

When I emerge onto the deck, it’s a bright night, a full moon hanging high in the sky. Maybe it’s the cool night air, or maybe it’s because it really dawns on me what I’m about to do, but as I flit down the path toward the pool, I shudder. I flip the switch to the underwater light near the door of the bathhouse and the whole pool suddenly glows, sending ripples of blue light over the surrounding shrubs, the bathhouse, and me.

When I get to the pool edge, I nearly lose my nerve. I stand here, my back to the house, working to control my breathing before reaching up with shaking hands and flicking open the buttons of my sleep shirt. I let it fall open and instantly the cool air pricks my bare nipples into hard nubs and pebbles my exposed flesh with goose bumps. The shirt slides off my shoulders and flutters into a silky puddle on the pool deck at my feet, and I’m standing in nothing but the black mesh thong Blake picked out for me.

In my head my hastily conceived plan involved taking that off too, then boldly strutting down the stairs of the pool. But I can’t make myself do it. Instead, I keep my underwear on and dive in with my back still to the house.

From under the water, I see Blake on the balcony, standing back in the shadows near the French doors. When I break the surface, I float up and swim slowly to the other end, where I turn and sidestroke back to the deep end.

And the whole time, Blake watches.

The underwater lights reflect off my body in the undulating waves and leave nowhere to hide. But that’s the point. I want to torture him with what he can’t have. Half an hour later, when he’s leaning heavily on the balcony rail, his eyes still glued to me, I know I have.

Braver now, I slink up the steps and out of the water, and move to the outside shower on the side the bathhouse, in full view of the balcony and Blake. I wait until the water’s throwing off a cloud of steam, then step in. As I lather my body, I feel the caress of Blake’s gaze. When I rinse and open my eyes, he’s still watching. I shudder despite the scorching water.

I finish and dry myself off, then reach for my sleep shirt, sliding it on and fastening only one button, just below my breasts. It flutters around me as saunter up the walk to the back door of the house, and when I step through into the poolroom, Blake is at the base of the stairs.

“Did you have a nice swim?” His eyes smolder and his drawl is thick and low, and I know Plan Drive-Special-Agent-Blake-Montgomery-out-of-his-right-mind was a raging success.

My shirt slips off my shoulder as I close the door behind me, nearly exposing my breast, and I do nothing to stop it. “I did, thank you.”

He doesn’t move aside as I stride toward the stairs, and there’s no missing the war that’s waging inside him. I slow, waiting for him to decide what he’s going to do. Finally, he reaches for my shoulder, hooking a finger under the edge of the silk of my shirt. A rush skitters through me as he pulls it slowly back, exposing more skin. He’s made his decision, and now I have a split second to make mine before my body makes it for me. My plan was to tease him until he was crazy with need, but right at this second what I know is, if he takes me across the room to his bed, I’m not going to stop him.

His knuckles slide over my bare skin, creeping my robe a fraction lower. I bite back the moan that tries to claw up my throat. But just before my breast slips free of the black silk, his jaw tenses and he lifts the edge back onto my shoulder, covering me. “We need to talk.”

Without another word, he spins and strides up the stairs, two at a time, as if, despite his words, he can’t get away from me fast enough.

I button a few more buttons as I follow, and when I crest the top stair, I find him on the other side of the kitchen island, his hands braced on the granite countertop. I step up across from him and he fixes me in his fierce gaze. “This isn’t a game, Sam. You are in real danger. You have been since you set foot into Ben Arroyo’s club.”

I nod, my expression all candor. “Those boots were an accident waiting to happen.”

He leans on his elbows. “Our tech team decrypted some of Arroyo’s computer files. Pictures.”

There’s sudden pressure in my chest, as if something hard and cold is caught in there. I slide onto a stool when I feel my legs shake. “Of . . . ?”

“There were cameras in the dressing room at the club, Sam,” he says, his eyes dropping from mine as his jaw tightens.

“The . . .” But then I get what he’s saying and I feel my eyes widen. “The dressing room?” I say, my breath catching. “Oh, God. Pictures of . . . us?”

He moves around the counter toward me, apparently no longer needing the barrier between us. “I’m sorry.”

“But I don’t . . .” I cringe at the thought of Blake seeing pictures of me naked in the dressing room after the little stunt I just pulled at the pool. I can’t even make myself ask if that’s what he saw. “Why would he . . . ?”

“We don’t know for sure, but there were some shots of a girl who danced there. She apparently went missing about two months ago, a few weeks after we pulled Nichols out, but she remembers her.” He pins me in his intense gaze. “This girl had loose family ties, just like you, and it was a while before any of her friends reported her missing. It’s starting to look like your boss might be involved in trafficking more than just drugs.”

The blood runs out of my head, and the lights seem to go suddenly dim as the room spins. “Oh, God.”

“We’re looking for anything that will tell us where that girl disappeared to. We’re going through the information we’re pulling off Arroyo’s computer as it’s decrypted, and we’re combing through the pictures of the other girls to see if any of them might be missing as well. But, Sam . . .” He cringes. “There were notes on his desk. They appear to have been about you. It looks like he might have been negotiating with a buyer.”

“For me? He was going to sell me?” I drop my face into my hands when spots form in my eyes and my whole head starts to buzz.

“I didn’t want you to know the full extent of what he’s done. I didn’t want you to know the danger you were in. But Arroyo is evil incarnate, Sam. And it’s not just the missing girl and Weber. He’s hurt thousands of people. He needs to be taken off the street, and you’re the person who can do that. All you have to do is tell the court what happened that night.”

“Will you be able to find that girl?” I ask, my face still in my hands. I can’t help thinking of Sabrina from the shelter. I can’t imagine she could ever be whole after what happened to her. If Ben did that to someone . . . or worse, I want to kill him.

“We’ll work with the FBI and try to put the pieces together.”

A wave of dread surges through me. “She’ll already be ruined by then.”

“We’re doing everything we can, Sam,” Blake says.

All I know is I have to do something. I can’t just sit here. I rip my face out of my hands. “Let me to talk to Ben.”

Blake fixes me in a narrow-eyed stare. “No. That’s absolutely not going to happen.”

“If he’s got Jonathan and he knows where this girl is, maybe he’ll tell me something that would help us find them.” Even as I say it, I know how stupid it is, but I feel so helpless.

He slides closer and his hard expression softens into something sympathetic. “Sam, he’s gone to great lengths to keep anything incriminating hidden. And I think you’re forgetting he tried to have you killed to keep you quiet. He’s not going to tell you what happened to Jonathan or that girl because you ask nicely.”

Everything inside me pulls into a hard knot. “I wasn’t planning on being nice.”

“No, Sam,” he says with a shake of his head and a little bit of a wild look in his eye. “You’re not talking to Arroyo.”

“I’ve got to do something!”

Blake grasps my shoulders gently. “Just help us put the bastard away.”

I close my eyes and breathe a slow breath to stop my shaking. After a minute, when I can speak, I open my eyes and look up at him. “Just tell me what to do. I’ll do anything you want.”

For a several beats of my racing heart, he doesn’t move. But finally, he lifts a hand and sweeps the hair off my face with a finger, tucking it behind my ear. His finger continues its gentle path along the line of my jaw. It’s only when his thumb brushes over the scar on my cheek that I realize it’s damp with tears. He slowly leans closer, so I can feel his breath on my forehead. “I won’t let him hurt you,” he says. “That’s my first priority. But I’ll find Jonathan. I promise. And we’ll do everything we can to find the girl.”

I’m shaking again, but this time it’s not from rage. I lay my hands on his chest, knowing I should push him away. But I feel the beat of his heart, almost as fast as mine, and it makes me want to pull him closer instead.

He steps back and his gaze locks on mine, those blue eyes pleading for something, but I’m not sure what. Before I can sort it out, he spins for the stairs and disappears.

It’s a long time before I can move, but finally I stagger to my room. And as I lay on the bed, trailing my fingers along the lines that Blake’s fingers took, there’s one thing that’s suddenly crystal clear. I still don’t trust him, but he’s not the enemy.

I’m just not sure what that makes him.

Chapter Twenty-Two

AFTER TOSSING AND  turning most of the night, I wake up early, and no matter how hard I try to go back to sleep, I can’t. I finally give up and slip out from under the sheets. I go to my window, looking out over the city below as it wakes to a new day, just as the door to the bathhouse swings open. Blake steps out in gym shorts and a T-shirt with a towel hanging from around his neck. He tosses the towel on a lounge chair and strips off his shirt, then dives in. And then he swims like a pro, muscles rippling under taut skin.

Is he working out? Does he work out every morning? I’ve never been up early enough to notice, but that would explain the body.

I watch him for longer than I mean to before ripping myself away from the window and slipping on a pair of shorts under my sleep shirt. I follow my nose to the coffeemaker.

Coffee—the sweet nectar of life. Just focus on the coffee, not the scorching hot half-naked guy in the pool.

I close my eyes and take a long swallow, then refill my cup. And I focus on my coffee until I’m standing in front of the window, focusing on Blake. As he pulls himself up to sit on the pool edge, defined pecs and biceps flex under black tribal ink that wraps around the left side of his torso and over his shoulder, stopping just above his elbow. He stands and turns to grab his towel, and I miss my mouth with my next sip, dribbling coffee down the front of me.

“Damn,” I hiss, setting my mug on the table and grabbing a napkin to dab at the stain on my shirt.

The French doors downstairs open, then close, and I brace myself for Blake to appear at the top of the stairs. He doesn’t. And the next second, I find myself slipping silently down the stairs to the floor below. I stop short of the corner and poke my head around. In the middle of the room, near the pool table, Blake is moving through the air as if gravity doesn’t exist. He steps and turns, kicking and punching through a Kankû-dai, never once losing his balance or his focus.

His hair is tousled, as if he toweled it dry, and he’s unshaven. The look totally works for him. My eyes trail down his cut abs to a dark blond happy trail that disappears under the low slung waistband of gym shorts that are still damp, clinging to his lower body in a way that leaves little to the imagination, and leaves little doubt that he’s perfect in every way.

I close my eyes with a shudder as I recall the way my body fit perfectly into the curve of his, and the way his body responded when mine was pressed against it.

When the shudder passes and I open my eyes, I find he’s stopped moving . . . and is staring at me. It’s only then that I realize I’ve moved out from behind the wall and standing on the bottom stair, in full view.

“Sorry,” I say, feeling my face warm. “I’m just . . .” What? Stalking you?

“Drinking problem?” he asks with a nod at the coffee stain on my shirt.

“Oh . . . um, yeah,” I say, flicking at my shirt absently. “I sort of spilled . . .” While I was drooling over you.

He turns to the pool table and grabs his shirt, tugging it over his head, and that drool worthy body disappears behind brushed cotton. “You’re up early.”

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.” I swallow and step off the stair into the poolroom. “Has anyone heard from Jonathan?”

He lowers his gaze, and before he even opens his mouth, I know the answer. “No, Sam. I’m sorry.”

I breathe in deeply, trying to keep the panic at bay. “Do you think Ben will hurt him? Because of me?” As I say it, I realize at some point I’ve resigned myself to the fact that this is my fault.

He rubs a hand over his wet hair, and his biceps and shoulder muscles ripple under intricate black lines. “I don’t honestly know. He’s capable of just about anything.”

I tip my head back and blink away tears.

“Come on,” he says, and when I look at him, he’s moved over, making room in the middle of the floor for me.

“What?”

“Kankû-shô? Or do you know Kankû-dai?”

I step toward him. “I’ve seen Kankû-dai, but I’ve never been taught.”

He smiles. “It’s your lucky day.”

My eyes migrate against my will to his chest, and I force them back to his eyes. “You’ll teach me?”

“If you want.”

I move to where he is. “I want.” God, I want so much, most of it out of my reach. I want Jonathan back. I want Ben to not want me dead. I want the last few months to have never happened. But this is something I can have.

He nods, and his eyes hold mine for a long moment before he takes his position in the middle of the room. “Technically, it’s more advanced, but if you’ve been doing Kankû-shô for a while, it shouldn’t be hard to pick up.”

I lean against the pool table. “Show me.”

He stands and bows, then starts through his kata. I watch, mesmerized by his strength and control. When he finishes and bows again, and I’m both speechless and breathless, and I haven’t even moved yet.

“Your turn,” he says.

I nod, because I’m not sure I can talk. He bows, and I manage to get my act together enough to straighten up and stand at his side. I bow.

“So, first is the rising sun,” he says, spreading his legs and lifting his arms slowly as he breathes in, elbows bent and palms forward.

I shift slowly into rising sun as I inhale, mimicking his position.

“How’s the shoulder?”

“Fine.” And it’s not a lie.

“Good. Then it’s two quick gyaku zuki. Left, right,” he says, sinking into a crouch and demonstrating a quick reverse punch in each direction.

I repeat his movements.

“Stay over your base.”

I glare at him. “If I wasn’t over my base, I’d be on my ass.”

A smirk plays over his mouth, then vanishes. “Next is a front punch followed by a quick forearm block, right then left, then a back kick right.”

As I reproduce his quick movements, he comes around behind me.

“Remember, these are defensive strikes,” he says, laying his hands on my hips. “Stay balanced and exhale with the blow. Try it again.”

I do and his hands tighten on my hips.

“You’re screwing up my balance,” I tell him, spinning in his arms.

There’s a long minute where neither of us moves, but then I find myself leaning forward without even meaning to. Damn, he smells good.

“Don’t, Sam,” he says low, closing his eyes. But he doesn’t pull away.

He’s tense, every muscle coiled tight. His hands are fisted at his sides, his body ramrod straight as he fights with himself. I lean in a little more, so we’re as close as we can possibly be without actually touching. Heat radiates off his body in waves, and I close my eyes, taking it in.

He tips his forehead down to mine. “I have to focus, Sam,” he says through a tight jaw, fighting to control the shake in his voice. “If I’m going to help Jonathan and take Arroyo off the street, I can’t compromise this case by going where we’re headed.”

He says this, but he still doesn’t pull away.

So I do.

Because the most important thing right now is finding Jonathan.

I spin for the stairs before I do something stupid.

“Sam! Wait,” he says as I start to bound up them.

I stop and turn back.

He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, blowing out a breath. He lifts his eyes from the floor and looks at me from under long blond lashes. “We got word from Arroyo’s defense team. They want to interview you.”

I come down a step. “Interview me? Can they do that?”

He nods. “It’s common practice, but our attorneys will be there with you. They’ll make sure everything’s on the up and up.”

A band tightens around my chest as I come down the last step. “Will Ben be there?”

“Not at the interview, no.”

“But he’ll be in court when I testify.”

“I’m afraid so.” He leans on the back of the sofa. “It’s going to take some fortitude to do this, Sam, but I have faith in you. I know you want to help Jonathan and that girl.”

“You really think what I know is going to help?”

“The victim was wearing the clothes you described when he was found. No one saw him alive after he walked into Arroyo’s office. We’re still hoping for trace, but I believe what we have is enough to make our case.”

“Then what happens? After I testify, and you’re done with me? Will you just send me home? Will Ben leave me alone?”

His lips purse. “We won’t know that until we see how it all turns out. There are programs for people in your situation. It’s something you should consider.”

A wave of shock sweeps through me, leaving me numb. “You mean like witness protection?”

He nods slowly.

I bury my face in my hands. “Oh, God.”

He’s right in front of me. I can feel him there before he even speaks. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and soothing. “I really hope it doesn’t come to that, but taking Arroyo off the street is important. Really important. And you’re the only hope we have of making that happen right now.”

“He really has that girl?”

“I believe he’s responsible for her disappearance, yes.”

I lift my face and look at him. “And Jonathan?”

He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know, Sam.”

I need to think,” I say, moving to the French doors to the pool. Blake lets me go and I wind down the path and drop onto the end of one of the lounges. My dragonfly is there, on the edge of the pool. He keeps me company while I cry.

Chapter Twenty-Three

BLAKE LEADS ME   into a room in the courthouse where five men in suits are sitting on opposite sides of a table. My feet stall in the door.

“Where’s Yvonne?” I whisper.

He grasps my arm and backs us up a step, into the hall. “She was your criminal attorney. You’re not charged with anything anymore, so you don’t have a lawyer.”

“I liked her.”

His face goes sympathetic. “I’m sorry. But our attorneys are here to keep Arroyo’s team in line. It’s going to be okay.”

I take a calming breath and we step back into the room. All Ben’s guys are on one side of the table, and Blake and I move to the other, where the two DEA lawyers make room for us between them. Introductions are made, hands are shaken, and we all take seats. The only thing holding me together is Blake’s leg, pressed against mine under the table.

“Miss West, thank you for meeting with us,” the Asian guy on the other side of the table says.

“I didn’t realize it was a choice,” I mutter.

That gets a tight smile from the fat man next to me, one of the DEA guys.

“So, just to make sure we have all the facts straight, you were working at Benjamin Arroyo’s nightclub, Benny’s, as an exotic dancer?” the Asian one says, looking over his paperwork.

“Yes.” I want to add more, but I remember Yvonne’s rules and keep it to yes and no.

“And, on the night of April twenty-sixth, you were working?”

“Yes.”

“How long was your shift that night?”

“I started on stage at nine, and Nora . . . Ben’s wife, pulled me off around eleven-thirty.”

“So, it’s safe to assume you were tired, after dancing for two and a half hours on stage.”

“No.”

He gives me a skeptical smile. “You might have had a drink or two to relax?”

I have no idea where he’s going with this, but I work to hide my nerves. “Only water.”

“You’re sure about that?”

I open my mouth to say yes, but cringe as I remember. “Ben gave me a scotch or two.”

He nods, satisfied.

“But I wasn’t drunk.”

He squints at me, as if he finds that hard to believe. “How did you end up working at Benny’s, Miss West?”

“I interviewed and Ben hired me.”

He squints at his paperwork. “But . . . weren’t you enrolled at UC Santa Cruz?”

A stone sinks in my gut. “I was.”

“And you were asked to leave for academic reasons.”

It’s not a question, but I nod anyway.

“How many morning classes did you have last quarter, Miss West?”

“Define morning,” I say.

He waves a hand in a circle. “I believe the precise definition can be found in Webster’s, but for our purposes, can we agree on anything before noon, say?”

“Two on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and one on Tuesday and Thursday.”

“And, how many of those class sessions would you estimate you attended?” he asks, looking smug. “Just give us a ballpark percentage.”

“I don’t see how any of this is relevant to your defense,” the lanky white guy on Blake’s other side says, and I remember he’s one of ours.

“It goes to character and reliability of the witness.” He smirks at his adversary. “We can do this in open court, if you’d prefer.”

The guy leans around Blake and gives me a grim nod.

I rub my forehead. “In a ballpark percentage, zero.”

Blake tenses next to me, but when I look up at him, it’s not the disappointment I expected to see that’s lining his face. His blue eyes meet mine, and there’s an apology in them.

The rest of the questioning revolves around me detailing everything I saw again, and Ben’s attorneys making me question all of it. By the time we’re finally done, I have no idea what I saw.

“I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus,” I tell Blake as he leads me out of the room.

“That was rough. Sorry.”

I start to say it’s not his fault, but then I remember that it mostly is. “Just get me out of here.”

He guides me to the parking garage and opens the door to the Escalade for me. He climbs in his side and just looks at me for a second. “It wasn’t as bad as it seemed, Sam,” he says, starting the car. “Their job is to make you doubt yourself—to break down your confidence.”

“Well, they did a pretty good job of it, then.”

His face pulls into a frown as he navigates us out of the garage behind Cooper’s black Charger. “The other part of their job is to discredit you. They’re going to tear you apart on the stand. But all that matters is what you saw. Don’t let them into your head. Just tell the court what happened and everything will be fine.”

I plant an elbow on the console and rest my forehead in my hand. “But I don’t really know what happened . . . just that Weber was in that room when I left. I don’t know Ben killed him.”

Blake flashes me a glance. “He did, Sam.”

We wind our way through city streets, taking the most indirect route possible, and when we finally make it up the hill and Cooper clears us, we pull into the garage. Blake has seemed more distant today, and I know it’s probably because of our “moment” yesterday. He’s trying so hard to toe the line, but if he’s feeling half of what he makes me feel, I know that can’t be easy.

Once we’re safely inside, I change and escape out the French doors to the pool, where I dive in and swim. With each lap, I feel a little of the tension melt away, until eventually my mind is blank. I have no idea how many laps I’ve swum when I finally run out of steam. Twenty? Thirty? I roll onto my back in the shallow end and let the water sweep my hair back as I stand.

I wipe the last droplets out of my eyes and find my dragonfly keeping me company again. And so is Blake. He’s seated on the lounge chair near the edge of the pool in his swim trunks.

“Did you hire that dragonfly to watch me? Is that your version of a fly-on-the-wall?”

He glances down at the dragonfly and back to me. “I have spies everywhere.” He leans his elbows on his knees, flexing his pecs and making it hard to look anywhere else. “Were you a swimmer? Before this?”

“No. We didn’t have a pool or anything, so . . .” I move to the pool edge next to my dragonfly and prop my arms on it, crossing them and resting my chin on my forearms. “You?”

He shrugs. “Not really for exercise. More for recreation. Scuba and snorkeling mostly.”

I remember him saying something about diving with his dad when he was a kid. “I’m sort of afraid of sharks. I don’t go in the ocean.”

“Galeophobia,” he says with a nod.

“Excuse me?”

“The fear of sharks. Galeophobia. It’s pretty common.”

“All I know is there are always stories about surfers getting eaten, and there was that kayaker that got munched right near San Francisco a few weeks ago, so I think it’s less of a phobia and more just basic common sense. Don’t swim where there are things that can eat you.”

He leans back on his hands. “The chances of anything happening are almost nil. Thousands of people dive and surf off the California coast, and there are maybe one or two attacks a year.”

“Yeah, well, I’d bet those one or two people wouldn’t say their chances were nil.”

He stands and paces the pool deck, but his eyes never leave me. “I’m starting to think that’s what life is all about . . . facing down your fears.” He hesitates at the stairs into the water before slowly stepping down them.

The water, with him in it, takes on an electrical charge that wasn’t there before. As he gets closer, he brushes a hand over the surface of the water, pushing a small wave at me. “Would you ever consider leaving here?”

I turn my back to the pool edge and rest my arms on it. “Um . . . every day.”

He gives me a slow shake of his head. “I don’t mean this house. I mean this state.”

“I haven’t really thought about it.”

All I can do is stare as he moves closer, rippling the water ahead of him so that it laps gently against my belly. He reaches up and I hold my breath as the backs of his fingers brush along my jawline. He lowers his hand and closes his eyes, breathing deeply. When he opens them, his gaze is intense. “If I could go back in time, I’d never have put you in this situation. It’s killing me that I’ve put you in danger.”

I break our gaze, because what’s becoming crystal clear is, as much as I’ve wanted to blame Mom and Blake and everyone else for everything that’s happened to me, it’s all because of choices I made. “This isn’t your fault, Blake.”

“I’ve just . . .” He gives his head a slow shake as he tries to sort something out. “This is the whole reason I joined the DEA, you know? To take Arroyo down. I guess I was so focused on the endgame that I didn’t consider the collateral damage.”

“You joined the DEA because of Ben?” I ask, a little confused. There have to be thousands of bad guys. “How did you even know who he was?”

He blows out a slow breath and braces his hands on the pool edge on either side of me. “My sister was killed in Afghanistan.”

“Oh, God,” I gasp, my hands flying to my face. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

“Dad was a mess after she was killed, but he wouldn’t let himself grieve. He just buried himself in his work. It was about three months later that he was leading a bust here in San Francisco. Arroyo was involved.” He shrugs off the pool edge and backs away a step. “It’s not really clear what happened, but things went bad and Dad got shot.”

He pauses, swallowing hard, and I can’t even bring myself to ask if he’s alive, or if he was killed.

“I joined the DEA right after his funeral,” he says, answering my unasked question. “This is all I’ve been able to think about . . . taking down the guy who killed my father.” He turns and rests his back against the pool edge, his shoulder pressing against mine. “I can’t bring Caroline or Dad back, but it just felt like something I had to do . . . taking up his cause.” He closes his eyes against whatever’s rising there and rubs them.

I step in front of him, and he shudders as I stroke my fingertips down his cheek. “I’m so sorry, Blake.”

His wounded eyes open and he holds me in his gaze. His breathing is shaky from emotion as he says, “I should have never involved you in this. I just got so caught up in getting Arroyo, I—”

I stop him with my fingertips on his lips. They’re as soft and strong as I remember when they were pressed against mine. “It’s not your fault.”

My eyes trace the lines of his perfect mouth, along the angle of his jaw, past his Adam’s apple to the hollow of his throat. When they lift back to his face, his eyes are smoldering.

He lifts his hand and trails a fingertip along the scar on my cheek. His touch is electric, and my breath stalls as he leans slowly toward me. He threads his fingers through my hair, but then pauses, his lips just inches from mine.

There’s a long second where he holds me hypnotized by his proximity, by his scent, by the delicious taste of his breath. My heart strains against my rib cage, trying to break free. The fire in my soul burns in his eyes as he gazes into mine.

But then his jaw flexes and he closes his eyes. When he opens them, the fire is still there, but there’s a hint of pain. He turns and stalks up the stairs to the house, leaving me breathless and aching, but with a new understanding of Blake Montgomery.

Chapter Twenty-Four

WHEN BLAKE COMES up in the morning, showered and dressed after his workout, I’m at the counter eating a banana. His gaze trails down the opening of my robe as he makes his way to the elevator. “I have to go into the office and I’m not sure how long I’ll be. Cooper is coming in.”

I slip off my stool. “Why are you going in? Is it about Jonathan?”

He looks at me for several seconds, as if he’s struggling with what to say.

My heart chokes up my throat and a flash of cold envelops me. “Oh God.”

His eyes widen and he moves quickly across the room toward me. “No! No, Sam. It’s . . . I wasn’t going to say anything, because everything’s sketchy right now, but Jonathan’s girlfriend heard from him last night.”

Hope springs up inside me. “Ginger?”

He nods, laying a hand on my arm. “He didn’t say much, so we’re not sure where he is or if he’s in danger, but . . .” His brow creases. “He’s alive, Sam.”

I’m in his arms before I even realize I’ve moved. Relieved tears streak my cheeks and soak into his blue button-down. “Jesus,” I whisper.

His hands rub over my back, as if there’s nothing remotely awkward about me crying into his shoulder. “It’s good news. We can use what information we got from the call to track him down. It’s going to be okay.”

When my tears slow, I lift my face off his shoulder and look up at him. “Thank you.”

His glacial gaze melts, the ice in his eyes swirling into warm pools. “I promised you I’d find him, and I will.”

His hand is still in my hair, and I feel his fingers tighten as we stand here, so close I can see the silver flecks swirling in the ice blue of his eyes. He pulls me closer with his hand on my back, obliterating the fraction of space between us. Before I even realize what’s happening, my bare feet leave the floor and I’m on the counter with Blake pressed between my open knees. I wrap my legs around him, digging my heels into his back and pulling him closer.

He tips his forehead into mine and closes his eyes, then blows out a shaky breath. His biceps strain the fabric of his shirt under my hands, and his whole body is taut as he fights for control.

I’m so wrapped up in Blake that I barely register the hum of the elevator, but the next second he lowers me to the floor and backs away, just as the door glides open.

Cooper steps into the room and his eyes flash between us. I pull my robe closed as Blake scoops his messenger bag from the sofa, looping it over his shoulder.

“I’ll be a few hours,” he says to Cooper.

Cooper’s eyes catch on the wet spot on Blake’s shirt. “You gonna change?”

Blake glances down at his shirt, and there’s a hint of chagrin in his expression as his eyes flick to me. “Oh . . . yeah. I’ll be right back.” He lowers his bag to the floor and turns for the stairs.

Cooper moves deeper into the room, picking up the remote for the massive-screen TV on his way to the sofa. He clicks past cooking shows, morning shows, and news without saying a word until he finds a channel showing a WWF match. He settles deeper into the cushions, resting his arms on the back of the sofa.

Blake crests the top stair in a fresh white shirt and looks between us, where I’m still standing near the counter, shaking and unsure what’s supposed to happen. “I’ll touch base when I know anything,” he tells me, hiking his bag back onto his shoulder. He pushes the elevator button and gives me a meaningful glance as he disappears into it.

Cooper’s still watching the TV, making no indication he even knows Blake is gone. He doesn’t even look at me.

“I’m going to . . . um . . . shower, I guess.”

All I get is a flick of his eyes and a single tight nod.

Once I’m showered, I think about just hanging in my room for the day, but Cooper might hear something about Jonathan. I dress and make my way out to the living room.

The pantry door is open and I hear Cooper rooting around in there. He comes out empty-handed with a scowl fixed to his face. “What’s to eat around here?”

“Um . . . well . . .” I think about the list of things I asked Blake to buy for me. “Yogurt and fruit,” I say, waving at the basket with bananas and tangerines. “And there’s Doritos,” I add when his scowl deepens at my suggestions. “In the drawer next to the fridge.”

“Now we’re talking.” He fishes them out of the drawer and drops into the armchair, his eyes migrating back to the wrestling match as he pulls the clip off the end of the bag and opens it. “Did our man Montgomery ever tell you he wanted to be an astronaut?”

I bark out a laugh at the image of a five-year-old Blake with a fishbowl over his head.

Cooper’s eyes flick from the TV to me, dead serious.

“You mean, when he was a kid, right?” I ask, the smile fading from my face.

He shakes his head slowly. “I mean for real.”

I feel my eyes widen as I settle onto the sofa. “For real?”

“For real,” he confirms with a slow nod. “He was in Astronaut Candidate training at the Johnson Space Center when his father was shot. Blake is brilliant. He graduated a year early, at the top of his chemical engineering class at UCLA, and got a doctorate in polymer science.” His gaze cuts to me, sharp and hard. “But he doesn’t always think, if you know what I mean.”

I feel a little numb, and wish the sofa would open up and swallow me whole. “How do you know all this?”

“His father was my partner.”

My head spins. “I don’t . . . I’m—” ’

“I like you, Jezebel. Really. But don’t mess with Blake.” The warning in his voice is impossible to miss, and as he turns back to the TV, even though there’s so much more I want to ask, I don’t dare.

Cooper and I don’t talk much for the rest of the day, and after what he said, I’m too self-conscious to change into my suit and work my shoulder in the pool, so I sit and read. It’s nearly dinner and I’ve just finished my book when Blake returns.

I stand from the sofa as he steps out of the elevator with a pizza box. “Jonathan?”

A smile tugs at his mouth. “We’ve got him. He’s fine, Sam.”

I drop into the sofa feeling suddenly dizzy and cover my face with my hands. “Thank God,” I breathe.

Cooper hauls himself out of the chair. “Got to get home to the missus. It’s our anniversary.” He glances at the empty bag of Doritos on the coffee table and pats a hand on his stomach. “Think she’s got something special planned for dinner.”

Blake sets the pizza on the counter and gives him a clap on the back. “Congrats, man. What is it? Your hundredth?”

“How’d you get so goddamn funny, you little shit?” He punches the elevator call button and steps inside, giving me a pointed look as the elevator door closes.

“I don’t think he likes me,” I say, watching after him.

Blake turns from the fridge. “Don’t take it personally. Cooper doesn’t like anybody.”

“Well, I think he likes me less.” I slip onto a stool. “Tell me about Jonathan. He’s okay? Where did you find him?”

“We didn’t,” he says, his eyebrows pulling together. “He just showed up on his doorstep. The dumb shit won’t tell us where he’s been.”

“But he’s okay?”

He grabs salad stuff from the fridge and tosses it on the counter “He seems to be fine.”

“Can I talk to him? He might tell me what’s up.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” he says, dumping lettuce from a bag into a salad bowl. Despite his obvious irritation at Jonathan, his mood seems lighter. He confirms this change in demeanor when the hint of a smile plays over his mouth. “So, how bad do you really want to get out of here?”

I give him my most exasperated stare.

He starts dicing a tomato on the cutting board. “Pack your stuff. You’ve earned yourself a field trip.”

My jaw nearly hits the counter. “For serious?”

He flicks me a glance out from under his lashes. “For serious.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Where?”

He fights a smile but loses. It spreads slowly across his face, lighting the whole thing up. “It’s a surprise.”

WE’RE BACKING OUT of the garage in the Escalade at 7:00 A.M. the next morning and I feel jet-lagged. It’s been a while since I’ve been up this early. My plan is to sleep on the ride, but I’m pretty sure the country music pumping out of the deluxe surround-sound speakers system is going to keep that plan from becoming a reality.

I reach up and click the stereo off, but Blake touches a button on his steering wheel and it’s louder than it was a second ago.

“You suck,” I tell him, rubbing my eyes.

He stops the car and throws it in drive, pulling us back into the garage, then turns off the engine and starts to climb out.

“Wait!” I say when I get the message.

He turns and arches an eyebrow at me.

I drop my head back onto the headrest and blow out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. You can listen to your stupid music.”

He steps out of the car and heads for the elevator.

“Stop!” I say, flinging my door open. “I said you could listen!”

He looks over his shoulder at me as he turns the key in the elevator panel. “To my ‘stupid’ music.”

“Oh!” I say, throwing my hands in the air and storming over to him. “So I have to like it? This is blackmail.”

He pulls the key and turns slowly back to me. “Have you ever even listened to country?”

“Hell, no!”

“Tim McGraw? Blake Shelton? Montgomery Gentry?”

I scrunch my face at him. “Why do they all have your name?”

He rolls his eyes and starts to punch in his elevator code.

“Fine!” I say, tugging him back to the Escalade by the arm. “I’ll listen and try to like something! I’ll do anything to get out of this house.”

He glances to my hand on his arm, and for some reason—desperation, maybe—I can’t let go. His eyes lift to mine and burn into them as he scrutinizes me. “Anything?”

A shudder ripples through me with his sudden shift in direction. “Within reason.”

His gaze caresses my face and settles on my mouth as he presses closer. “Define ‘reason.’ ”

I lick my lips automatically as my breathing gets a little erratic, and my grip on his arm tightens. Since he came home yesterday and announced our “field trip” he’s been more playful, like the weight of the world isn’t pressing down on him anymore, and I wonder what that means for us.

When I shift under his gaze, my fingers glide up his arm to his bicep, which is like steel under my hand. His fingertips whisper down my side, coming to rest on my waist, and he lets out something that could be a sigh. But the next second he breaks his gaze and takes my hand. “C’mon. We’re going be late.”

He tows me to the car and loads me back in. Once he’s situated in the driver’s seat, he opens the console between our seats and pulls out a CD, sliding it into the slot in the dash. The song that pours from the speakers has a decent beat, a little bluesy, and the man’s voice is gritty and true, without any of that annoying country warble. And he’s not singing about pickup trucks and pretty girls.

It doesn’t suck.

“This is country?” I ask.

A slow almost-smile creeps across his face as he backs out of the garage, and that’s all the answer I get.

Cooper’s black Charger follows us as we wind out of the Berkeley Hills toward Oakland, and I tip my head back and listen to the music.

“Where are we going?” I ask for the hundredth time.

“It’s a surprise,” he answers for the hundredth time. I can tell he’s enjoying this game, and it makes me smile despite myself.

When Cooper pulls in behind us at an IHOP parking lot near the highway, my heart sinks. I mean, just being out of the house is great, but I was hoping Blake had thought of something a little more exciting than blueberry pancakes.

I reach for my door handle, but before I can tug it open, Blake lays a hand on my knee. “Hold up.”

The electronic ring of a phone comes through the speakers, and when I turn, I see Cooper is out of his car.

Blake pushes the button on the steering wheel. “We clear?” he asks.

“Clear,” Cooper confirms.

Blake slides out of the Escalade and comes around to my side, opening my door and ushering me out. He gives Cooper a nod, then looks around warily, laying a hand on the small of my back and guiding me quickly toward the building. We step through the door and my legs falter. Sitting in a booth up front are three of the most beautiful faces I’ve ever seen.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“OH MY GOD!” I squeal, leaping into Jonathan’s outstretched arms. “You’re okay.” Tears sting my eyes as Ginger and Izzy circle us in a group hug.

“ ’Course,” Jonathan says, crushing me in his embrace. “Indestructible, remember?” he says low in my ear.

I pull back and smack him. “You scared the shit out of me!”

“I was just out partying with the guys,” he says with a grin. “No big thing.”

I glance at Blake, who’s standing back watching the exchange. He gives me a tight nod.

Jonathan clamps his arms around me and starts to pick me up, but flinches and sets me down, holding his side. “Yeah . . . don’t quite have those Guitar Hero superpowers back yet.”

I press my hand over his. “You’re okay?”

“The chicks dig battle scars,” he says with a grin. “Told you, Red,” he adds, lifting a finger to the scar on my cheek, “they’re super hot.”

“He’s right,” Ginger says, tugging him to her. She loops her arms around his neck and plants one on him. When their tongues start wrestling, I look away.

Izzy grasps my shoulders and turns me to face her. “Look at you, girlfriend! You’re almost as black as me.”

“Swimming,” I tell her, hugging her tight. “You’re all right?”

“Unemployed, but other than that, I’m fine.”

“Phones,” Blake says, holding out his hand to Izzy. She pulls hers from her pocket and gives it to him.

“Seriously?” Ginger whines when he gets to her.

“There’s no cell service where we’re going anyway,” Blake tells her with a wiggle of his fingers.

She rolls her lip in disgust as she hands him her phone. “Where is that? The Stone Age?”

Jonathan flips his phone at Blake, and Blake plucks it out of the air. “Grab your things. Time to saddle up.”

I look at him and back at my friends. “What’s going on?”

“Road trip!” Jonathan says. He grabs his guitar case off the floor and slings his backpack over his shoulder. Ginger wraps an arm around his waist, and Izzy comes up to my side, wrapping her arm around mine. Blake steps to the side as we all file out the door.

We pile into the SUV, Jonathan up front, and me sandwiched between the girls in back. Once everyone else is in, Blake goes to the Charger and hands the cell phones off to Cooper. They talk for a minute, then Blake climbs into the Escalade. He spares us the country music as he navigates us onto the highway, and we head south.

“Where are we going?” Jonathan asks, and I smile when Blake says, “It’s a surprise.”

I turn to Izzy. “How’s everyone else from Benny’s?”

“Pete’s good,” Izzy answers. “Got a gig at a new club in the Tenderloin. Jen got a job at Denny’s, and Steph moved back in with her parents up north. I haven’t seen anyone else.”

Ginger goes on and on about how shutting down flesh markets like Benny’s is another step toward true equality for women, and the girls catch me up on everything as Blake drives. I pretend not to notice his frequent glances in the rearview at me.

“Did he tell you where we’re going?” I ask Izzy after about an hour on the road, as the Sierras start to loom to our left.

She shakes her head.

Ginger hands Jonathan’s guitar over the seat to him, and he plays us the song he’s writing for her and a few others before segueing into the pizza topping song. Everyone but Blake sings along as the highway rolls by.

An hour later we’re all giggling and punchy from the long ride, but no one’s complaining. It’s just so great to be together again. Our laughing is interrupted by the ring of the phone from the speakers.

Blake hits a button on the steering wheel. “Yeah, Coop?”

“You’re clear,” Cooper says out of the speakers. “I’m heading back.”

“Ten-four,” Blake says, then disconnects.

I turn to see the black Charger pull off the exit we’re just passing.

As we start to climb into the mountains, our attention turns to the passing scenery: trees and cliffs and green, and a forever view back down into the valley. We reach the top of the mountain and inch through a national park checkpoint behind a line of traffic. Blake pays the fee and collects a map.

“Kings Canyon?” Jonathan asks, taking it from his hand and holding it up for us to see.

I snatch it from his fingers. “How long are we staying here?”

“Just overnight.” Blake glances in the rearview at me as he answers, that almost-smile playing over his lips. “Thought you’d earned a night out.”

Dragonflies buzz in my belly at the look he gives me, and I turn my attention back to the beauty outside the window to help distract me from the untouchable beauty right in front of me.

After a few minutes Blake turns off the main road onto a smaller side road that cuts through the forest. A little way up, the woods open out into a cluster of cabins. As we drive deeper, I realize it’s a whole little village.

We bump over poorly maintained roads and Blake finally pulls into a dirt driveway in front of a decrepit looking two-story cabin. Thick pine branches overhang a steeply pitched tin roof, and some of the wooden shingles around the shuttered windows are falling off. A huge stone chimney up the front looks like the only thing holding the rickety structure up.

“What is this place?” Izzy asks.

“My family’s cabin,” Blake answers, sliding out of his seat. “I spent most of my summers here when I was a kid.”

I shoot him a glance. “I thought you were from Texas.”

“I am. But I spent time here with my grandparents every summer.”

“Looks sort of creepy,” Izzy says. “Like it’s haunted.”

Blake’s face is all nostalgia as he looks it over. “No one else comes up here anymore . . .” He glances at me. “. . . which is why I figured it would be safe.”

He lifts the tailgate and hands me my duffel bag. As everyone grabs their bags from the back, I notice sleeping bags, a few grocery bags, and an ice chest buried back there. We climb a flight of stairs to the front door, and Blake unlocks it. I step through into an open room, a dark leather sofa along the back wall and two leather and wood rockers in front of the massive stone fireplace that dominates the entire room. There’s an open archway to the right, where a wooden picnic table sits near a door beyond, which obviously leads to the kitchen. Up the middle of the room is a ladder, which goes to a loft upstairs. The curtains are drawn, so it’s dim, but there’s a thin coating of dust on everything, and cobwebs in most of the corners.

Blake sets his bag on a chair and pulls back the curtain on the window up front. He opens the window, pushes back the shutters, and the room is flooded with bright sunlight.

“You’re sure this place isn’t haunted?” Izzy says, eyeing her surroundings warily.

Blake shrugs. “No guarantees.”

After lunch we hike out on some trails that wind past rivers and meadows full of wild flowers, to a fire lookout, where we can see forever. All there is for miles is mountains, trees, and lakes. It’s so quiet.

As we meander back along the trails toward the cabin, I hook my elbow through Jonathan’s and slow our pace a little, letting the others get ahead of us.

“So, where is this safe house you’re at?” he asks, kicking a rock in our path.

“It’s—” I glance at Blake, on the trail up ahead. “I’m not supposed to say.”

He tugs me closer. “But they’re taking good care of my best girl, right?”

“Yeah.” I slow us even more. “So where were you, Jonathan? You had everyone totally flipping out.”

His eyes don’t leave the path. “I went looking for Marcus.”

“And . . . ?”

“He wanted to know what you were going to tell the narcs. I told him you didn’t know anything.”

I fix him in a hard gaze. “You were missing for, like, four days, Jonathan.”

He shrugs. “We had a few beers.”

He won’t look at me as he says it, which makes something in my gut tighten uncomfortably. “What’s going on?”

His eyes go all wide and innocent as he turns to me. “I got drunk, passed out, woke up, got drunker, passed out—”

“Stop!” I say, shoving him away. “You have no idea how scared everyone was. We thought Ben might have killed you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Ben’s cool with everything, Red.”

I feel my eyes widen. “He had someone shoot at us, Jonathan! That’s pretty goddamn far from ‘cool’ in my book.”

He shakes his head. “It wasn’t him.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Of course it was him!”

He shakes his head again. “Marcus said no.”

“Then who?”

“No fucking clue,” he says with a shrug. “I’ve had boyfriends of at least twenty chicks threaten to kill me when they’ve caught me with their women. Could have been any one of them.”

“Be serious. That was not a jealous boyfriend.” I stumble on a tree root because I’m not watching the path, and Jonathan catches me.

“Think about it, Red,” he says, steadying me on my feet. “I’m the one that got shot, not you. Do you really think Ben’s guys would have shitty aim?”

I chew my lip as I think about that, and when I look ahead, I see Blake fire me a glance over his shoulder. Could he be wrong about all of it? Maybe Ben’s not after me at all. “I don’t know, Jonathan. I’m not buying the jealous boyfriend thing.”

He shrugs again.

When we stumble back to the cabin, Blake starts a fire in the outdoor fire ring near the driveway, then sets a grate over it. It’s not too long later that he’s cooking and we all have a beer in our hands. My job is to flip the corn while he grills burgers and dogs.

The sun drops behind the tall pines as we eat, and as we’re finishing, it disappears altogether, leaving us in the flickering glow of the campfire. We’re well into our third or fourth beers when Jonathan ducks into the cabin and comes out with his guitar. We talk and joke, and Jonathan plays, and I’m cracking up at something stupid he said when I realize this is the most I’ve let down since I got thrown out of my parents’ house over two months ago. My cheeks ache and I’ve given myself the hiccups from laughing so hard.

It’s only when I go to the ice chest near the stairs for another beer that I realize Blake has retreated to the Escalade, a good thirty feet away. He’s sitting on the hood, leaning back against the windshield, watching us. The faint hum of country music makes it to my ears over the cacophony of my friends, and I can’t help but smile.

He tips his head at me and I wave back, then head to the campfire and sit on a blanket on the ground.

Ginger is blowing the flames off her torched marshmallow as Jonathan wrestles the stick out of her hand. “You’re doing that totally wrong,” he says. “It’s supposed to be golden brown.”

“Not in my family,” she slurs, grabbing the stick back and nearly falling off the stump she’s sitting on in her inebriated state. “This is how we do it.”

Jonathan drops onto my blanket as Ginger sticks her marshmallow back into the flames. He picks up his guitar and starts plucking out the melody of his pizza topping song, making up new lyrics involving the carcinogens in burnt marshmallows.

We laugh and give each other shit, and after a few more beers, when Jonathan and Ginger start giving the rest of us a lesson in sex ed, we tell them to get a room and send them off to bed.

Izzy’s eyes shift to Blake, who’s still on the hood of his car, then back to me. She wraps her arms around me and props her chin on my shoulder. “So, what’s the real deal with you and Secret Agent Man?”

I shrug. “He says Ben was mixed up in a lot of bad stuff.”

“But none of that really has to do with what’s going on between you,” she says, nudging her shoulder into mine. “He’s been sitting on that car for the past two hours, staring at you.”

“Because that’s his job, Izzy.”

She shakes her head slowly. “There’s nothing ‘business’ about the look he’s giving you, girlfriend.”

As if he knows we’re talking about him, he kicks off the car and saunters over to the fire ring. He stomps at the embers with the heel of his boot. “You going to be up for a while? I’ll put some more wood on.”

Izzy stands and stretches. “Jonathan and Ginger are probably passed out by now. I think I’ll crash too.” She flashes me a secret smile as she heads to the stairs.

Blake settles onto a rock at the edge of the circle and pokes at the embers with a stick. He’s more causal than usual today, in jeans and a black T-shirt with an open flannel shirt over the top. He looks very woodsy. And it’s totally hot.

“What did Jonathan say?” he asks.

I hook my elbows around my knees and draw them closer. “He said he was just getting drunk with Marcus.”

“For four days,” he says, flicking me a skeptical look.

I nod.

He pokes at the fire again, then gets up and tosses another log on. “And you believe him?”

“I don’t know.” I want to. Jonathan’s never given me a reason not to trust him. “He thinks that guy who ran us off the road might have been a jealous boyfriend.”

Blake’s jaw tightens as gives me a doubtful tip of his head, like maybe I’m too naive to live. “He ran you off the road and shot at your after you told Jonathan you were testifying against Arroyo.”

I shake my head. “Think about it. Jonathan’s the one who got shot, not me. Do you really think Ben’s guys would have missed me?” I hear the defensiveness in my tone and stuff it down. I get that Blake is just trying to protect me. I need to cut him some slack.

He kicks at the log with the heel of his boot and it bursts into flames. “It was dark and you were a moving target. It’s an easy miss, even for a decent marksman.”

The golden firelight flickers off his features, softening some lines and making others sharper. He’s breathtakingly, heart-stoppingly gorgeous, and my fingers dig into the blanket automatically, as if I need to tether myself to the ground or I’ll launch right into him. To keep from staring . . . and probably drooling, I lie back on my blanket and look up at the stars.

For the first few years after Mom married Greg, before the boys were born, he used to take us camping in Yosemite Meadows. That’s when I realized the sky is a flickering blanket of stars when you’re away from the city lights. Tonight, it’s as beautiful as I’ve ever seen it. Maybe it’s nearly a month in captivity that makes my freedom feel so much bigger now. Or maybe it’s the vastness of it all that makes me feel so small. As I watch, a shooting star streaks across the night sky, and then another.

“It’s a meteor shower tonight. Possibly a meteor storm.” Blake steps around behind me and sits next to me on my blanket. “It really started to pick up about half an hour ago. They’re predicting a ZHR of at least four hundred per hour.”

I sit up, propping myself on my hands behind me. Between his country music, cowboy boots, and infuriating tendencies, I forget he’s a genius. “Great, Mr. Rocket Scientist. Now can you repeat that in English?”

He stifles a smile and stares up into the sky. “NASA has been predicting this shower since 2009, when they discovered Earth would pass through the debris trail of comet 209P. The ZHR is the zenithal hourly rate, or the rate at which debris from the trail will fall through our atmosphere. They say it could peak around one A.M. at up to a thousand, which would bump it from a meteor shower to a meteor storm.”

“So, that’s a lot?”

His eyes turn from the sky to mine and he nods slowly. “Yeah. It’s a lot. And with the crescent moon, we should get a pretty good show.”

“Do you ever regret it?”

His eyebrows rise as he lowers himself onto an elbow. “There are myriad things I regret. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Leaving Astronaut Candidate training. Giving up your dream.”

He stiffens momentarily. “Cooper told you that?”

I nod.

He blows out a breath and rolls onto his back, lacing his fingers behind his head and gazing at the stars. “Sometimes.”

“Do you think you would have made it? I mean, aren’t there a lot of people shooting for just a few spots?”

“There are. Whether I would have made it or not is irrelevant now. I chose to do something different with my life.”

“Because of your dad.”

He shoots me a glance and his jaw tenses. “Remind me to put a muzzle on Cooper.”

“Thank you for finding Jonathan.”

“I didn’t. Arroyo’s people just let him go.” There’s suspicion in his eyes as he says it, and I hate that he still doesn’t trust Jonathan.

“Listen, Blake. Jonathan is a good guy. Really. He’s just sometimes . . . a little misguided. He would never do anything that he knows would put me in danger. And he swears Ben isn’t after me.”

His expression hardens. “He’s lucky he didn’t get himself killed.”

“Just cut him a little slack, okay? I mean, even if it was Ben’s guys, he’s the one who got shot because of all this.”

His lips press into a line, but he nods. “I invited him on your field trip, didn’t I?”

“Thanks for that. And, thanks for all this,” I add with a wave of my hand at our surroundings. “This is pretty amazing.”

His gaze travels back up to the stars. “It is. I’ve always loved it up here.”

“Did you come up here with your father?” I don’t even know why I asked, but I have the sudden need to know.

He bends a knee and props his other ankle on it. “No. It was my mom’s parents’ place.”

“Oh,” I say. “Were they divorced? Your parents?”

He gives his head a shake. “My mom died when I was born.”

My hand goes to my mouth as I gasp.

“My sister and I came to spend a week every summer at my dad’s in San Francisco, and then we’d come up here with our grandparents for a few weeks before heading back to Texas.”

I prop up an elbow on my side, facing him. “Why didn’t you live with your dad?”

“He was busy,” he says, like it’s no big deal, but there’s something sad in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly, feeling a tug at my heart. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve never even met my real dad. At least, not when I was old enough to remember it.”

He rolls to face me. “Not to sound harsh, but maybe that’s better.”

I can see why it might seem like that from his perspective, so I don’t give him shit.

Neither of us moves for a really long time. We just lay here staring at each other, and I feel my pulse gradually quicken at the need I see growing in his gaze.

“Sam,” he says, his jaw tight and a warning in his voice, and I realize I’ve moved closer.

I break our gaze and roll onto my back, staring up into the night sky and trying to shake the desire pulsing through me.

But then he groans and in one fluid motion rolls us so I’m pinned beneath him. He crushes his mouth to mine and I claw at him, needing him closer even though there’s no space between us. His kiss is deep and desperate, and it’s everything I’ve been waiting for. Our tongues tangle, and there’s nothing gentle about any of it. Our desperation for each other only feeds on itself the deeper we go, becoming unbearable. My whole body buzzes at the current surging between us, forcing a frantic moan up my throat as I arch into him.

Chapter Twenty-Six

AT THE S OUND of my desire, he comes undone, an agonized groan ripping out of him. We tear at each other’s clothes, getting nowhere in our frenzy. I claw at his back, and that’s when I feel the straps under his flannel shirt. My hand slips around his ribs and I feel the bulge of the holster under his left arm.

My hand closing around his gun seems to shake him back to reality. He pulls away and looks down at me, a little stunned.

The night is dead silent as we lay here, staring at each other, deciding what comes next—how far we’re willing to take this.

But in the silence I hear a pop, and it makes all the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Because I know that sound.

I flash back to the night on the side of the highway, the van in a ditch and the pop of the gun as someone shot at Jonathan and me. I try to convince myself what I heard was just a twig snapping, but in the next heartbeat Blake has me off the ground and pinned behind the closest tree.

“Don’t move,” he hisses.

“What—” I start, but his hand is over my mouth, stopping my words. And that’s when I see the dark splotch growing on the left sleeve of his shirt.

He takes his hand off my mouth and presses a finger to his lips, urging me to be quiet. Slowly, he draws his gun out from under his shirt. “Federal agent! Drop your weapon!” he yells, spinning out from behind the tree.

The quick burst of pops that follow tell me that Blake didn’t get his wish. Tree bark explodes in splinters around us as Blake ducks back behind it.

Adrenaline floods my veins and it’s everything I can do not to scream. In the faint starlight I see his eyes flash to me. “You’re going to be okay,” he reassures me, his voice smooth and soothing. “Just stay here. No matter what happens, don’t move.”

He springs from behind the tree and returns fire. His shots aren’t muzzled, and they sound like fireworks ripping through the dead calm.

There’s a crash as something big lumbers through the brush in front of the cabin, and Blake disappears into the night in that direction.

I do as I’m told. Except for the shake I can’t control, I don’t move.

Izzy appears at the top of the stairs. “Sam!”

“Get inside!” I tell her, as I hear Blake shout, “Freeze!” from up front.

There’s more rustling in the brush and a barrage of fire. She ducks in the door.

“Drop your weapon!” Blake yells again, farther away, his voice strangely muffled in the cool night air. The response is another volley of gunfire. In the distance, an engine revs and tires spin on gravel. Then everything goes still again.

I wait another minute, my shaking breath loud in the silence.

“Sam,” Izzy hisses, and when I look up at the door, she, Jonathan, and Ginger are huddled there, wide-eyed.

As I dart toward them, my eyes sweep the darkness near the road. Out of the shadows, Blake strides toward me, holding his left arm.

“Oh my God!” I say, changing direction.

He grunts as I slam into him. I try to pull away, afraid I’ve hurt him, but he doesn’t let me, holding me tight to him with his right arm. “Please tell me you’re not hurt,” he says into my hair.

“I’m fine, but—”

“Get in the car,” he barks over my head to my friends. “Now!”

“What about our stuff?” Jonathan asks.

“Leave it.” Blake lets me go and prods me toward the Escalade, putting me in the passenger seat. Everyone else scrambles into the back.

“Blake! You’re going to bleed to death,” I say, looking at his darkening sleeve.

He rips off his flannel shirt, revealing the gun in his chest holster over his black T-shirt. He tears the sleeves off the shirt and hands me the bloody one. “Tie that tight over this,” he says, wadding up the dry sleeve and laying it over his upper arm.

I can’t really see anything through all the blood in the dark, but I take the sleeve he handed me and wrap it around his arm, then tie it in a tight knot over the makeshift bandage. As soon as I’m done, he jogs to the driver’s seat and peals out.

We’re winding down the mountain, all of us shocked silent, when I look down and see the bloody handprint on my shirtsleeve. In the glow of the dash lights all I can see is blood. On my clothes and hands, and on Blake’s, where he’s gripping the steering wheel.

“You need a hospital,” I tell him.

He shakes his head. “It just nicked me.”

“This is fucked up,” Jonathan says from the back. When I look at him, his face is drawn and he’s shaking his head. “Fuck.”

Blake’s jaw tightens and he flicks a glance in the rearview. “What did you tell them?” he demands.

Jonathan’s eyes widen and his hands go up. “Nothing, man! Just to leave Red alone . . . that she didn’t know anything. Marcus said it wasn’t them.”

Blake’s eyes narrow and he breathes deep and blows it out, rubbing the back of his neck with a bloody hand. “How was I so stupid?” he mutters to himself.

“Shouldn’t we call the police or something?” Izzy asks from behind me, her voice shaking.

“I’ll call it in to the office as soon as we’re in cell range,” Blake answers, glancing down at his phone.

“So, what do we do now?” I ask.

“That depends on how Arroyo found us,” Blake answers wearily, flicking a glance in the rearview at Jonathan, “and how much he knows.”

A shooting star streaks across the sky in front of us, reminding me that the heavens are crashing down on us tonight. I lean my forehead on the window and watch mindlessly through the shadows of the trees as the universe puts on one hell of a show . . . and wonder how it is that my universe just went supernova.

I glance across at Blake as he picks up his phone and presses it to his ear. “Cooper?” he says. “Get your ass out of bed. We have a situation.”

THE SHOUTING STARTS as soon as we step out of the SUV in the Federal Building parking garage. Cooper, Nichols, and Jenkins are on us immediately, shuttling us toward the elevators and grilling Blake. It’s not until we pass through the doors into the brightly lit DEA corridor that I see how pale Blake is. His face is splotchy white and blood has soaked through his bandage and drips down his arm.

Blake gives them the short version, then Jenkins takes Izzy and Ginger one way, while Blake herds Jonathan and me into an interrogation room.

“What I want to know is how he got a shot off on you,” Cooper says.

“I let my guard down,” Blake answers.

“Did you get a look at the guy?” Cooper asks. “A license plate on the car he was driving? Anything?”

“It was dark,” Blake says with a shake of his head. “Sweep him,” he barks at Nichols, planting Jonathan in a chair at the table.

“What’s going on, man?” Jonathan asks as she disappears out the door.

Blake levels Jonathan in a death-beam gaze. “They found us where they never should have had any clue we were.”

Jonathan’s eyes narrow. “If you’re thinking that has anything to do with me . . . that I’d do anything to hurt Red, you don’t know me very well.”

Nichols comes back through the door with a flat, black paddle looking thing.

“Stand up,” Cooper says, dragging Jonathan out of his chair by the arm and taking the paddle from Nichols.

“What the fuck, man!” Jonathan says, shaking him off and getting his balance. He spins on Blake and glares.

“He wouldn’t have—” I start, but then the paddle in Cooper’s hand emanates a high-pitched whine. I look over to see he’s holding it near Jonathan’s shoulder.

“Take off your shirt,” Cooper commands.

Jonathan complies, eyes wide, and tosses it onto the table.

Cooper waves the paddle over the shirt and it stays silent, but then he holds it over Jonathan’s naked shoulder and the whine starts again. He runs it over the skin near Jonathan’s shoulder blade, and the whine gets louder.

“Here,” Cooper says, pressing on Jonathan’s shoulder with his fingertips.

He spins Jonathan so Blake and I can see his back. There’s a small scab just visible through the black ink of the crossbones tattoo where his neck meets his shoulder. “How did you get this?” he asks Jonathan.

“Get what?” Jonathan answers, reaching over his shoulder to feel. “I don’t know,” he says when his fingers find the scab. “I guess I cut it on something.”

Blake moves toward him and feels the scab. “Take him down to the lab and have them pull whatever this is out of him,” he says to Cooper.

“What the fuck!” Jonathan says. “What do you mean, ‘whatever this is’?”

“It’s a tracking chip,” Blake answers flatly.

I know my shock must be plastered all over my face when Jonathan spins to face me, because he immediately holds up his hand, his eyes widening. “I didn’t know, Red! I swear it!”

I can’t even move, trying to wrap my mind around this. Blake took a bullet because Jonathan was tracked . . . after he was with Marcus for four days.

Did he know?

He’s the only one who knew I’d been released the night we were run off the road. I told him the DEA wanted me to testify against Ben.

My heart clamps tight in my chest.

“You need to get that looked at,” Cooper says, gesturing to Blake’s bloody arm.

“It can wait,” he answers, his face unreadable. “Have you looked at the surveillance at the safe house? Is there any reason to believe we’ve been compromised?”

“No. Everything’s clear up there. And it can’t wait,” he says with a nod at Blake’s arm. “You’re about to bleed to death. Get your ass to the hospital. Now.” He grabs Jonathan’s arm and yanks him toward the door. “Come on, lover boy.”

“No! Wait!” Jonathan says, struggling against Cooper.

But I still can’t move, even just to assure him that I know he didn’t know. Because I don’t know what to think. I just stare as Cooper drags him away.

I hear him in the hall, calling after me, and the desperation in his voice rattles me out of my daze. “Get the fuck off me!” he shouts just before the elevator doors close and the hall goes quiet.

I start to move to the door, but Blake stops me with a hand on my arm. “Just let him go. We’ll sort it all out, and if he’s clear . . . if he didn’t know, then I’ll let you talk to him.”

My heart screams. This is Jonathan. I hate myself for doubting him. But he’s the one who got me the job at Benny’s in the first place. He’s known Ben a lot longer than he’s known me. Could he be working with Ben? Would he really be willing to give me up to him, knowing what it would mean?

I sink into a chair “Where are Ginger and Izzy?”

Blake leans heavily on the table next to me. “Jenkins is taking them home, and I’ve got to get you back up the hill.”

As he pushes off the table, he staggers a step and grabs my chair for balance. I’m out of it like a shot, grabbing him as he starts to topple. All I succeed in doing is slowing his fall a little, and we both hit the ground hard.

“Blake!” I yell. I pull myself out from under him as he struggles to haul himself to a sitting position.

He props his back on a table leg, and he’s sheet white, a thin sheen of sweat covering his face. “I’m okay.”

I gain my feet and crouch near him. “You’re not okay, Blake. You’ve lost a ton of blood.” I say, glancing at the bandage. “You need to go to the hospital.” I reach for his arm and apply pressure over his wound.

He sucks in a sharp breath as his face twists with pain.

“You need help,” I tell him, keeping the pressure on his arm.

He tugs his phone out of his pocket and pokes at a button then props his head in his hand. “Coop,” he says weakly a second later. “I need some help.”

I hear Jonathan yelling, and Cooper’s raised voice over him. “I’ve sort of got situation down here. What do you need?”

“Forget it. Nothing—” Blake starts, but I rip the phone out of his hand.

“He’s bleeding to death. He needs an ambulance!”

“Nichols!” Cooper barks on the other end. “Get your ass back to Interrogation 3!”

“Red!” Jonathan shouts, very close to the phone.

“Can I talk to him?” I ask Cooper.

“He’s a little out of control at the moment.”

“Get these fucking things off me!” Jonathan yells.

“Please,” I beg.

He blows a sigh through the phone. “Sit your ass down and shut up and I’ll let you talk to her,” I hear him say away from the phone.

Through the phone there’s the screech of chair legs scraping on the floor, then everything goes quiet.

“Red?” Jonathan says a second later.

“Hey, Jonathan. You’ve got to calm down.”

“This guy wants to cut me,” he says, his tone somewhere between panicked and indignant.

“There’s something in you they need to get out, Jon. You’ve got to let them do it.”

Nichols bursts through the door into the interrogation room, and when she sees Blake on the floor, crouches on his other side.

“He needs an ambulance,” I tell her.

“I’m not going anywhere in an ambulance!” Jonathan shouts in my ear.

Nichols pulls out her phone and speaks in rushed tones.

“Not you, Jon,” I say, trying to split my attention between what’s happening here and with Jonathan. “Just let them get that thing out of you, okay? Then we’ll talk.” I hang up and focus on Blake. “We should have gone to the hospital first.”

He shakes his head weakly and looks just on the edge of passing out. “Just a scratch.”

“You are so full of shit.”

Nichols hangs up. “Security is bringing them up.”

I sit with him for the next few minutes until they arrive. Just as they start to load him onto the stretcher, he digs in his pocket. He flips Nichols his car keys. “Take the Escalade and bring Sam back up the hill.” He grabs the newspaper crossword puzzle sitting on the table and tears off a corner of the page, scribbling something on it, then presses it into her hand with the elevator key. “For your eyes only. Flush the paper when you get in.”

Nichols looks at the paper in her hand. “I don’t know the address.”

Blake looks at me. “Can you get her there, Sam?”

I nod, hoping I remember all the turns.

He must see all the fear I’m barely containing in my eyes, because his gaze softens and he touches my shoulder. “It’ll be okay. I’ll be right behind you.”

The paramedics strap Blake down and rush his gurney down the hall, and I can’t explain the hole in my chest as he vanishes into the elevator.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I MANAGE TO get us there without getting lost, and by the time we pull into the garage, the sun is rising. I drag myself though the shower and then lay in bed, trying to sleep. But it’s useless. I find myself lingering on the edge of consciousness, listening for the elevator door, and every time I start to doze, the ring of gunfire in my head jerks me awake.

Finally, I give up. I tug on some clothes, and when I come out of my room, Nichols is in the leather armchair, biting her thumbnail and texting someone. A half-played game of solitaire is laid out on the coffee table in front of her.

I cross to the kitchen and start a fresh pot of coffee brewing, then flop onto my back on the sofa. “Why didn’t you know how to get here last night?”

“Only Montgomery, Cooper, Jenkins, and Special Agent in Charge Navarro were privy to that information,” she says, her thumbs flying over the screen of her phone.

“Why?”

She looks up at me. “Security. The fewer people who know, the more secure the location.”

I spin on the sofa and sit up. “Is that Blake?” I ask, glancing at her phone.

“No. Sorry,” she says, gripping it tighter, like I might make a dive for it or something.

“Has anyone heard from him?” I try not to sound totally desperate, but I can tell from the look on her face that I don’t pull it off.

“Cooper says they gave him a transfusion and the doctor wants to keep him for a few hours. He should be back later today.”

Relief floods through me. “Good. That’s good.” I bring my knees up and hug them to my chest. “What’s going to happen to Jonathan?”

She relaxes back onto her chair. “It depends on whether he knew they were tracking him. If he did, he’ll be charged with any number of things, including aiding and abetting, and obstruction of justice.”

“He’s my best friend. He didn’t know.” I wish I sounded more convinced.

She gives me a grave look. “I hope you’re right.”

Her stomach growls and she rubs a hand over it as she sets her phone on the end table and settles deeper into the chair. “We should have picked up some fries on the way home.”

I give her a feeble smile. “That kid is going to pop out of there with curly red hair and floppy white shoes, you know.”

Her eyes widen, but then she cracks up. Both hands go to her belly as she laughs, like she’s trying to hold everything together.

“Boy or girl?”

She looks at me, then her eyes shift around the room as if she’s afraid someone might be listening. “I’m not supposed to know,” she says quietly, leaning forward.

“What do you mean?”

“My husband says this is one of life’s few surprises, and he doesn’t want us to know ahead of time.”

I give her a skeptical smile. “But . . . ?”

Her face pulls into a guilty squint as she chews on her cuticle. “I couldn’t stand it. I had to know. So I called the doctor’s office after we had the ultrasound and asked him.” She leans closer. “It’s a boy,” she whispers.

“Is that what you were hoping for?”

She sits back in her seat, rubbing her bulging stomach. “I just want a healthy baby. We’ve been trying for three years to get pregnant.”

“Wow. Well . . . congratulations.”

“It put a lot of strain on our marriage when it didn’t happen right away. Mike comes from a big family and he wanted lots of kids, so . . .”

“Well,” I say, gesturing to her stomach. “Maybe it’s twins.”

That gets a nervous little smile out of her. “There was only one baby on the ultrasound.”

I get up and pour us both a cup of coffee, then come back to the sofa, handing her a mug.

“Thanks,” she says, taking it from me. “Something else I’m not supposed to have.”

I settle into the sofa. “Blake told me you were undercover at Benny’s.”

Her hand pauses, her mug halfway to her mouth. “I was.”

“What did you do there?”

She takes a slow sip of her coffee, and I notice a slight shake in her hand. “Danced. But then I got pregnant, so I told Special Agent in Charge Navarro that I had to pull out. I couldn’t risk anything happening to the baby. I’m on leave from fieldwork until after he’s born.” Her hand migrates to her stomach again as she says this in what I’m just now noticing is a protective gesture.

“Huh. I think I might have gotten your job. Jonathan said someone got ‘knocked up,’ ” I say making air quotes, “so there was an opening.”

Her smile seems a little forced. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Blake said you couldn’t find anything on Ben while you worked there.”

She shakes her head. “He keeps that place pretty spotless. Totally on the up and up.”

“So why are you guys so sure he’s guilty?”

She lowers her gaze and swirls the coffee in her mug. “I can’t really talk about anything to do with case with you.” She scoops up the cards and starts shuffling. “But I can whip your butt in cribbage again.”

We play, and she’s in the process of beating me for the third time when the faint clank of the elevator door opening has me bounding out of the sofa. My eyes snap to it in time to see Blake step into the living room.

He’s in a fresh T-shirt and there’s a white gauze bandage wrapped around his left upper arm. He looks like shit—pale, with dark hollows under eyes that look glazed over, mussed hair sticking up in twelve different directions, and slumped shoulders, as if the weight of the world is pressing down on them.

“Are you . . . is it . . . okay?” I stammer.

“It’s fine,” he says, wrapping his hand over his bandage, as if that might hide what crappy shape he’s in. “Wasn’t much more than a scratch.”

“I’ll stick around tonight, if you need me to,” Nichols says, hauling herself out of the chair.

“We’ll be fine,” Blake tells her. “Cooper’s out front, waiting to take you back down the hill. Special Agent in Charge Navarro’s sending him back up tomorrow morning, even though I told her I’m not compromised.”

Nichols cuts him a skeptical look. “You’re not indestructible, Montgomery.”

“I’m fine,” he says in that slow drawl.

Her face scrunches as if she doesn’t believe him. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Blake answers. “Go.”

“All right.” She moves toward the elevator, jiggling her phone. “Mike will be happy. He’s been texting me every three minutes. He worries.”

“As any husband would,” Blake says with a weary smile. “Thanks for standing in.”

“Just glad everyone’s safe,” she says, punching the elevator button and stepping in. But just as the door starts to close, Blake sticks his hand in and it springs open again.

Nichols tenses as Blake steps into the opening. “Give your elevator key to Cooper. I’ve got his.”

She nods. “No problem.”

He steps back and the elevator door closes.

I move closer. “You’re really okay? Nichols said they gave you a transfusion.”

He nods, flexing his bandaged bicep. “Stitched up, pumped up, and good to go.”

“What happened with Jonathan?” I feel my face scrunch, and I realize as soon as I ask it, I’m afraid of the answer.

He takes a deep breath and settles heavily into the chair Nichols just vacated, elbows on knees. “He’s exactly as clueless as he seems. It doesn’t appear he had any idea about the tracking chip in his shoulder. Apparently, his drinking buddy chipped him when he was passed out. He told Cooper where he’d been with Arroyo’s goon, but when Coop and Jenkins got there, the place was empty.” He hangs his head and shakes it in frustration. “All he had to do was steer clear. That shouldn’t have been so goddamn hard.”

I’m at once relieved and swamped with guilt. Jonathan filled the hole in my life that Lexie left behind. He’s been my closest friend and confidant for most of the last year. I know his heart and I never should have doubted him. I should have told Blake and Cooper that Jonathan would never do anything to hurt me. Shame crushes my heart like a stone fist.

Blake stands and shuffles toward the stairs. “Are you okay on your own for a minute? I need to—”

“Sleep,” I interrupt, gaining my feet. “You look like shit on a plate.”

His mouth curves up on one side. “Thanks.”

“I mean it,” I say with a brush of my hand at the stairs. “Get some sleep and I’ll make you some lunch whenever you’re ready.”

The almost-smile clears and his gaze goes suddenly intense. “Thanks,” he says again, and I get the feeling there’s more he wants me to hear, though I’m not sure what it is.

“You’re welcome. Now go.”

He keeps me fixed in his intent gaze for a second longer, then turns for the stairs.

Mindlessly, I drift to the kitchen and pour myself another cup of coffee, then climb the stairs to the office. I peruse the shelves without reading any of the titles and randomly come away with one of the Harry Potter books. I settle onto the sofa and mechanically thumb past pages of words, but I don’t see any of them.

Jonathan took a bullet trying to protect me the night of the crash. I love him like a brother. Granted, a really horny brother, but a brother nonetheless. The look on his face as Cooper dragged him away—the hurt in his eyes when he realized I didn’t believe in him—is etched indelibly in my mind. I need to apologize to him. If I could just talk to him . . .

If I could just talk to anyone. Izzy. Ginger. Katie.

Mom.

Maybe it’s almost getting killed . . . twice, but I miss her, and I suddenly feel so homesick it hurts. An overwhelming swell of claustrophobia wraps itself around me, and I feel like I’m being smothered. I can’t do this. Mom throwing me out; Blake, Jonathan, the fact that Ben wants me dead—none of this can be happening to me. This is someone else’s life I’m trapped in.

My head swims with the panic that’s taking control of me. I launch off the sofa to the window and press my palms against it, breathing hard. Freedom is just on the other side of the thin glass.

The urge to run is overpowering, and I fly down both flights of stairs and rocket onto the deck, sprinting down the path to the pool. When I get there, I don’t even slow, diving head first into the warm water in my jeans and tank top.

And I swim.

I beat my way through the water, the drag of my clothes making it a challenge to stay afloat. But I keep going. I don’t heed the ache in my shoulder, or my burning lungs, or limbs that are turning to lead. I keep swimming.

And when I can’t move another muscle, I sink to the bottom and just sit here. My lungs are on fire, but I don’t care. It’s quiet down here, even my thoughts muffled.

Down here is the only place I’ve found peace since this whole thing started.

Down here, everything else goes away.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

THROUGH THE SPOTS  flashing in my eyes, I see a streak of white bubbles as a splash sounds from the surface. The next second there’s a strong arm clamped around my chest, and I’m pressed to a hard body behind.

Blake pulls me to the surface and onto the stairs, where he sits, holding my limp body against his, our limbs twisted together as I gasp for air.

“I’m sorry,” he says into my hair.

I barely hear him over the pulse pounding in my ears, but the ache in his voice as he says it tears at my soul. I claw at him, burrowing deeper into his muscled chest. His arms circle me, gently at first, then more fiercely as ugly sobs start to erupt out of me. He crushes me against his body, holding me together as I fall apart, murmuring, “I’m sorry,” over and over, his lips moving on my forehead.

My last thought is that I’m suffocating without him, and then everything goes dark and I float away.

I WAKE UP in my bed and I have no recollection how I got here. . . . I was in the pool. Blake came in after me.

And now I’m in my sleep shirt under my sheets.

It’s sunset outside my window, and my hair is barely damp, so the pool must have been a while ago. My head throbs, trying to piece it together.

I pull myself to a sitting position and my head protests again.

“How are you feeling?” I look toward the door and find Blake sitting in the armchair in the corner. He still looks a little pale, but otherwise okay.

My eyes are draw to the bandage on his arm. “Good. How about you?”

“Never better.” He leans so his elbows are on his knees, and his gaze is all concern. “I can get you some coffee, or tea, or . . . anything you need.”

I swallow and my throat feels swollen. “Coffee would be good, thanks.”

He nods and stands. “I’ll be right back.”

The way he says it, like he’s afraid something will happen to me in the minute it takes him, makes me look at him funny. “Okay . . .”

He vanishes out the door, and a second later I hear him rattling around in the kitchen.

I sit and look at myself, wondering how I got into my sleep shirt. When I stumble into the bathroom, I find my jeans, tank, and bra hanging on the towel hooks to dry. But I’m in the same underwear, and it’s still a little damp between the legs.

I lean on the counter, trying to remember. Blake pulled me to the stairs. Then what?

I head out to the kitchen and nearly run into him on his way back to my room with my Alcatraz mug.

“You’re up.” He hands me the cup and I take it.

“Did you change me out of my clothes?” I demand.

He rubs his neck and turns back toward the kitchen, avoiding my eyes and my question, and that’s all the answer I need. “Are you hungry?”

“A little,” I say, following him.

He ducks into the fridge, and when he comes out with a bowl of fresh strawberries, his eyes flick to mine. “We have counselors . . . at the agency.”

“Are you going to talk to them?” I ask, slipping onto a stool and setting my mug on the counter.

He tips his head in a question. “I meant for you . . . if you need to talk to someone.”

I pluck a berry from the bowl and bite it. “About . . . ?”

“About . . . what happened. You’ve been through a lot this last month, and . . . if you’re depressed, or . . .”

“I’m not depressed.”

“Sam,” he says, fixing me in a concerned gaze, “you tried to drown yourself.”

My eyes widen as I get what he’s thinking. “What? Hell, no! I’m not suicidal, Blake! I just . . . it’s all kind of overwhelming, you know? I just needed to turn off my brain for a little while.”

His gaze turns skeptical. “By swimming yourself to exhaustion and nearly drowning in the bottom of the pool?”

I shrug. “Yeah . . . I guess.”

He shakes his head and rakes a hand through his hair, grabbing onto a fistful as he breathes out a frustrated sigh. “Christ, Sam. You scared the shit out of me.”

“If I ever get out of here, I’m going swimming in the ocean.” It’s a totally random thought, but I feel the sudden need to do it. Maybe I need to prove to myself I’m tough enough to handle anything, even sharks. Even Ben.

He leans on his elbows across the counter. “I thought you were galeophobic?”

I take my mug and go to the sofa, sinking into the corner and curling my legs under me. “But life is about facing your fears, right? Isn’t that what you said?”

He gives me a slow nod, the worry in his gaze shifting to something brighter—something that might be admiration. And I realize I want it to be. I want him to have a reason to think I’m something other than a babysitting job. I want to be someone worthy of his time.

“Are you going to get him?” I ask with a sudden determination to do anything I can to help.

He moves around the counter and settles onto the sofa next to me. “Our search of Arroyo’s records didn’t turn up the smoking gun we were hoping for. We haven’t been able to find anything to directly connect him to the disappearance of that girl, and we’ve come up nearly empty-handed with physical evidence from the club that would implicate him in Weber’s murder. They did a really good job of keeping the scene and the body clean. The only thing we’re sure about is you were the last person to see Weber alive. That means he didn’t leave Arroyo’s office on his own two feet. Arroyo most likely had his goons carry the body out.”

His goons.

I know he means Marcus, but I can’t help remembering how he always had my back. He wasn’t a goon; he was my big, scary guardian angel. There was genuine concern on his face when he came out of Ben’s office that night and saw me in the hall, shaking up against the door after I’d let Blake touch me.

There’s a jolt through my body as the image forms in my head. Grease on his hands.

“Could that have been blood?” I muse out loud.

Blake leans closer, a spark in his eye. “What? Did you remember something?”

I tip my head back onto the sofa, feeling a little sick. “Do you remember hearing anything, like a bang, when we were in the VIP room together that night?”

His ears flush and for the first time he looks truly embarrassed. “I don’t really . . .” He rubs the back of his neck, chagrin settling over his features. “My memory of that night isn’t as clear as it should be.”

“I heard something outside the room, which is what made me . . . it sort of snapped me out of . . . whatever,” I say, working really hard not to let my mortification show. “A few minutes later, when I went out into the hall, Marcus was just coming out of Ben’s office. He was wiping something off his hands. I thought it was grease. There was a towel. He threw it on the floor near Ben’s door.”

Blake’s face becomes suddenly animated as he gets what I’m saying. “Was Arroyo with him?”

“Ben was yelling something at Marcus through the door . . .” I close my eyes and try to think. “He wanted him to get Devin, the other bouncer, I think.”

The elevator door clanks, and I turn just as Cooper steps out. I’d forgotten that Blake said he was coming this morning.

Blake ignores him, all his attention focused on me. “But Arroyo was definitely in the room. You’re sure of that?”

I nod.

A smile breaks over his face as he moves off the sofa. “We’ve got him.”

He relays the information to Cooper as I refill my coffee, nearly spilling it because of my shaking hands. I take it to the counter, slip onto a stool and pick at the bowl of strawberries there, even though I’m not really hungry. They shoot me a few more questions, and once Cooper has all the details, he dials Jenkins and disappears into the elevator, apparently deciding that following up the lead is more important than babysitting Blake and me.

Blake is exhilarated. “This could be our smoking gun, Sam.” He shakes his head, and I see that look of admiration in his eyes again. “I never thought it would play out like this.”

I slip off the stool, licking my strawberry sticky fingers. “How, exactly, did you think it would play out?”

There’s a full ten seconds where he just stares at my lips, but then he clears his throat. “Your prostitution charge was just to get into Arroyo’s club records. I never thought we’d be able to put him away for murder. And I never in a million years thought you’d be the key.” He steps closer and his eyes spark as he sweeps a lock of hair behind my shoulder.

“It was because of you,” I say, my shaking, amplified by his proximity, showing in my voice. “You freaked me out in the VIP room. I was in the hall trying to pull my shit together when I saw him.”

He bites his lips between his teeth and stares down at me, the spark in his eyes becoming a slow burn.

We’re less than a foot apart and I can’t stop myself from touching him. I lift a hand and trace my finger along the edge of the bandage on his arm. “Does this hurt?”

His breathing becomes shaky at my touch and he leans forward a fraction of an inch. “Not much.”

I trace the bandage up under the sleeve of his T-shirt, and goose bumps pebble the skin under my fingertip as it moves toward his shoulder. “Have you been shot before?”

His breathing stalls altogether for a beat. “No,” he finally says, lowering his gaze. He blows out a sigh, lifting his eyes to mine again, and in them I see his struggle. He closes them in a slow blink as he backs away. His hand slides down my arm and he catches my fingers with his for just a second before letting go of me. “I have some reports. There are leftovers in the fridge. I probably won’t be up for dinner.” He turns and vanishes down the stairs, leaving me standing here staring after him.

I don’t see him for the rest of the night, but I hear his music waft up from downstairs. I sneak down at one point, just to make sure he hasn’t keeled over dead, and see him on the sofa with a laptop, so I leave him alone. I know he needs his space for a lot of reasons.

I forage in the fridge and find something to take back to my room for dinner, then flip on the TV, but there’s nothing except reruns of shows that were bad the first time around. When I’m done eating, I turn it off and change into my swimsuit. I’ve got to burn off some of this tension before it eats me alive.

Just after dark I skip down the path and glance back at the house. The living room lights are on, but Blake isn’t on the balcony. I’m surprised by the pang of disappointment, until I get nearer the bathhouse and realize the light is on in the man cave.

He’s working out.

I tiptoe to the window and cautiously peer in. He’s on the bench press wearing nothing but his white bandage and a pair of loose navy gym shorts. As I watch, he lowers the heavily weighted barbell to his chest, then hikes it back up. Muscles ripple under taut skin across his chest and up his arms as he presses the weight once, twice, three times, and he winces each time as the left side of the barbell lags behind.

I want to go in there and tell him to stop. He’s not ready for this. But, instead, I find myself pressed up against the window, watching.

God, he’s beautiful.

He rests the barbell on the rack and sits up, and I step away from the window before he sees me.

I reach for the doorknob but then back away as the fleeting image of what might happen if I walked into that room flits through my mind and makes my insides tingle. The memory of those sure, firm hands on my body sends a rush of adrenaline surging through my bloodstream, and more than anything, I want to feel that again. I reach for the knob again, imagining how this will go. Between the two of us there are so little clothes, it would only take seconds before we were totally naked. Not enough time for either of us to think—to change our minds.

I hear the clang of metal and know he’s on another set. If I walked in now, what would he do?

I imagine the taste of his sweat, the feel of his hard body as he crushed himself against me. Every muscle in my belly contracts at the image of him throwing me onto the sofa and what would happen next.

Suddenly, this doesn’t feel like a game anymore. It feels deeper. And scarier. Are we both still here only because we have to be? Or is it more that we want? Need?

But I can’t want what I want. Maybe when Ben is locked away for good . . . when I’m no longer Blake’s job. But not now.

I move quickly to the pool and dive in, then swim hard, trying to swim away the need to go into that bathhouse and follow through on my desires.

When my lungs burn and I can’t move another muscle, I finally stop and float on my back, staring up at the night sky. The city lights are too bright to see anything but the brightest stars, but I remember what it looked like at the cabin. But that brings back memories of other things that happened there: Blake’s strong hands on my body, his mouth devouring mine. I close my eyes and try to clear my mind. But just as I’m starting to relax, there’s a splash.

When I first feel Blake’s hands on my waist, I giggle and kick against him, trying to pull away. But when I stand at the shallow end of the pool and look into his face, I suddenly know we’re not playing a game.

He tugs me to him and stares into my eyes with scorching intensity. The heat of his body, pressed against mine, burns me alive. His lips part and a sound of pure need escapes from them as he trails his nose along my forehead and down my temple. His lips brush over my scar, and his ragged breath in my ear stalls for a second, as if he’s preparing to whisper something private.

I pulse with the need to know what it is. I lean closer, unable to fight the urge, and I can taste his breath.

His fingers find my face, caressing my scarred cheek, then scoop around the back of my neck.

I don’t even think. I just do what I’ve been dying to do for weeks. I stretch up onto my tiptoes and press myself against him. My lips brush over his and I take his lower lip between my teeth.

He groans as his hands tighten around me, one at my back and the other at my neck, and he pulls me against the curve of his body. His mouth moves hungrily on mine, his tongue tasting and owning.

Little flashes of lightning jolt through my insides and my heart strains against my rib cage. Every nerve ending is on fire with his touch, and every part of me hums.

I wrap my arms around his shoulders and pull him closer, deepening our kiss. He responds with a low groan deep in his chest, and I’d swear the water around us boils. He grabs my hips and lifts me onto him, and I wrap my legs around his cut torso, needing to be closer, to feel every inch of him pressed against me. He backs us toward the pool stairs and lays me across them, his mouth leaving mine and trailing down my jawline, my throat, and across my collarbone.

I feel a tug at my neck, and suddenly my bikini top is floating away on the surface of the water. His lips migrate lower and I arch up and moan when they close over my breast, swirling his tongue over my tight nipple.

I’m on fire, my whole body a live nerve ending. I ache all over and I can barely breathe. As he presses me against the stairs and moves his erection against my sweet spot, I come unglued.

I let out a sharp “Ahh!” and dig my heels into his back, pulling him harder against me. I don’t care anymore about what’s right or wrong. I want Blake more then I’ve ever wanted anything in my life, and I know he feels the same.

I lift a hand and trail the tip of my finger along the curves of his chest and down his ripped abs. Every muscle feels taut under my hands, steel under silk.

His mouth finds mine again, and he moves his erection against my sweet spot, finding a rhythm. As I climb to a place I’ve never been, I can’t believe he can do this to me right through our clothes. He takes my nipple into his mouth again and gives suck as he rubs himself faster against me, and holy God, I’ve never felt anything like this. I’m vaguely aware that I’m crying out, loudly, something between a moan and a sob. And a minute later, when I come for the first time in my life, I do sob, an animal cry that doesn’t even sound human.

I’m struggling to catch my breath as he scoops me up and carries me to the house. Despite his injury, he sweeps up the stairs to my room like I weigh nothing at all and lays me on my unmade bed. He lies next to me and I curl myself around him. I burrow into his warmth, and as much as I don’t want to miss a minute of this, I feel myself drowsy with contentment. The beat of his heart, the caress of his fingers over my back, the rhythm of his breath in my hair, lull me slowly into sleep.

I WAKE TO the smell of coffee. It takes me a minute to get my senses straightened out, but then I smile when I remember where I am . . . or more accurately, how I got here.

I roll, and when I find the other side of the bed empty, the smile fades off my face.

Coffee.

He’s in the kitchen.

I drag myself out of bed, still groggy, and slip my robe on over my bikini bottoms, then go to the kitchen. But Blake is nowhere.

I fill my Alcatraz mug and suck down half of it in one greedy gulp. When I hear Blake on the stairs, I can’t keep the grin from spreading over my face. I turn, but the person who crests the top step isn’t Blake. It’s Cooper.

He looks at me, his gaze cool.

I pull my robe tighter around me, suddenly feeling naked. “Is Blake . . . downstairs?”

“Special Agent Montgomery decided he needed some recovery time. He asked me to stand in, which means you’re graced with my company for the next few days.”

A tight band wraps around my chest and I can’t get a full breath. “Recovery time?” I picture him working out last night . . . and carrying me up the stairs.

But now he needs recovery time?

Cooper fixes me in a frosty stare. “He was shot, in case you forgot.”

“I know he was shot!” I snap, guilt and dread and fear spinning my emotions into a cyclone.

He moves past me into the kitchen. “At least he had the good sense to brew the coffee before he left.”

I move to the living room, sinking into the sofa. “Is he coming back?”

He flicks me a glance. “You tell me, Jezebel.”

I lean into the cushions and close my eyes, trying to keep the tears at bay.

Cooper settles into the armchair and sets my full Alcatraz mug on the table in front of me. “Look, Blake is a good kid, and he’s a great agent. He has more potential than anyone I’ve seen come up through the ranks for a while. If you ever repeat this to anyone, I’ll deny it, but I think Special Agent in Charge Navarro screwed up bringing him in on this case. There’s no way this isn’t going to be personal for him. His emotions are all over the place. Add Jezebel,” he says with a flick of his wrist at me, “and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.”

Is that what we are? A disaster?

I lift my mug to my face and take slow sips, breathing in the steam and letting it calm me. After a minute I stand and head to my room.

I start for the bathroom, but detour to the window. Below, in the pool, a black shadow sits at the bottom of the shallow end. My bikini top.

It happened. I didn’t dream it.

I crawl into my bed and pull Blake’s pillow to my face. He’s still here, that musky, earthy scent that’s all man. All Blake.

Does this mean he thinks what happened was a mistake?

It’s a long while later that I drag myself up and shower. When I finally cross the living room on my way to the coffeepot, Cooper is watching a WWF match on TV.

His gaze doesn’t stray from the screen as he says, “I went to check on your family yesterday.”

My eyes snap to him and my coffee sloshes over the rim. “Why?”

“After what happened at the cabin, we wanted to be sure they were okay.”

My heart’s beating in my throat as I move to the living room and drop into the sofa. “And?”

“Everyone’s fine.”

I try to swallow the ball of panic in my throat but I can’t. “What did you tell them?”

His head shakes slightly. “Nothing.”

“Mom didn’t ask how I was or anything?”

He finally pulls his eyes away from the TV. “She did.”

“What did you say?” I ask, throwing my hand in the air, exasperated.

He leans forward, his elbow on the arm of the chair. “I told her you were fine, Jezebel.”

“Oh, God.” I say, dropping my face into my hand. I can only imagine what Mom’s making out of all this.

“She wanted me to give you that,” he says, pointing the remote at a thick white envelope on the coffee table.

I pick it up and see it’s already been opened. “You?” I say, slipping my finger into the opening.

He gives me a shake of his head. “Your mother.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“No.”

“But she and Greg are okay?”

“Yes.”

Conversation with Cooper is about as informative as talking to a rock. I shoot him a glare and flip the envelope in my hand. When I see the return address, I almost drop my mug.

Lexie.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

ALL THE BLOOD  rushes out of my head and I feel suddenly dizzy.

I set my coffee down and pull out the contents of the envelope as if it might bite me. It’s not flowery, and it doesn’t smell like roses or anything. It’s actually pretty classy—parchment-looking paper with a swatch of antique lace in one corner. But I can’t help the way my stomach clamps at the words written in a simple slant across the front.

Alexandra Elizabeth Banks and Trenton James Sorenson request the honor of your presence at their nuptial

June twenty-ninth is the date. Trent is marrying Lexie in two weeks.

There’s a folded note, and I see Lexie’s neat script through the thin paper, but I’m not ready to read it just yet.

I toss the whole thing on the table and pick up my coffee, taking a long sip.

“That bad?”

I look up at Cooper. “Yes.”

He nods slowly. “You know what helps with stuff like that?”

“Whiskey?”

He barks out a laugh. “That, for sure.” He flips the remote off the coffee table and unmutes the TV. “But this too. Nothing like watching guys in tights beat the crap out of each other to help you forget everything else.”

I settle deeper into the sofa and hope he doesn’t notice my cringe. There’s a reason I never watch this.

Cooper spends the next two hours giving running commentary of each staged match, and, despite the coffee, I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open.

“Yeah!” he shouts, with a pound of his fist on the arm of the chair, jarring me awake. “Finally a good match! This guy’s a legend.”

I look at the TV and throw up a little in my mouth. “Yeah. In his own mind.”

Cooper cuts me a glance. “What do you know about the Butcher?”

“Not as much as I should, considering he’s my father.”

His eyes go wide and he springs out of his seat. “You’re telling me Butch ‘the Butcher’ Rupert is your father?”

I shrug. “That’s what I’ve been led to believe, though I’ve never seen him anywhere but on TV.” Mom told me they got married too young and divorced before I was born. I guess he never really wanted anything to do with me.

He drops back into his seat, stunned, and pauses the TiVo just as dear old dad is jumping the ropes on his way into the ring. “The Butcher?” he repeats. “Your dad is seriously the Butcher?”

I close my eyes, hoping my face isn’t as red as I think it is. “I don’t admit that to many people.”

“Why not? He’s a legend.”

I try to rub the red out of my cheeks and look at him. “He’s forty-three and still struts around the wrestling ring on national television wearing nothing but a tiny pair of red spandex and fake blood. It’s humiliating.”

He looks at me for a long minute, then a grin breaks over his face. “I can see the resemblance.”

I glare at him and stand up. “I’ll be in my room.”

“Forget Jezebel. I’m going to call you Pork Chop,” he calls just as I slam my door. Hard.

IT’S BEEN FIVE days. When I ask Cooper about Blake, all he’ll say is he’ll be back when he’s ready. And every time he says it, I see the condemnation in his eyes.

I’ve spent most of my time in my room to avoid that look.

It’s late afternoon when I finally come out in a T-shirt and shorts over my swimsuit. I head for the kitchen and find a tub of strawberries in the fridge, which I inhale before heading downstairs.

Cooper is at the pool table, chalking his cue. “Up for a game of eight ball, Pork Chop?” he asks, lifting his cue as if toasting me.

“No, thanks,” I say, heading toward the French doors. “I’ll be down at the pool.”

He nods as he leans over the table to take his shot. “Don’t drown or anything. The missus and I are saving up for a trip. Can’t afford to get suspended.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, ducking out the door.

When I reach the pool, I sit on the stairs, skimming my fingers over the surface. I can’t forget the look on Blake’s face as he laid me here and kissed me. I can’t forget the feel of his mouth and his hands working their magic over my body. I can’t forget how he took me to climax right through our swimsuits.

And I don’t want to.

I won’t let myself believe it’s over . . . whatever we were starting.

I swim, but it doesn’t ease the ache in my heart. An hour later I pull my waterlogged body out of the pool and bake in the last of the evening sun until I’m dry, then head back into the house.

“. . . could stay with her,” I hear Nichols say as I’m cresting the stairs across from my room.

“Navarro’s not going to go for that,” Cooper answers. “Not in your . . . condition.”

“I’ve got another few months before the baby’s due. We’ll be fine.”

“Sorry, Christine. I’ve got orders . . . as much as the missus hates them.”

I step into the room and they both turn to look at me from where they’re sitting on the sofa.

“Hope you’re hungry, Jez,” Cooper says through a grin. “Nichols brought enough pizza to feed an army.”

“Um . . . yeah. Just let me change.” I duck into my room and slip on a pair of jeans and a tank before heading back to the living room. I want to ask if either of them knows where Blake is. Did he go home to L.A.? To his fiancée? But I bite my tongue. I’m not supposed to care, and I don’t want another lecture from Cooper.

I grab a plate from the cupboard and a Coke from the fridge and sit in the armchair.

Nichols pushes the stack of three pizza boxes toward me.

“What? No french fries?” I say with a grin.

She shakes her head. “The baby’s over them. Now he wants pepperoni pizza.”

When I open the top box, I see it is indeed pepperoni. And it’s mostly gone, which means they didn’t wait for me. I pull a slice onto my plate.

“There’s cheese and ‘the works’ in the other boxes. I didn’t know what you like,” she tells me.

“This is fine,” I say, lifting my slice.

“Your personal chef will be back tomorrow,” Cooper says, and my heart skips.

“Blake?” I’m embarrassed when my voice comes out squeaky.

He fixes me in his scowl. “Unless you have someone else who cooks for you?”

“He’s . . . okay?”

He nods. “He called while you were playing Malibu Barbie,” he says with a jut of his chin at the window. “There are some things happening in the case, so he’s at the office, but he said he’d explain everything when he sees you tomorrow.”

The knot in my chest eases. Blake is coming home. I didn’t scare him off.

I sink into the chair and focus all my attention on my pizza slice, because otherwise I’m going to get up and do a happy dance around the room. And I don’t want to have to explain that to Cooper.

Chapter Thirty

WHEN I STUMBLE out of my room, shorts and a tank top over my swimsuit, it’s after ten and Cooper is just pulling a pair of Eggo waffles out of the toaster.

“Morning, Jezebel,” he says when he sees me.

“I thought I was Pork Chop now.”

He shrugs.

I go to the kitchen and pour my coffee, but just as I take my first sip, I hear the telltale clank and rattle of the elevator. I spin, sloshing my coffee onto the floor, as the door slides open. My breathing goes a little shaky as Blake steps out, wondering how this is going to go.

But then he smiles.

The tiniest of whimpers escapes my throat with the flood of relief.

“Tell me that Cooper didn’t feed you Eggos,” he says, glaring at him.

“Cooper didn’t feed her anything,” he says from the armchair through a mouthful of waffle. “Figured she was all grown up and could feed herself.”

Something sparks in Blake’s eyes as he moves toward me, where I’m busy holding up the kitchen counter. “That she is,” he murmurs with a secret smile as he brushes past me.

His touch leaves me vibrating.

He pulls a carton of eggs out of the fridge, then rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands. “Omelet?”

“Um . . . yeah. That sounds good.”

Cooper comes back to the kitchen and hands his empty plate over the counter to me. “I guess my job here is done. I’ll grab my stuff and get home to the missus.”

He disappears down the stairs, and I look at Blake, wondering if we’re going to talk about what happened before he left. He’s cracking eggs into a bowl, and before I can think how to start that conversation, I hear Cooper on the stairs.

I take my coffee into the living room and try to figure out how I should be acting right now. But I end up just standing here in my daze.

“So . . . if everything’s under control,” Cooper says, splitting a glance between Blake and me, “I’ll be on my way.”

“Goodbye, Cooper,” Blake says without looking up from his work.

Cooper shoots him a scowl from the elevator as the door slides shut.

I move to the coffeepot, directly behind where Blake is working, and lean on the counter. “Where were you?”

“At the office, mostly,” he says without turning.

“Are we . . . okay?”

He stops working and gives me a slow nod. “Arroyo’s accountant turned.”

“What?”

His eyes brighten as he turns to face me, and a smile breaks over his face. “It’s almost over, Sam. Arroyo’s screwed seven ways to Sunday. We came up with blood trace in the hall, where you say his goon threw the towel, and now we’ve got his accountant. The coroner puts the time of death in the window when you saw him in Arroyo’s office, and your testimony will put Arroyo in the room as his guy was exiting with blood on his hands, so that’s a lock. But even if he somehow manages to walk on the murder charge, we’ll get him on racketeering.”

There’s a second where I don’t even really hear what he’s saying, because, in his excitement, he’s so stunningly beautiful. And when he scoops me into his arms, lifting me clean off my feet and spinning us in a circle, I go dizzy with the feel of him and the smell of him . . . and the fact that he just spun me in a circle. My head swims and I wobble a little as he sets me on my feet and smiles down at me. He steadies me with firm hands on my shaking shoulders as I get my bearings.

I blink and give my head a shake. “So, is it done? I can go home?”

His glow fades a little. “I’m sorry. No. Not yet.”

“Why?” I ask, confused. “If you’ve got his accountant?”

He lets go of me and his mouth presses into a tight line. “We’re still going with the murder charge first. Arroyo knows it will be your testimony that puts him and Weber together in his office at the time of death. He’s not going to back down.”

“What about that girl? Does the accountant know what happened to her?”

He gives his head a small shake. “We haven’t been able to get enough from the records to even determine if Arroyo was responsible. I had Nichols pull together some more pictures I need you to look at.”

Any relief I was feeling about Ben’s accountant is instantly gone. “Anything,” I say. “Whatever you need.” My chest aches as I take my coffee to the living room and settle onto the sofa.

He goes to his messenger bag and pulls out a file, then sits on the sofa next to me. “These are FBI profile pics on people they’re tracking for human trafficking who are known to have been in California in the last year. It’s a long shot, but we have reason to believe Arroyo might have brought in a buyer to . . .” His jaw grinds tight with barely contained loathing. “. . . look at you. If any of them look at all familiar, that will at least give us a place to start.”

He spreads five glossy black and white photos on the coffee table, and I feel my face scrunch in disgust immediately. Because the one in the middle is Creepy Asian Guy.

“That one,” I tell Blake. “Nora called him Mr. Chang. Said he was some VIP or something. He wanted me to take my top off.”

Alarm flashes in Blake’s eyes.

“I didn’t,” I say when it’s clear that’s what he’s thinking. “I walked out.”

“Did he say anything else?”

I shake my head. “No. He was gross and I left.”

“When did you see him? Do you remember which night?”

I rest my forehead in my hand and try to think, but separating one night from the next is hard. They’re all measured in degrees of Blake . . . whether he was there or not, whether he touched me. “It was . . . I think it was the first night you came back to the club after we . . .” I rub my eyes so I don’t have to lift my head and look at him. “No . . . it was the second night. The night before you arrested me. He was my private right before you.”

He plucks the photo up and pulls out his phone. “She says Sayavong was at the club . . . it would have been . . . May ninth, I’m pretty sure.” There’s a pause as he studies the picture. “Yep, and a current whereabouts. He’s Laotian, but he has residences in Central America and the U.S.” He sinks back into the sofa. “And if you can pass the info along to Morgan over at the Bureau and get him on it . . .” He trails off and listens. “Thanks, Coop.”

When he lowers the phone, his gaze is intense. “I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if we hadn’t gotten you out of there when we did.”

That hadn’t occurred to me. I feel sick at the thought. I remember the way Creepy Asian Guy looked at me, how it made my skin crawl, and what Ben said to him. Let’s get this done before you sail. If Benny’s hadn’t gotten raided the next night, what would have happened?

“Can you remember anything else, Sam? Anything at all?” Blake presses.

“Ben walked the guy from the VIP room to his office. Before the door closed, Ben said, ‘Let’s get this done before you sail.’ ”

Blake leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Sayavong flies in and out of the country. He’s on the FBI’s watch list, so we have all his flight information for the last few years. Unless . . .” He taps his index finger on his chin. “Maybe that’s how he moves his cargo . . . in containers. Arroyo might have been talking about a commercial ship.”

He’s back on the phone a second later, filling Cooper in on his theory. He stands and moves to the balcony as they work out a strategy to search shipping records, and I go to the kitchen and finish chopping the bell peppers. Blake is still on the phone when he comes back in and fires up the burner. He pours some egg into the pan and swirls it with is wrist. “He probably didn’t use one of the bigger shippers,” he’s saying to Cooper. “They have too many checks and balances . . . too much government oversight.”

I layer the veggies into the omelet, and when the egg starts to set, Blake adds the cheese, then folds it expertly. He gives me a playful shove with his hip and shoos me into the living room. “Yep. I think we should start there and work our way up,” he tells Cooper, flipping the omelet in the pan.

I sit, and that’s when I see Trent and Lexie’s wedding invitation, still on the coffee table. I’d forgotten about it, with everything else that happened.

I pick it up and flip it over in my hands, then slip it out and read it over again. There’s a pang in my heart I don’t expect as my finger trails over Lexie’s name. I really wish things were different. I wish I hadn’t said the things I did. I wish I could be there for her.

I slip her note out of the envelope and unfold it.

Dear Sam,

I know there’s nothing I can say to make up for the way things happened between us. I should have been honest with you when I realized I was in love with Trent. I was just so scared and confused. I thought being away from him in Rome would clear my head and make me see that what happened between us before I left was just a huge mistake. But it did the opposite. The longer we were apart, the more I realized what a big part of me he is. The more I realized I wasn’t whole without him.

It killed me not to be able to tell you this. Especially when you and he started spending time together. But I honestly didn’t know how he felt. I thought he regretted what we’d done and was trying to move on, and a part of me was happy it was with you, because I knew how you’d always felt about him.

Anyway, I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I want you to know I didn’t plan any of it, and neither of us ever meant to hurt you. I miss you, and I wanted so much to talk to you before the wedding. Your mom said you’re away where you can’t be reached. I hope it’s somewhere fascinating, like Tibet. Whenever it is that you get this, just know that I so wanted you by my side for the wedding.

Miss you. Love you.

Lexie

I sit, staring at the note until the cushion next to me depresses. I look up to see Blake with a plate in each hand, and his expression all concern.

“Let me guess. The ex-boyfriend and his stepsister?” he says.

“Bingo,” I say, setting everything back on the coffee table.

He hands me an omelet. “Eat.”

I blow out a heavy sigh and take the plate. “Thanks.”

We eat, and when we’ve finished, I take our plates back to the kitchen and rinse them.

Blake brings his coffee and crosses to the stairs. “When you’re done,” he says, “come down.”

My gaze locks on his and he gives me that cocky almost-smile as he disappears down the stairs.

His bedroom’s down there.

I can’t stop my eyes from flicking at the stairs every few seconds while I finish cleaning. Once I have the dishes in the dishwasher, I follow him downstairs and find him in the middle of Kankû-dai. I watch, mesmerized, as he finishes.

“You ready to try again?” he asks after his final bow.

“Considering I really want to punch something, sure. Why the hell not.”

He arches an eyebrow. “I think we should stick with kata until your shoulder’s better.”

“My shoulder’s fine.” I give him my best smirk. “Just admit it. You’re scared of me.”

His face goes all serious and his eyes darken. “Everything about you scares the hell out of me.”

We just stand here staring at each other for the better part of forever, and I feel my breathing get rough and my insides churn with the need to finish what we started the other night.

Finally, he lowers his lashes. “So . . . Kankû-dai, or Kankû-shô?”

“I want to spar.”

His eyes flash back to mine. “You’re sure your shoulder is ready?”

I step closer. “I’m ready.”

He gives me a look. “Your wish, my command.”

I take a deep cleansing breath, then bow.

He bows then starts to circle slowly to his left. I follow his movements, but I can tell he’s waiting for me to make the first move.

“Don’t you dare go easy on me,” I warn, “because I’ll beat your ass at your best.”

He tips his head and a smile ticks one corner of his mouth. “Be careful what you wish for.”

I drop to a crouch and swing out with my leg, but Blake deflects my kick easily.

“I’m rusty,” I mutter under my breath.

He counters with a punch to my sternum, but I deflect it and spin, connecting with a kick to his knee.

We trade a few punches, then I lunge, but he twists out of my grasp. We circle a few more times, exchanging blows, which we both deflect. I go low for his legs again, and this time I get enough of his knee to take him down. But before I can get ahold of his leg to pin him, he’s rolled over his shoulder and is on his feet again.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” he taunts.

“Be careful what you wish for,” I say, singsonging his words back at him.

He tips his head, his eyes sizing me up, looking for my weakness. He seems to zero in on my shoulder, taking a few jabs that I’m forced to deflect with my right arm, but then he takes me by surprise when he swings out with his leg, buckling my knee and dropping me to the floor.

I roll backward over my shoulder and spring to my feet, unleashing a kick that connects with his sternum and rocks him back on his heels. He stumbles against the pool table, and I’m on him in a heartbeat. But before I can get a grasp on him, he hooks an elbow under my leg, lifting me completely off the ground. He spins me and pins my back to the green felt.

He’s breathing hard as he hovers over me, his body wedged between my spread legs and his hands planted on either side of my shoulders, and I see the struggle behind his eyes. Beads of sweat trickle along his neck, disappearing under the brushed cotton of his T-shirt.

I lay here, frozen like the rabbit in the headlights, waiting for him to decide. He continues to hover over me for what feels like forever, his hot breath and the ravenous look in his eye turning my insides into a quivering mass.

But then something in his eyes changes. The fire is still there, but a shadow of resignation creeps over them and his jaw tightens with his growing resolve. He pushes off the pool table and slowly backs away, his hands in the air as if surrendering . . . maybe to his better judgment. Certainly not to me.

When I can move, I sit up and straighten my tank top.

He leans against the back of the sofa, catching his breath, and rubs a hand down his face. But then his eyes lift to mine. “What did the note say?”

“What?” I ask, wishing my thoughts were as easy to straighten out as my clothes.

“The wedding invitation . . . there was a note.”

“Oh.” I take a breath, trying to focus. “Lexie . . . my friend . . . she wants me there . . . at her wedding. She says she’s sorry for how things played out with Trent.”

“Is that what this was about?” he asks, gesturing to the pool table, and it takes me a second to get my head around what he means.

“God, no!” I say when I realize. “I am so over Trent.”

“You’re sure?” he asks, his gaze caught somewhere between fire and ice.

I lean my hands on the edge of the table near my knees. “The thing with Trent is, there’s not really much to get over. It’s not like we were ever all that serious, you know?”

He bites his lower lip, and it makes me want to bite it too. “Whether he was serious or not, you were. You waited a long time for him.”

“But it’s not like we ever slept together or anything,” I say with a shrug, lowering my lashes.

“I thought you said you were together for eight months.”

I hear the surprise in his voice, and I wish I hadn’t said anything. I glare at him to cover my mortification. “I told you. He was in love with someone else.”

He blows out a tense sigh and moves around to the front of the sofa, sinking into it and staring out the window at the pool below. “Are you . . . ? Have you ever . . . been with anyone?” he asks the window.

I slip off the pool table and move to the end of the sofa. “I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re asking.” I’ve had sex exactly four times. Once with the guy I gave my V-card to, twice with a guy I dated for a month or so after that, and once with Jonathan. None of them rocked my world like Blake did in the pool.

He lifts his eyes to mine, and I’m not sure, but I think it’s relief I see in them. “I’ve only ever been with Vanessa . . . my fiancée. We were together for over a year before we even slept together.”

I lower myself onto the other end of the sofa and tuck a leg under me so I’m facing him. “I think it’s nice that you waited. You were in love. It meant something.” Part of me has always wished I’d waited for that—for someone who loved me.

He shakes his head slowly. “It wasn’t that. We just never . . . it wasn’t like this,” he says with a wave of his hand between us. “I’ve never been on fire like this for any other woman.”

My heart skips. “You’re on fire for me?”

He hangs his head, but his smoldering gaze stays locked on mine. “Burning alive.”

I shift deeper into the cushions, bringing my other knee up and drawing it to my chest. “But even if you were never on fire for her, you loved her.”

He bobs a small nod. “I did. She was my first, and I thought she’d be my last.”

“Do you still . . . I mean, if she wanted, would you . . .” I trail off and drop my forehead onto my knee, cringing at myself.

“No.”

I lift my head and see in his eyes that he knows exactly what I was trying to ask. “No?”

“No. She was smart, and we shared a lot of common interests, but—”

“Karate?” I interrupt, because, for some reason, I need to know if he rehearsed that move on someone else, or if it was just mine.

He gives his head a slow shake. “Our commonalities were less . . . physical.”

My heart slams into my rib cage at the flash of hunger in his eyes as he says that.

“I loved her,” he continues, “but what I know now is that there was never any real passion. When she broke it off, it hurt, but looking back, there was also an underlying sense of relief . . . on both of our parts, I think.” He shifts on the sofa so his elbows are on his knees and hangs his head between his shoulders. “I could have married her, and we could have been happy for a while, but I think at some point we both would have figured out something vital was missing. It was like all the parts were there, the heart, the lungs, the flesh and bone, but that intangible thing that makes something alive was missing, if that makes any sense.” He lifts his head and fixes me in his most intense gaze. “I don’t feel that way with you.”

My heart simultaneously aches and pounds as I slide closer. Slowly, I lean in and press a kiss to his lips. When I pull back, I hope he can see the inferno burning inside of me too. I stand and walk out the French doors, down to the pool, where I swim until I don’t have any energy left to do anything stupid. And then I swim some more.

BLAKE AND I have been mostly tiptoeing around each other for the last week, since the pool table incident. His mood has been lighter, but he’s keeping his distance. I’m not sure what that means.

Jenkins was here this morning when I got up, and I sort of freaked out a little, thinking I scared Blake off again. But I guess he’s just at the office for a few hours. I can’t help but hope that means we’re getting closer to the end of this.

It’s after five, and I’ve got a leg hooked over the arm of the living room chair, staring mindlessly at some really bad sitcom on the TV that has Jenkins nearly rolling on the floor laughing, when Blake steps out of the elevator. He’s got a black garment bag over one shoulder, a grocery bag dangling from the other hand, and a spark in his eye.

“Your girlfriend here was telling me you’re some kind of gourmet chef,” Jenkins says from where he’s sprawled on the sofa.

“No,” I say, annoyed, standing from the chair. “I said I was hungry and I wished Blake would get home and cook me something.”

I expect Blake to rebut the girlfriend remark, but he doesn’t say anything. He just shoots me a smile, and something stirs in my chest.

“I’m waiting for my invite, Montgomery,” Jenkins jabs.

Blake drapes the garment bag over the back of the chair on his way to the kitchen. “I’ve seen you eat, Jenkins. There’s enough in this bag for the two of us, or the one of you.”

Jenkins flicks off the TV and hauls his ginormous frame off the sofa. “This place is boring me to death anyway. I’ll go find a pizza.”

“Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out,” Blake says as he unpacks the bag.

“It’s an elevator,” Jenkins growls, punching the button.

“Later,” Blake says, flicking him a wave without looking up.

“So . . . ?” I ask, leaning on the counter opposite him once Jenkins is gone.

His eyes flick to me. “So . . . what?”

“You’re in a good mood.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “I’m always in a good mood.”

“You are never in a good mood. What’s up? Am I finally getting out of here?”

The playfulness leaves his expression as he turns to unload stuff from his bag into the fridge, and I brace myself for bad news. “Look, Sam. I know how hard this has been for you, so . . .” He turns back and looks at me. “. . . yes.”

I just stare at him for a second, confused. “Yes?”

A slow smile creeps across his face and his eyes spark. “Yes.”

My eyes widen and my heart starts to race. “It’s over?”

He gives his head a slow nod. “For all practical purposes. Arroyo has pled out. His accountant gave us everything we needed. He knew he was going down on something, so he pled to the racketeering charges in exchange for dropping the murder charge.”

“So, what happens now? I mean, if Ben has pled out, what does that mean for me?” My heart thrums in my chest. I want this to be over. I want to go home. And as much as I want those things, I also want to kiss Blake again. If it was over, could I do that?

“The judge accepted the plea bargain. The murder charge is off the table.”

“Which means . . . ?”

“On my advice, the powers that be have agreed to keep you under protective custody for another week, just to be sure Arroyo’s satisfied you’re no longer a threat, but then you’re free to go.”

My heart simultaneously soars and sinks. I’m free. And so is Blake. Will he go back to L.A.?

He steps around the counter, gazing down at me. “So, you said when this was over you wanted to swim in the ocean. Are you ready to face your fears?”

I gape at him. “Oh my God! Seriously?”

“Seriously. It’s all arranged.”

I slide onto a stool, because if I don’t, I’m not going to be able to stop myself from breaking into some manic happy dance. “Diving?”

He nods, giving me a sexy half smile. “Snorkeling.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning,” he says, taking another step closer and resting his hands on the arms of my stool.

I’m simultaneously terrified and excited, and I buzz with the burst of adrenaline. “I guess if a shark eats me, we don’t have to worry about Ben anymore.”

“My job is to protect you from all the things. That includes sharks.” When my eyes find Blake’s face again, his expression is amused. But it’s not amusement that dances in his eyes. It’s something hungrier. More possessive.

I draw a shuddering breath as he leans toward me. Can we?

His cheek brushes mine as he presses closer, his mouth at my ear.

I wait, my heart pounding.

“It’s almost over.” His voice is low and raw, and his breath in my hair pebbles my skin into goose bumps.

He pulls back, his eyes on fire, and I think the answer is yes. We can. But then shrugs off the arms of my stool and moves back to the kitchen.

And it’s a long time before I can breathe.

Chapter Thirty-One

BLAKE WAKES ME  at eight by waving a travel mug of steaming coffee under my nose. Half an hour later we’re pulling out of the garage.

I wake up slowly as we drive, taking in the scenery. For some reason, today this all feels new to me, even though I grew up only miles from here and traveled these highways hundreds of times. It’s a weekday, but we’re going against rush hour traffic as we make our way over the San Rafael Bridge into the North Bay.

I sip the last of my coffee, wondering if this was really a good idea. “You’ve spent all this time protecting me from Ben, and now you’re seriously just going to throw me to the sharks?”

He flicks me a glance and a smile tugs his lips. “I will admit, you are a tasty morsel, but they know they’ll have to come through me first, and I’m tough and gristly, so I’m pretty sure they’ll leave you alone.”

My eyes slide down his body, and I seriously doubt there’s anything tough and gristly about him. He’s definitely a prime cut. Filet mignon. “Still . . . it would be pretty ironic to get eaten by a shark just when this is all over.”

He laughs and shakes his head.

“I watched Shark Week. There’s a reason they’re, like, one of the oldest living things on Earth.”

He bites his lips and stifles his laughter, and I’m instantly sorry. I like the sound of it. “The fact that you know that means you’ve done your research. You’re ready to face this phobia head on.”

“Pho-bi-a,” I say in syllables. “Have you looked that word up? It means irrational fear. It’s not like you can just turn it off, you know? Logic doesn’t work with something that’s irrational.”

“I won’t make you do this, Sam, but if you do, I promise, I won’t let anything bad happen to you, shark related or otherwise.” He looks at me as he slows for our exit ramp, and his eyes are suddenly sincere, all the humor gone. “I will never let anything hurt you. Ever.”

I pull a deep, shuddering breath as he turns back to the road. It’s a little while later that we emerge from the lush woods of the Russian River Valley onto Route 1. We wind up the Costal Highway and watch the waves beat themselves against sheer stone cliffs and craggy outcroppings. Seagulls soar overhead, and golden grass waves on the hillsides to the east. It’s breathtaking.

When we pull up to a surf shop in a tiny town an hour up the rocky coast, it’s quiet. The door hinges groan as we step through, and a combination of sea salt, mildew, and chlorine mingles in the air. There are surfboards on racks along one wall, and tanks and neoprene on shelves along the other. Sand grits between my flip-flops and the wooden floor as Blake and I make our way across the room.

The long-haired guy behind the counter looks up from the phone in his hand. “What can I do you for?”

Blake drums his fingers on the scratched glass over a display case of scuba regulators and pressure gauges. “We need snorkeling gear: neoprene and fins.”

“What size boots?” he asks.

Blake glances down at my feet. “One small and one large.”

The guy nods and darts around the back, pulling suits, gloves, boots, fins, and masks and setting them on the counter. “One day rental?”

Blake nods.

“Where you diving?”

“How are the abalone off the point?”

“Guy came back yesterday with three ten-inchers,” he says, twisting new mouthpieces onto a pair of snorkels and laying them on top of everything else.

“Then we’re diving off the point,” Blake says.

“Need a guide?”

“No, thanks,” Blake answers, pulling a credit card from his wallet and tossing it onto the counter. “Just the gear.”

“Um . . . have there been any shark sightings off the point?” I ask as the guy scans Blake’s card.

He shakes his head. “We don’t really get them up here. If you want to see the great whites, you’re better to head down to Monterey. There are a couple of guys I know down there who will take you out and chum to attract them. I can give you their card.”

“No thanks,” I say with a shudder.

Blake and the guy complete the transaction and we scoop up our stuff and head to the Escalade. We drive another twenty minutes up the coast, past lighthouses, scrubby pines, and cragged cliffs that drop off into the ocean, and pull into an empty parking lot.

He pulls off his hoodie and takes the gun from his chest holster, locking it in the glove box. I notice under the sleeve of his T-shirt some kind of clear bandage on his arm, but his sleeve is long enough that I can’t see the damage. He unstraps the holster and tugs it off, then just sits behind the wheel for a few minutes, staring out at the vast ocean.

“Your dad used to bring you here?” I ask, remembering our conversation about abalone.

He looks at me, and there’s something deep in his gaze that’s either guilt or regret. “A long time ago.”

Before I can ask anything else, Blake’s out of the car. He moves around back and lifts the tailgate. “Have you ever worn a dive suit before?” he asks.

I slide out and meet him around back. “No. Why do we need one if we’re not scuba diving?” I ask, plucking a snorkel out of the back.

“The water out there’s always cold, so you won’t last long without it. You’ll probably want to keep a T-shirt over your swimsuit.”

I shuck off my shoes and shorts as he sorts his from mine.

He holds my suit open. “Just step in.”

I do, and once my legs are in, he tugs it up around me. I stick my arms through the sleeves, and his fingers trail up my abs as he zips me in.

“Comfortable?”

“It’s fine.” I tug at the hood. “You know I have no idea what I’m doing, right?”

“We’ll spend some time close to shore until you get the feel of it.” He pulls his neoprene on over his T-shirt and swim trunks, then hands me two towels and grabs the backpack and loops it over his shoulders. The hike to the shore is longer and trickier than I expected. It takes us almost half an hour to negotiate the path down the cliff to the water, and I slip a few times picking my way over moss-covered rocks as we get below the high tide line. The path eventually drops us onto a small patch of sand. Jutting out from it is a rocky outcrop.

“This cove is protected, so the current shouldn’t be an issue, but stay close, just in case. The abalone will be out in the rocks beyond the point,” Blake says, pointing at the outcrop.

My heart is pounding as I tug my dive mask over my forehead. “I don’t like the sound of ‘just in case.’ ”

He gives me half a smile. “You heard the guy. No sharks here. You’ll be fine.”

He gets me all strapped into my mask and snorkel, and we leave the fins on the towels and head for the water. He’s right. It’s freezing, even through my dive suit, and it takes me a while to work my way in.

“The first thing you need to learn is to purge your mask and blow out your snorkel,” he tells me once we’re waist deep. “You’re going to want to dive to get a closer look at stuff on the bottom, and anytime you resurface, you’ll need to purge the water.”

He takes me through all the basics, and I try everything out in the waist-deep water, but I can’t stop my eyes from darting around for anything moving under the surface.

“Got it?” he asks.

“Seems pretty basic.”

He trudges to the sand for our fins and comes back with those, a small flashlight, and two metal things tucked into his dive belt.

“What are those?” I ask, pointing.

“An abalone gauge and iron. They can grab pretty tight to the rocks.” We slip our fins on over the neoprene booties. “If your arm gets sore, or you need to head back to the beach for any reason, just give me the sign. Thumbs-up means you’re good.”

I nod.

“Ready?”

“No.”

He laughs, probably at my terrified expression. “No sharks, Sam. I promise.”

I plant my hands on my hips. “How can you possibly promise that? Jaws could be waiting right out there,” I say, throwing my hand at the ocean, “licking his chops and saying, ‘Welcome to my lair.’ ”

“Sharks don’t have lairs,” Blake says with a smirk.

I splash him. “You know what I mean.”

“Come on,” he says, venturing deeper.

I can’t stop the cringe as I follow. He dives under, then surfaces and blows out his snorkel. “You’re not going to see much from up here,” he says.

I glare at him, though with my face strapped into the mask, I’m sure he can’t tell that’s what I’m doing. Finally, I get brave enough to stick the snorkel in my mouth and float out on the surface of the water. As I anxiously peer around under the waves, even though I’m on the edge of hyperventilating I get the hang of breathing through the snorkel pretty quick . . . mostly because I realize I can see much better through my mask when my face is in the water.

There are stalks of kelp floating lazily in the waves, and the water is clear and blue. Blake dives deeper and I stay on the surface and watch as he points at a big green flower-looking thing. He pokes at it and it closes all its “petals.” Behind it, attached to the rocky wall, is a large orange starfish, which he brushes his fingers over.

He kicks back to the surface, pops his snorkel out of his mouth and grins. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“What was that first thing?” I ask, spitting out my mouthpiece. “The flower thing?”

“An anemone.”

I grin back. “Definitely cool.”

He swims us out toward where I can see waves breaking around some underwater rocks. “This is our best bet for abalone,” he says.

When I realize we’re not going in water much deeper than I could stand in, I feel better. I mean, sure, Jaws could probably swim up here and eat me, but whether it’s illusion or reality, it just feels safer in the shallow water close to shore. I float on the surface and watch as Blake dives to the rocks a few feet below and points to some urchins and a scurrying hermit crab. He looks up at me and points to something that looks like part of the bigger rock, but then I see it’s ovalish with a line of holes. He takes the metal thing from his belt and holds it up to the oval, then gives me the thumbs-up.

When he comes back to the surface, he spits out his snorkel. “You should come get a closer look. There are tons of starfish and abalone, and I think there’s a giant Pacific octopus in the crevice of that rock.”

“Oh my God!” I say, scurrying back.

“It’s not a giant giant Pacific octopus,” he says with a sideways grin. He tugs my arm. “Come on.”

I take a few deep breaths to get my heartbeat under control. “Giant octopuses eat people.”

“In the movies,” he says with a shake of his head. “It’s only like a foot long.”

“That’s not so giant,” I say warily, looking at the rocks below me.

“Give it a try,” he says, tugging my arm again.

I fix my snorkel in place and look at him through my mask, eyes wide.

His slips his mouthpiece in and gives me a nod and a thumbs-up.

I thumbs-up him back and then he’s gone, leaving a ripple on the surface as he dives under. I stick my face in the water and see him below, shining his flashlight into a crack in the rock. Taking a deep breath through the snorkel and setting my resolve, I kick and drop below the surface. I beeline for Blake’s side and press against him, where he’s peering into the crevice.

There’s something wiggling in there for sure, but I can’t see what it is, and I don’t dare get within tentacle reach.

Blake looks at me and I shrug. He tucks the flashlight back in his dive belt and reaches for the flat metal thing with a green handle. He slips the blade under the big oval shell attached to the rock and pries it loose.

When we break the surface, he spits out his snorkel and hands the oval to me. Underneath the rough brown shell is soft, white . . . something.

I poke it. “What is this?”

“A nine inch abalone,” he says with an amused smile.

“Fine, but what do you do with it?”

He grins. “It and a few more of its abalone friends will be dinner tonight.” He takes it back and slips it into a small mesh bag hanging off his belt at his hip, where his holster usually is, then positions his snorkel and dives again. I follow, looking toward the open ocean on my way to the rocks below, just to be sure no one from out there is crashing our party. Blake swims us around the rock, and it’s amazing: starfish and urchins, fish and crabs.

We dive again and he hands me the knife and points to an oval shell. I try to slip it between the shell and rock like he did, but I find the abalone is stuck tighter than I would have thought. It takes a bit of wrestling, but I’m finally able to pull it loose. He pries up another one and we slide them into his bag, then surface again.

“Three is our limit,” he says. “But those are all nine or ten-inchers, so we’ll be feasting tonight.”

Something tugs at my ankle and I scream, picturing giant octopus tentacles. When I yank, my leg doesn’t come loose and I scream again, my heart leaping into my throat. “Get it off me!”

Blake dives under and I feel his hand on my calf. I kick hard, trying to free myself, but he holds my leg steady. And when he lets go a second later, I’m free. I’m already kicking back toward shore as fast as I can when he catches me.

“Kelp,” he says when we drag ourselves out of the water.

“Kelp eats people too?” I say, my heart still racing.

“No,” he says, tipping his head at me. “But people can drown in it if they get tangled then panic.”

“I wasn’t panicking!”

He laughs and pulls off his mask and hood.

I rip off my mask and storm back up the sand to our towels. But considering I’m still in my flippers, it doesn’t feel very stormy. I spread a towel and sit, pulling off the rest of my gear. Blake peels out of his dive suit, and I try not to notice how his wet T-shirt hugs every contour of his chest.

But then he pulls it off over his head and I can’t help staring. “So . . . we defied death.”

“That was amazing,” I concede, peeling off my T-shirt.

He pulls two bottles of water, a bag of grapes, and some crackers out of his backpack, and we nibble. When I’ve had enough, I lay back on the towel with my arms overhead, soaking up the warmth from the sand below and the sun above.

The sun feels so good, and the warmth lulls me into a drowsy half-dream where I can almost forget everything that’s happened over the last few months. I can almost pretend that I’m more to Blake than just his job.

“Sam,” he whispers in my ear.

“Hmm . . . ?” I answer lazily, without opening my eyes.

“We should head back. The tide’s coming in and the dive shop closes in an hour.”

When I open my eyes, the sun has moved across the sky. “Was I asleep?” I ask, propping up on to my elbows.

“For the last hour.”

I sit and realize my suit is dry. “It’s so peaceful here.”

He looks around and something a little mournful passes over his face. It makes me wonder again about his dad. “It is. It’s one of my favorite places.”

He stands and reaches for my hand, pulling me up. We pack up and trudge back to the parking lot with all our gear, and Blake loads everything into the back of the Escalade.

The gunshot comes out of nowhere, and Blake has me on the ground in a heartbeat, his body over mine. He swears under his breath as he looks wildly around the parking lot, and I realize, in nothing but his swim trunks, he has no gun.

But then the bang comes again, and an ancient Volkswagen Beetle rolls into the parking lot, a plume of black smoke in its wake. It backfires again as the engine chugs to a stop.

“Christ,” Blake says, rolling off me. “Are you all right?”

My left hand feels sticky, and when I sit up and look at it, I see the gouge in my palm. My knee’s scraped too, but not bleeding. “Yeah,” I say as he pulls me up by the hand. “I’m okay.”

He takes my shaking hand in his rock solid one and opens my palm, poking at the skin around the cut. “It’s not too deep,” he says. He lets me go and opens the storage compartment in the back of the Escalade, pulling out a first aid kit. After cleaning me up with a betadine wipe and covering the cut with a Band-Aid, he pulls a fresh T-shirt over his head and straps his chest holster on over the top. Then he ushers me to the passenger door, unlocks the glove box and pulls out his gun, tucking it into the holster.

He climbs in behind the wheel. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“It’s all right. You were just doing your job.”

He turns and his eyes lock on mine. “I don’t want to do my job anymore. I’m sick of trying to be supercop. I’m sick of following orders and doing everything by the book.” His jaw tightens and his eyes go distant. “None of it is going to bring him back.”

“Who?” I ask gently.

His eyes focus again and he just looks at me a long moment.

My chest constricts with the pain in his expression. “Your father?”

He tips his head into the headrest and stares at the roof. “Caroline wasn’t just my sister. She was my best friend.” He lifts his head and looks at me. “My dad shipped us both off to live with my aunt and uncle when I was one and Caroline was two. I guess he did the best he could on his own, but this job means long hours and a lot of travel, so he had to give something up. He chose his job over his kids,” he says, rubbing a hand down his face. “When I was old enough to realize that, I hated him. My aunt made my dad take us for a week every summer, but from the time I was thirteen, all I ever did with our time together was try to make his life a living hell. That was when he stopped bringing us here.

“When I turned eighteen and didn’t have to see him anymore, I stopped coming. For five years I pretended he didn’t exist. And then Caroline died. The night they flew her body home, Dad came to Houston. I didn’t want him there and I told him so. Said if he wasn’t part of Caroline’s life, he didn’t get to care that she was dead. It got pretty ugly. Punches were thrown. But then we talked. All night. As backward as it seems, part of why he gave us up was because he loved our mom. I guess it was too hard after she was gone . . . looking at us and being reminded of her all the time.”

He tips his head back into the headrest, and moisture pools in his eyes. “The night I said goodbye to my sister was the night I met my dad.” His expression hardens. “And three months later, Arroyo gunned him down. He stole any chance I had to get to know my father.”

Seeing the agony on his face, I know today wasn’t just about facing down my fears. He had some that needed to be faced down too. I reach for his hand, but he pulls it away and rubs it down his face.

“I’m sorry, Blake.” It’s all I can think to say, because I know what it feels like to always come in second. My real father didn’t even want to know me. I was never going to be good enough for Mom and Greg, so they replaced me with the golden boys. Nothing cuts quite as deep as being rejected by the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally. But for him, it’s worse. I never knew my dad. Blake found his just in time to lose him again.

He takes a few deep breaths to pull himself together, then looks at me. “But the thing is, Arroyo’s just one of hundreds. Thousands. They’re lining up behind him already to take his place. Arroyo goes to jail, and nothing changes. I put you in the middle of my war, but it’s a war that can’t be won.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “You didn’t put me here, Blake. That’s all on me. I’m the one who fucked up and got tossed from school. I gave my parents every reason to throw me out. I took advantage of my friends. And I’m the one who took the job at Benny’s.”

He reaches for me, threading his fingers through the hair on the back of my head and pulling me close. “I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to you since I walked into Benny’s, but I’m not sorry I did.” He closes the inch between us, bringing my mouth to his. His kiss is deep and desperate, and starts an ache in my chest.

He pulls away, his hand cupping my cheek, and thumbs my chin. “I never saw you coming, Samantha West.”

He kisses me again, then lets me go and starts the engine. We return our diving gear and find a tiny shack on the coast where we stop for fried seafood. It’s greasy and good and I devour all of it along with a beer. And every move I make, I feel Blake’s eyes on me, but I try not to look. Because one thing I know is, I could lose myself in that gaze.

He calls Cooper from the road to tell him we’re on our way back. We talk about the urchins and starfish. We talk about the beach and the guy at the dive shack, who we both agree was seriously stoned. Blake plays his music and we talk about that. But as we head home, we don’t talk about anything that matters, like what happens next. Or if what we’re feeling is still just lust or something more. We don’t talk about if I’m ever going to see him again when I’m no longer his job.

Blake and I have shared so much. We’ve lived under the same roof for over six weeks. We’ve spent time together; gotten to know each other. There’s something beautiful and tragic in his soul that speaks to mine. I want to know him. I want to know every inch of him.

My head swims with more questions than answers as we wind up the hill to the house. When we get there, Cooper is in the driveway. He walks alongside the Escalade as Blake pulls into the garage.

“Everything’s clear,” he says as Blake steps out of the car. “How were things on your end?”

“No problems,” Blake says, opening the tailgate and pulling out his bag. “But I want someone on the perimeter tonight.”

Cooper’s eyes flash to me and he tips his head at Blake in a question. “And tomorrow?”

Blake nods, moving toward the elevator and sliding in his key. “Tomorrow too,” he says, pressing his code into the panel.

“We’re still going through with it?” Cooper says warily.

The elevator door opens and Blake steps in. “Yes.”

I look at Blake as I follow him into the elevator, trying to sort what they’re saying, but it’s like they’re speaking in some secret agent code that I’m not privy to.

“ ’Night, Jezebel,” Cooper says as the door slides shut.

“What’s tomorrow?” I ask Blake as we descend.

“Saturday, last I looked,” he answers without looking at me.

“So . . . Saturdays now warrant someone on the perimeter? I thought we went out today because the danger has passed.”

Finally, as the door opens into the living room, Blake turns to face me. “I believe it has . . . and I want you to have your life back.” He rubs his neck, dropping his backpack on the tile floor. “I want that more than I can tell you . . . to give you back what I took. But we’re still in a little bit of a cooling off period, and as long as it’s my job, I’m going to keep you safe. We just need a few more days, Sam.”

He takes the mesh bag to the kitchen and pulls out the abalone, and I move to the window. Outside, the sun is setting over San Francisco, streaking the sky with lavender and crimson and gold. I step out onto the balcony, trying to keep the sudden pang in my chest off my face. Because in a few more days, this will all be over. In a few more days, I won’t be Blake’s responsibility anymore. I’m just now realizing that the thing I’ve been hoping for all along is the thing I’m dreading most.

Chapter Thirty-Two

THE SME LL OF frying bacon wakes me, and when I stumble out of my room the next morning, Blake is already finished with his workout. He’s freshly showered and his hair is sticking up every which way as he moves around the kitchen.

“Morning,” I say, making a beeline for the coffeepot and filling my Alcatraz mug to the rim. On the counter are our abalone shells. Blake said I could keep them, though I have no idea what I’m going to do with them. I worked most of the night after dinner cleaning them. Inside the shell, under where the abalone was, there’s a beautiful prism of shimmering blue and green. It reminds me of my dragonfly’s wings.

He smiles up at me as I lift my mug to my face and gulp. “Just in time.” He slides on an oven mitt and reaches into the oven, pulling out a plate mounded with French toast.

“Wow. Are you expecting Jenkins or something?”

He arranges three slices on a plate, sprinkles powdered sugar over the top, and hands it over the counter to me. “He’s been outside all night. If there’s any left, I’ll bring him up a plate.”

I help myself to a few slices of bacon and pour too much syrup over everything. “Why did you want someone out there last night?”

His eyes flick to me as he serves himself. “Just a precaution.”

“Because of what happened last time we left the house?”

“Partly.” He steps around the counter and slips onto the stool next to me. “Arroyo has pled out, and with the murder charge off the table, there’s nothing you can do to hurt him anymore. I just want to make sure he knows that before we let you go.”

“How will you know he knows that?”

“His lawyers will take him through the evidence. Nowhere in any of the racketeering evidence does your name appear. He should figure it out pretty quick. But . . .” He trails off and I look up at him. “We got Sayavong, Sam. It’s starting to fall like a house of cards. The FBI got the manifest for a container ship that Sayavong contracted with under the name of Chang in the past. There were some inconsistencies, and when the Bureau pushed, the company caved and handed over the records. With the help of local officials the FBI was able to locate the girl who went missing from Benny’s. He shipped her to Central America, and from there flew her to a buyer in Brazil.”

There’s a full minute that I can’t breathe. “Are you serious? You found her?”

A smile blooms on his face. “Thanks to you. And there were others, Sam. We’ve located four other American girls and a handful of Mexicans and Central Americans. Your information has taken down the ring. You’ve probably saved dozens of girls.”

“I didn’t do it. You said the FBI was already looking at him, right?”

“But you put the pieces together for them,” he says with a flash of admiration in his eyes.

Even if I helped a little bit, it feels like, maybe for the first time in my life, I’ve done something worthwhile. I prop my elbows on the counter and drop my head into my hands. “Are they okay?”

His voice is wary. “They’ve been through a lot, but now that they’re coming home, they can get the help they need.”

It makes me think of Sabrina, and I wonder how she’s doing. Can any of them ever be right again?

I can’t really eat, so we barely make a dent in the French toast, but I can’t keep from picking at the bacon, so Jenkins’s plate only has one slice on it when Blake brings it up to him. When he comes back, I’m on the balcony, looking out over the view I’m going to miss so much when this is over. He steps up to the rail next to me and leans his elbows on it. “Looks a little windy out there,” he says, his eyes on the bay. “Wonder if it’s windy in the city.”

“Probably,” I say absently, turning my face up to the sun and drinking it in. “At least there’s no fog this morning.”

“A nice day for a wedding, don’t you think?”

A wedding.

Trent and Lexie.

With everything that’s happened, I’d lost track, but today is their wedding.

“I suppose.” I brace myself for the wave of hurt or betrayal or anger, so when what I feel isn’t any those things, it takes me a second to get a grasp on what it is. And when I realize it’s excitement, I breathe out a laugh. Lexie is getting married today. My best friend. But on the heels of the excitement there’s disappointment that I won’t be there.

“C’mere,” Blake says, taking my hand and towing me into the living room. He picks up a garment bag that’s draped over the back of the armchair and hands it to me. “Open it.”

I unzip the bag, and inside is a champagne-colored halter dress with bling around the collar and down the front.

“The invitation says seven o’clock. I thought this was appropriate for an evening wedding.”

I lift the dress out of the bag and hold it up against me. “Oh my God. It’s beautiful.” I look up at him. “They said I could go?”

The hint of a mischievous smile tugs at his mouth. “It took a little arm twisting, because it’s possible Arroyo’s men might know this woman is a friend of yours, but Special Agent in Charge Navarro agreed to let us go for an hour.”

“Us?” I ask, surprised.

His gaze turns cautions. “I have to go with you, Sam. And Cooper will be posted outside. I don’t think there’s any real danger, but if anything were to happen . . .”

“The reception,” I say as he trails off.

He looks a question at me.

“If we can only go for an hour, I want to go to the reception so I can talk to people.”

“You still can’t say anything . . .” he warns, “about any of this.”

“I won’t. But my friend Katie will be there, I’m sure. And . . .” I put the dress down and look at it. “. . . if I only get to wear this for an hour, I want it to be an hour that counts.”

He looks at me for a beat, then nods. “The reception. But you can’t RSVP. No one can know you’re coming.”

I scowl at him. “I couldn’t RSVP if I wanted to. You’ve got the only phone.”

He flashes me a dazzling smile and I feel myself melt in the glow of it.

I wish I could see Jonathan. It still eats at me every day that he knows I didn’t believe in him. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to make up for that. But seeing my old friends from high school will be so amazing. And it will give me something else to think about for a while.

I need this so much right now.

“If we’re not concerned about making the wedding,” Blake says, “we should wait until after dark to leave.”

“So, what time?”

“Nine?”

I scoop up the dress and head toward my room. “I have some things to do to get ready.”

He leans against the counter and watches after me, that cocky almost-smile on his face. “Careful, or you’ll outshine the bride.”

I turn back at my door and smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

His eyebrow arches. “I don’t think there’s anything you’re going to be able to do about it.”

I manage to keep the giddy smile off my face until I’m through my door. I close it and hug the dress, spinning a circle and trying not to giggle like a sixth grader.

WHEN I UNPACK the garment bag after my shower, in addition to the dress, I find matching four-inch heels, silk stockings, and a garter belt. Seems Blake thought of everything. The whole ensemble is sex on a stick.

I wax my legs, massage in lotion, and give myself a pedicure and manicure. I experiment with my makeup and find I’m able to almost completely cover the scar on my cheek. In dim light it shouldn’t be noticeable.

The dress is shimmering champagne and hugs every curve, with a tie at the neck and an open back. It’s got a tapered hem and a slit up the front. It’s elegant and sexy all at the same time, and much nicer than anything I’ve ever owned. I slip it on, and, looking at myself in the dress that Blake bought me, for the first time I can honestly say I’m glad I’m not with Trent. I’m glad it never went that far.

I scoop my hair up and experiment with how I want to wear it. After all these weeks pent up here, this feels like dress-up—like Cinderella getting ready for the ball. Blake is my fairy godmother.

When I come out of my room a few minutes before nine, the view leaves me breathless—and I’m not talking about the lights of the city and the bay below. Blake is standing in the middle of the family room in charcoal pinstripe slacks over black cowboy boots. His black shirt is open at the collar, and over it he wears a medium gray vest and a black leather suit jacket. I’m gaping at him as I try to catch my breath.

“You look . . .” He gives his head one slow shake. “Stunning doesn’t do you justice.”

“You too,” I finally say, moving forward in a little bit of a daze. Blake just turned from my fairy godmother into Prince Charming, and it’s everything I can do not to drool.

His hair has gotten longer, I just now notice, because I can clearly see streaks of blond in the sandy brown. And it’s beach tousled. The whole package just makes me want to unwrap it.

“After you, mademoiselle,” he says with a flourish toward the elevator. He presses the button as I step up next to him.

“We’re really doing this?”

He smiles and nods. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

I look at him a second, my eyes scanning from the hair to the face and down the suit, and I seriously think about it. But then I shake my head and step into the elevator. “Let’s go.”

He escorts me to the Escalade and opens my door, taking my hand and helping me in. I watch him as he walks around to his side, struck again by how he moves. Just like with his kata, everything he does looks effortless. He slips into his seat and shoots me a conspiratorial smile as he starts the engine. “Ready to crash a reception?”

Chapter Thirty-Three

I’M TRYING REALLY   hard not to bounce in my seat like a preschooler as Cooper follows us down the hill in his black Charger. We cross the Bay Bridge into the city and I think of all the hours I’ve spent standing on my balcony and staring at it. I look back toward the Berkeley Hills and try to pick out the house, but it’s just one of hundreds reflecting the last of the crimson sunset.

Trent and Lexie’s wedding was a sunset ceremony on the music concourse in Golden Gate Park, followed by a reception at the de Young Museum, just next door. Blake bypasses the valets standing out front of the courtyard entrance and parks off to the side. He glances at me when I look at him funny. “I have to know I can get you out of here in a matter of seconds.”

“You don’t think . . .” I trail off, looking around to see if we were followed.

“No,” he says, adjusting his jacket around his shoulder holster, “I don’t think you’re in danger, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to be prepared.”

I wonder vaguely what Lexie would think if she knew my date was packing at her wedding.

Cooper pulls past us and parks farther up the curb as Blake comes around and opens my door. He holds out his hand and I take it and slide out of my seat.

I’m nervous as he escorts me in through a courtyard to where music is playing. We step into an open room with hardwood floors and glass walls, and after not being around people for almost two months, it’s overwhelming. Tables line the sides of the room, and up front there is a band on a low stage. I can’t help but smile when I see who they are.

The whole time we were in high school, Trent’s band played at every high school dance. They broke up years ago, when they all went away to college, but this must be their reunion tour, because everyone but Trent is up on the stage. They’re not really what I’d call good, but they don’t suck either. The dance floor is packed with people in dresses and suits, moving to the rhythm.

“Samantha?”

I turn toward the semihysterical voice at a table near the door, sure I must have been imagining it. Mom stands from behind the table and gapes at me for a moment before rushing over and throwing her arms around my shoulders.

I’m momentarily speechless. Despite the fact we’ve been best friends for years, it never occurred to me Lexie would invite my parents.

“Oh my word!” she says, crushing me in a hug. “I didn’t think . . .”

Greg steps up behind her and lays a hand on her shoulder. “Sam,” he says with a little bit of an apologetic squint, then shoots a wary glance at Blake. “I’m glad to see you looking so well.”

“Thanks.”

Mom backs away and her lower lip begins to quiver as she looks me over. She pulls me close again. “That black man came to the house and he wouldn’t say anything and I was so worried that something had happened to you, but then he said you were fine and I shouldn’t worry, and when I told him I wanted to talk to you he said—”

“Mom,” I say, cutting her off mid-ramble. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” I pry myself out of her grip and find tears streaking her mascara into jagged black lines down her cheeks.

“There’s so much I need to tell you,” she hitches. “I’ve been such a hypocrite.”

“Mom it’s okay.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not. I know this is neither the time or the place, but I don’t know when I’m going to see you again and you need to understand why I did what I did.”

I glance up at Blake and he gives me a small nod. I back away a few steps and Mom follows, still clinging to my arm. “Okay. Why did you throw me out?”

She takes a deep breath. “When I was your age, I already had a one-year-old and—”

“And you were divorced,” I interrupt. “I’ve heard the story.”

She shakes her head. “I wasn’t divorced. I’d never been married.”

“But . . .” I trail off, trying to wrap my mind around that. “You always said—”

“I lied to you,” she says, her eyes pleading with me to understand. “I didn’t want you to think my behavior was acceptable, so I never told you the truth. But the truth is, I didn’t even know your father very well.”

“So . . . the Butcher . . . ?”

She bites her lip, leaving a red lipstick smudge on her teeth. “I was a ring rat. I used my parents’ money to follow the WWF around on tour with a friend the summer after my sophomore year in college.” She wipes her face with a shaking hand, smudging her mascara worse. “Of course, that’s not how we started the trip. We were exploring America. But we went to a WWF match in Las Vegas our second night out and one of the guys picked us out in the crowd. We got invited to the after party and spent the next month in a drug-induced haze, following professional wrestlers around the country. Butch claimed me as his.”

My head’s spinning. “His what?”

What little bit of composure she’s holding onto crumbles. “I stayed in his room, Sam. I was his tour rat.”

“Oh.” It’s all I can think to say.

“I dropped out of school, and you were born, and it took me a long time to get myself straightened out.”

Our surroundings start coming back into focus and I look around. “And you’re telling me this now because . . . ?”

“Because I need you to understand how scared I was when you started partying and skipping school. I could see you making the same mistakes I did. I’ve had twenty years to reflect on those mistakes, and what I know is, if my parents had given me more direction . . . if they hadn’t given in to my every whim, if they hadn’t financed all my bad decisions, none of it would have happened.”

So she went totally the other way, driving me crazy by living my life for me and fixing all my screw-ups. “Cutting me off was supposed to straighten me out?”

A tear trickles over her lashes and her bottom lip quivers again. “We tried talking to you. We sent you to counseling. I didn’t know what else to do.”

The counseling was their attempt to get me put in rehab, but it backfired when the counselor wouldn’t agree that I was an alcoholic.

“I think you overreacted, Mom. I mean, I get that having me so young ruined your life, but—”

“What?” she says, her eyes springing wide. “No, sweetie! You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I just didn’t want to see you get hurt. But what I did was wrong. I want you to come back home.”

Before I can even say anything, there’s a tissue being handed over my shoulder. I turn as she takes it, and see Blake hasn’t bailed.

It takes her a minute to get her shit together. “Thank you,” she snivels, dabbing her eyes, then she looks at me. “Are you going to introduce us to your date?”

“My . . . date,” I say, glancing at Blake again. I take a breath. “Mom, this is Harrison Yates. Harrison, this is my mom, Erin.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Blake says, extending a hand.

Mom and Greg shake it in turn. But just as it gets super awkward, the chime of silverware on glasses crescendos, and the chant of “Kiss her! Kiss her! Kiss her!” sweeps through the room. I look toward the dance floor, and everyone has pulled back to the edges, leaving Lexie and Trent alone in the center.

And the second I see her, any concern Blake had about me outshining the bride goes out the window. Her long blond hair is pulled back in front and falls in loose curls over a smooth, off-the-shoulder antique lace gown with a small bustle. Trent is at her side in a classic black tux and ascot. He’s trimmed his chocolate brown curls short, and his face beams as he gazes at her. And when he sweeps her into his arms and kisses her gently on the lips, I’m surprised by the swell of emotion. With a finger, I dab at the tear that’s threatening to spill over my lashes and swallow the rest.

A strong hand slips around my waist, and I look over my shoulder at Blake. “You okay?” he whispers in my ear.

I lean into him and press my forehead against his cheek.

He pulls me tighter and I get lost for a second in the feel of him before I remember my parents are watching. When I look at them, Greg is giving Blake the skeptic’s eye.

“So, where did you two meet?” he asks.

I open my mouth, but Blake cuts off anything I was going to say with a squeeze of my waist. “I met Sam when I was on special assignment, and I knew I needed her in my life.”

My heart pounds, and all I can do is stare at him.

“What’s confusing me here,” Greg says, the creases around his eyes deepening, “is that her cell phone is disabled, and she’s vanished off the face of the planet as far as her family and friends are concerned, and yet you two show up here looking like peas in a pod.”

Blake releases me and I’m suddenly cold. “We met before everything started,” I tell Greg.

“What the hell is ‘everything,’ Sam?” he demands through clenched teeth as Mom clings to his arm. “What’s going on?”

Before I can even respond, Blake is ushering my stepfather toward the exit with a hand on his elbow.

Mom stares after them, alarmed. She starts to follow, but I reach for her hand. “It’s okay, Mom. Just please don’t ask anything that I can’t answer. I really want to be able to stay here for a little while.”

She reaches up and holds my chin in her hand. “You’d tell me if you were in trouble.”

“It’s nothing I can talk about, but I’m in good hands. Nothing is going to happen to me. I promise.”

I glance toward the door and see Blake and Greg coming back toward us. Greg doesn’t look happy, and I have no idea what Blake told him, but when he reaches us, he grasps Mom’s elbow and doesn’t ask anything else.

“This whole thing has just had us so worried and confused,” Mom says with a glance at him.

“I know, and I’m sorry.” I hug her. “It will be over soon. Please don’t worry.”

“Oh my God! Sam?”

I spin out of Mom’s arms and find Katie gaping at me. I still can’t get over the change. She’s a shadow of her former self. She’s always been beautiful, but when she was heavy, she didn’t believe it, and her dark hair hung in her face so you couldn’t tell. Now she’s stunning. Her hair is up in a loose bun and she’s in a strapless silver dress that hugs her curves. Her fingers are twisted into the hand of a very easy-on-the-eyes guy in a dark suit. He looks familiar, but I’m having trouble placing him.

She lets go of his hand and launches herself into my arms. Over her shoulder, Greg is guiding Mom back toward their table, but his suspicious eyes are still pinned to Blake. “I can’t believe you’re here,” Katie says. “Lexie called me. She wanted you as a bridesmaid but she couldn’t get ahold of you. I told her you probably wouldn’t be able to answer the invitation.” She holds me at arm’s length and looks me over. “How are you? Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine. Everything’s good. It’s just so good to see you,” I say, pulling her into another hug. “You look amazing!”

“You too,” she says, then whispers, “Who’s your hottie?”

I pull back and smile at her. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

She blushes a little as she turns to him. “Ethan, this is my best friend, Sam, and . . . ?” She glances at Blake.

“Harrison,” he says, holding his hand out to Ethan.

“This is Katie,” I tell Blake.

He reaches for her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Katie.”

Katie’s eyes shift between us, and I can see a thousand questions dancing in them, but, unlike my parents, she seems to get that now might not be the time. “That dress is killer,” she says. “You look like something out of a fairy tale.”

I smile at her. “You look incredible. I’ve always known you were gorgeous. I’m glad you see it now too.”

She flicks a glance between her date and me and blushes a pale pink. “Does Lexie know you’re here?”

“No. Not yet.”

She takes my hand and starts towing me to where I see Lexie and Trent circulating between tables near the dance floor. “She’s going to die.”

Blake and Ethan follow us as Katie wends us through the thickening crowd up front and stops us behind Lexie, where she’s talking to a couple I don’t recognize—a tall black girl with kinky reddish hair, and a good-looking guy with black hair and olive skin.

Trent is on her other side, and when he looks at Lexie, his eyes catch on me and go momentarily wide. He skirts around his new bride and stops in front of me. “Sam. Wow.”

“Hey, Trent. Congratulations.”

He bends down and gives me a peck on the cheek. “It’s so great that you’re here. Lexie’s going to flip,” he says, caressing her back with his fingertips.

Lexie stretches up and kisses the tall guy’s cheek. “I’m so glad you came, Alessandro,” she says, squeezing his hand. “We’ll catch up later, okay?”

She turns and smiles at Trent, but then her face pulls into an O of surprise when she sees me. I’m not quite sure how this will go, considering I haven’t spoken to her in a year, but then her whole face smiles. “No way!”

I cringe a little, suddenly embarrassed that I’ve been so juvenile. “Way. I hope you’re not mad we crashed your reception.”

“You can’t crash if you were invited.” Her eyes get moist as she pulls me into a hug. “Thank you,” she whispers in my ear. She lets me go after a long minute and grabs Katie’s and my hands, towing us onto the dance floor.

I shoot a glance over my shoulder at Blake, who’s talking to Ethan. He gives me a secret smile.

As Lexie, Katie, and I dance, it’s like the last year melts away and we’re just best friends, with none of the drama or angst, and I’m sorry I ever let a guy come between us. We dance through at least three songs before the band segues into a slow song, and Trent comes up behind Lexie. “Mind if I cut in?” he asks us, taking her hand.

I smile at him and lean close. “Treat her right.”

He smiles back as he pulls her to the middle of the dance floor.

I’m still watching after them when there’s a hand on my shoulder, and when I turn, Blake and Ethan are there. Ethan sweeps Katie into his arms and kisses her hand as they barely move to the rhythm. I look up at Blake.

He holds out his hand with a question in his eyes. “If I’m supposed to be your date, shouldn’t we dance?”

I take his hand and he folds mine into his as he lays his other hand on my waist, careful to keep a respectable distance between us. And then he starts to sway us to the slow beat.

I look at everything but him, because if I get caught in his eyes, I’m not going to be able to hold back. I watch Lexie and Trent, in the middle of the dance floor moving together and looking as if they’ve forgotten the rest of the world exists. I watch the band and try not to cry when I think about how much I wish it was Jonathan. I think about anything but how much the electricity of Blake’s touch brings me alive, and how strong his hand is, clasping mine so gently. And, more than anything, I try not to notice how my whole being reacts to his scent and the heat of his body, so close to mine.

But then the music shifts into the Bruno Mars song that was playing the night I met Blake in the VIP room—and I melt inside. I don’t stop him when he steps into me and draws me against the curve of his body. I don’t stop him as his hand releases mine and his fingers weave into the hair on the back of my head, pulling me to his shoulder. I lay my face against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart as I sink into the music and melt into Blake, and forget everything else.

THREE  DA NCES AND a weepy good-bye scene with Mom later, we’re driving home.

Blake reaches for my hand in my lap. “Did you have a good time?”

My eyes follow the strong lines of his face, illuminated by only the dashboard lights as he watches the road unfold. “I did. Thanks for doing this.”

His hand tightens around mine. “You deserve more. I wish I could turn back time and give you your life back.”

I tip my head into the headrest. “My life went to shit way before I met you, and it was no one’s fault but mine.” When I think about everything Blake has been through, it’s embarrassing to think how much I’ve taken for granted in my life. Maybe it’s seeing what he’s overcome to get where he is that’s made me regret some of my choices.

How to Ruin Your Life 101: When your mother pushes, you pull, and screw the consequences.

He shoots me a sideways glance. “Your life can be anything you want it to be, Sam. It’s far from over.”

“Maybe.” I turn my head and just stare at him. It’s all I want to do anymore. “What did you tell my stepdad, anyway?”

His jaw flexes as he twists his hand in mine and weaves our fingers together so we’re palm-to-palm. “I told him not to worry about you.”

I blow out a laugh. “And that shut him up?”

He turns the Escalade up the entrance ramp to the Bay Bridge and his eyes linger on mine for a second. “I told him I would die before I’d let anything happen to you.”

My heart stalls in my chest. I can’t think of a single thing to say. All I want to do is kiss him. My breathing’s a little shaky as I lean my head back again and close my eyes, forcing myself to stay put in this seat.

When we get back to the house, Blake walks me to the door of my bedroom. I want to open the door and pull him through, but after the magic of tonight, I don’t want to ruin whatever is happening between us by forcing him to shut me down.

My heart pumps faster when he stands here, gazing down into my eyes. He lifts his hand and traces my scar with his finger. “It’s been a while since I’ve danced like that. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” It comes out breathier than I mean it to, and the ice in his eyes melts into deep blue pools.

His hand scoops around the nape of my neck and he tips my face up. Oh-so-slowly, he bends down to meet me, his liquid eyes watching me the whole way. I sigh as he closes the rest of the distance between us and seals his mouth over mine. His kiss is slow, and soft, but not tentative. He kisses me thoroughly, and I feel it to the toes of my champagne shoes.

Too soon, he pulls back. There’s fire in his gaze. “Good night, Sam West. I’ll dream about you in that dress tonight.”

I kiss him again, just a peck on the lips. “Good night, Blake Montgomery. After a kiss like that, I’ll be dreaming about you too.”

He smiles and backs toward the stairs, and it’s everything I can do not to follow. Once he’s out of sight and the stairwell goes dark, I push through my door. As I undress, I picture Blake downstairs, doing the same. And, as much as I still want to climb into that bed with him, it’s different somehow.

I’ve been afraid to admit to myself the feeling growing inside me because I was sure Blake couldn’t return it. But tonight I began to believe that maybe he could. When this is all over, when I’m no longer his job . . . I think he might be able to love me.

Chapter Thirty-Four

ALL DAY SUNDAY, Blake and I find reasons to be in the same places. I spend less time in my room, and he spends less working out. He doesn’t touch me, but every time our arms or knees “accidentally” brush as we’re sitting on the sofa, or at the breakfast bar, it sets my heart ablaze. It’s different than anything I’ve ever felt before—deeper and more visceral, as if Blake has taken root somewhere in my very being.

I think he feels it too, but how do I know?

He’s still in a good mood when Cooper shows up Monday afternoon to stay with me while he goes to the office.

“I’ll see you for dinner,” he tells me with a wink from the elevator.

The doors slide closed and I turn to find Cooper giving me the eye.

“What?”

He shakes his head and drops into the armchair, picking up the remote. “I don’t even want to know.” I go to the kitchen for a Coke as he clicks on the TV. “Let’s see if we can find your dad on here.”

I roll my eyes and head for my room. “I’ll be in the pool if you need me.”

IT’S LATE AFTERNOON and I’m lying facedown in a lounge chair with my top undone, having a long conversation with my dragonfly about Jonathan and Izzy and Ginger and all the things I imagine them doing out in the world, when a shadow blocks my sun.

I press up on my elbows and Blake is standing at the end of my lounge. I smile before I notice the twist to his face. I press my top to my chest. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes flicker over my body before returning to my face, intense with some deep agony. “Nothing. Everything is right. Navarro’s shutting us down. You go home tomorrow.”

I tie the top of my suit behind me and sit up. “That’s good, right?”

He nods. “It is.”

“Then, what’s wrong?”

He settles onto the lounge chair next to mine, his hands gripping the wooden frame, like he’s straining to keep them to himself. “Nothing. Everything’s perfect.”

“You’re sure?”

He nods slowly, his gaze locking on mine. “As of tomorrow, you’re a free woman. What are you going to do with the rest of your life, Sam West?”

That’s a question my dragonfly has been helping me sort through. He listens and I talk, and what I’ve figured out is, helping Sabrina at the shelter and being able to help track down the girl from Benny’s felt better than anything I’ve ever done in my life. I’m not sure how I want to do it, whether in law enforcement or some sort of counseling career, but I know I want to keep doing that—helping people who have no one else. “Not waste it.”

We stand and wander back up the path to the house. He opens the door for me and I step through. When he turns to me and twists a strand of my hair around his finger, I wait for him to move closer—to give me a sign that he’s ready to let this take its course. But instead, he tucks it behind my ear and steps back. “I’ll pull together something for dinner,” he says. “Then we should pack.”

THIS MIGHT BE our last night together. I don’t even know how to start the conversation about what comes after for us. But I know if anything’s going to happen between us, it’s going to be now. I’ve showered and changed into a short cotton skirt under a white cami. I’m barefoot and braless, and I won’t deny it’s so he’ll notice.

He’s got one of his favorite country CDs in the player as he moves around the kitchen, and I smile when I catch myself internally singing along.

He makes Chicken Provençal, over pasta this time, instead of rice, and serves it with red wine. It’s amazingly good, but I can’t really eat. My stomach’s in a knot, trying to figure out how this is supposed to go. Is he leaving? Will I ever see him again? Am I still his job? Or can we finally give in?

I’ve got more questions than answers, and Blake isn’t in a talkative mood, so we pick at our food in silence.

After we’ve cleaned up, I step out onto the balcony and rest my elbows on the rail. The lights across the suspension half of the Bay Bridge stretch out like a runway, drawing my eye to the city, sparkling like a jeweled tiara across the black water of the bay. It’s truly beautiful up here.

“Nice night,” Blake says from behind me.

I rest my chin in my hand. “I’m going to miss this.” I’m going to miss you.

For a several beats of my galloping heart, he doesn’t say anything. When I turn, I find him staring at me. “Are you packed?”

“I . . . I wasn’t sure about the clothes and things that you guys got for me.”

One corner of his mouth lifts in a sad smile. “It’s all yours, Sam.”

His smile pulls hard at my soul. It feels like a stone fist is crushing my heart. He hasn’t said anything about staying here after the case. Will he go back to L.A.?

“Will I see you again? After tomorrow?” The question rises up on a swell of despair, and it’s just now that I realize how close to losing it I truly am.

I want him so badly to say yes. “I really want that, Sam.” Despite his words, his expression is anything but sure.

If this is it for us, I don’t want to walk out of here tomorrow with any regrets. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wishing I’d had the guts to follow through.

I push off the rail and take his hand. “Come on.”

He lets me tow him into the living room, where I sit him on the sofa and turn up the music—one of his current country favorites. And then I move. I dance like I did that first night in the club. I close my eyes and dance just for him, putting everything I am into it and hoping he can feel me.

I catch the hint of his scent—warm and musky—before he even touches me, and when his hands slip around my waist and he presses his body against mine, every single one of my nerve endings bursts into flames. His fingers are in my hair, so soft, sweeping my long auburn locks away from my face. His lips brush over my forehead, like butterfly wings, on his way to my ear where his tongue strokes before he nips at my lobe. I don’t open my eyes, because the sensations flooding through my body—his delicious scent, and the feel of his hands, the sound of his soft moan—are already too much to handle. Seeing him would send me over the edge of control.

He strokes his fingertips gently through my tangled waves, and his breath in my hair, his body pressed against mine, feels so good.

Tears press against the back of my eyes, and I can’t stop them. When they trickle past my lashes, he kisses them away. And when I finally open my eyes, his are open and warm and it’s as if he’s seeing straight into my soul.

His gravitational pull turns into that of the sun. My fingers dig into his chest, grabbing handfuls of his shirt, and the next second, my mouth is pressing hard against his. He groans as his lips move over mine, devouring me. His tongue takes possession of me, twisting through my mouth as if trying to taste all of me at once.

I glide my palms over his chest to the buttons of his shirt and work them one by one, but my shaking slows my progress. I break the kiss and pull it over his head. My eyes follow the black lines of his tribal tattoo from the waistband of his jeans, up his left pec, and over his shoulder, to where it’s interrupted by the bandage on his upper arm. I lift my finger and trace its edges.

Goose bumps pebble the flesh of his arm, and his chest heaves as he struggles to catch his breath. His eyes are wild, gazing into mine, burning with a combination of barely contained desire and thinly masked fear.

Staring into those eyes, I don’t care what happens tomorrow. All I know is I want him tonight. I lift my shirt over my head and press against him.

He closes his eyes and tips his head back, breathing deep, as if trying to find some reserve of control. Apparently, there’s none to be found, because the next second, he grasps my ass and pulls me up so I’m straddling his hips. He carries me to the sofa and throws me down, pinning me under his body. His mouth finds my hardened nipple and he gives suck, setting off land mines under my skin. The shock wave travels straight to my groin, and I grind myself against the thigh he’s positioned between my legs. He presses his leg harder against me as his fingertips tease my other nipple into a hard peak. I can’t help the moan that claws up my throat, and he answers with one of his own.

“God, Sam,” he breathes. His eyes lift to mine as he drops kisses down my rib cage toward my belly button, where he swirls the tip of his tongue around my belly ring. His hands slide under my skirt and find my underwear, and he watches me with feral eyes, still swirling his tongue through my belly button, as he inches them down. I lift my hips, and he kneels on the sofa at my feet, sliding them off in one deft motion and tossing the scrap of fabric to the floor. His long fingers move slowly over me, stroking my most sensitive places before plunging deep inside me.

“Ah,” I moan as my muscles contract around his fingers. A groan rumbles out of him as he draws his wet fingers out of me and strokes my sweet spot.

“Oh!” I gasp, feeling an intense jolt of electricity spark my body to life in a way it’s never been before.

I roll my hips with the rhythm of his hand. He sucks his top lip between his teeth and his eyes flutter shut when I find the bulge in his jeans with my toes and press. When he opens them again, they’re on fire. In one smooth move, he tugs my skirt off and buries his face between my legs.

“Ahh!” I cry out when his tongue flicks the sensitive point there.

He slides fingers inside me, and swirls his tongue over the center of my universe. My long animal mewl fills the room as he brings me to that place that only he’s ever been able to take me. I buck and he growls low in his chest as he grasps my hips and sucks me. I’m barely coherent as I come, but what I know is I want more. I want all of him.

I spin with the sensation as Blake’s lips and tongue caress every inch of me on their way back to my mouth. He kneels between my legs and pops the button of his jeans. My whole body feels short-circuited, and when I reach up to drag his zipper down, my arm feels weak and shaky. But I manage it as he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. I tug his jeans low on his hips as he tears open the condom and rolls it on, then gazes down into my eyes with a question in his. In answer, I pull him down on top of me and spread wide, letting him in. A second later I cry out, a sharp “Ah!” as he buries himself inside me to the root.

He thrusts again, hard and deep, and the center of my universe is right there, between my legs. I feel the spring in my belly winding tight again as he brings me back to the peak of sensation.

“Oh, God,” I whimper as everything inside quivers.

My body tells him exactly what I need, and he gives it to me. He moves inside me, hot and thick, and there’s nothing gentle about it. He’s all power and need.

Never have I felt so inside out, all my nerve endings on the surface—this crazy, blood-on-fire, synapses-on-overload, overflowing-with-pure-ecstasy feeling. His subtle male scent; the moisture starting to bead on his hot skin; the flex of his biceps under my hands; his firm pressure inside of me, stretching me and filling me in a way nothing else ever has; I take it all in, feeling his essence flow through me in slow waves of bliss. And what I need from him shifts. The singular need to feel him bring me to climax again gives way to something deeper and far more desperate—something that makes what’s happening between us feel so much bigger than just sex.

My head spins not only with the intensity of the sensations taking hold of me, but with the realization that I might be falling in love with this beautiful, infuriating man.

When the pressure has built to critical mass, I explode all around him with his last thrust, and it feels like we’ve both vaporized into pure energy. There’s an electric rush that sweeps from him into me, then back again. It totally knocks the air out of me and I lay gasping, my head back and my mouth wide, for a full minute before I can find oxygen.

He collapses on top of me, panting hard, and I relish the feeling of him there, finally as close as I’ve wanted him from the start.

“From the minute I saw you on stage that very first night, I’ve wanted this,” he breathes in my ear, “but I never dreamed how thoroughly you’d blow my mind.”

I glide my fingertips over his back and muse that he just said what I was thinking. No matter how much I’ve tried to ignore it or deny it, even through all the dissonance, we’ve always been in tune. I nuzzle into his neck. “Stay with me tonight.”

He presses up on his elbows and looks down at me, and that hunger’s not completely gone from his eyes.

I stretch up and kiss him, and he kisses me back, slow and deep, before scooping me off the sofa and carrying me to the bedroom. He lays me back on the pillows, then tugs off the condom and hikes up his jeans without zipping them.

His eyes devour my naked body. “Don’t go anywhere.” He disappears up the hall, and when he returns, he’s got a box of condoms in his hand.

“A little presumptuous, don’t you think?” I say, but I can’t stop my smile with the giddy rush that skitters through me. This is really happening. We’re finally together.

He shrugs as he sets them on the nightstand and gives me that sexy smile. “A guy can dream.”

I sit on the edge of the bed and pull him toward me by the belt loop of his open jeans. I slide his jeans and boxer briefs down his legs, and as he steps out of them, I get my first look at him in all his naked glory. He is spectacular: toned, and bronze, and perfectly proportioned.

I pull him with me as I scoot back on the bed. He crawls up next me. “You make me insatiable, Sam West.”

I burrow into him and smile. “Just keep those condoms handy, because you’ll be needing them.” I trace a finger down his chest to his happy trail. “Very soon.”

He groans—an animal sound from deep in his chest—and rolls on top of me. “How about right now.”

I wrap my legs around him. “I think I like the sound of that.”

IT’S EARLY WHEN I wake with rays of pale sunlight slanting in the window right into my eyes. I hear water running in the shower and roll to my left, where I find an imprint in the pillow of Blake’s head. I smile and pull his pillow to my face, breathing deep. And God, I love the smell of him. I push the sheet back and sit up, rubbing my eyes, and look at the clock. Seven.

I want to roll over and go back to sleep, but these might be my last few hours with him. He’s in the shower, and the possibilities that flit through my mind make me blush. But I have a feeling Blake would be up for trying a few out. It’s only when I move that I realize how sore I am. A rush ripples under my skin at the memory of how I got that way. We went through half the box of condoms before we finally fell asleep a few hours ago. I sit up and grab one out of the box, then edge off the bed and slowly make my way to the bathroom.

The glass door is foggy, but it doesn’t obscure what’s behind it. With his back turned to me, the water cascades down the ripples of his body. The muscles of his shoulders flex as his palms rest on the shower wall, and water runs in a stream off his nose as his head hangs between them. One hand leaves the wall and rakes through his hair as he tips his head back and lets the water run over his closed eyes. God, he’s spectacular.

He starts to turn, his eyes still closed, and that almost-smile tugs at his lips. And that’s when I know for sure how connected we are.

He feels me.

His eyes open, and there’s nothing glacial in his gaze as he takes me in. The fire from last night hasn’t gone out.

I pull open the door, setting the condom on the soap shelf. “Hey.”

“I will never get used to how incredible you are,” he says, his voice rough.

He’s removed the bandage from his arm, and for the first time I see he was totally lying when he said it was just a scratch. Almost hidden in the dark lines of ink just below the bulge of his impressive deltoid is an angry red scab with three black stitches through it. When he lifts his arm to touch my face, I see a matching one on the back of his arm. The bullet couldn’t have missed the bone by much.

My heart aches at the thought of losing him, then spasms at the realization I’m just about to. “How long do we have?”

He lowers his hand. “Cooper will be here at eight.”

A stone sinks in my gut as I slip my arms around him and press myself into the curve of his body. If this is all I’m going to get of him, I’m not going to waste a minute. I kiss his chest, flicking his hardened nipple with my tongue before pressing him against the tiled shower wall, out of the water, and lowering myself to my knees.

He groans as I tease his growing erection with my tongue. And I wasn’t imagining the size. I knew it felt more intense with him than it ever had with anyone else—tighter and more focused—and now I know why. A minute later, when I take him into my mouth, he sucks in a sharp breath. His head falls back into the wall as he starts to rock his hips to my rhythm. I moan in response as just the sound of his desire prickles my skin into goose bumps.

I feel his muscles clench under my hands as he stops moving, and I taste him, salty and sweet, in the back of my throat. He starts to pull back, but I hold him still and keep my mouth on him, pumping faster and using my teeth to tighten my lips around him.

“Sam,” he groans in warning, his fingers twisting hard into my hair.

I don’t stop. I want him to feel as good as he makes me feel.

He closes his eyes and growls as I suck him deep into my mouth again, and I can tell he’s trying to hold back. I suck harder and skim my teeth over his length, and that puts him over the edge. He cries out, a choked “Ah!” as he bursts in my mouth.

I hold him in my hand as he stands, shuddering, in front of me, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. Finally, he breathes deep and looks down at me. And his hunger still isn’t sated. If anything, he looks more ravenous.

He takes my hand and pulls me up, then spins my back against the wall and kisses me. I put everything I have into the kiss, hoping I can somehow make him feel how real this is for me. Hoping that he knows this is more than just sex.

He holds me tight against him, as if he’s afraid to let go, and drops kisses over my eyes and nose.

My heart is bleeding and I want to beg him to stay. But if this is all he can give me right now, I’ll take it greedily, without regret.

My hands glide over his sculpted perfection as he crushes me to him, and if I could, I’d climb right under his skin. His kisses become more insistent as his manhood grows harder, and a few minutes later, when he’s ready, I roll the condom onto him. He lifts me onto his hips, and, as sore as I am, a satisfied moan rolls up from my core at the feeling of him filling me as I sink onto him. He presses my back into the cold tile and pulls out slowly before burying himself inside me again.

The water does nothing to put out the fire under my skin. Instead, it ignites my buzzing nerve endings as it trickles over me, setting me ablaze. He takes his time with me, bringing me to climax over and over before he finally lets himself finish, and then we just stand here, me crushed between his hard body and the tile, clinging to him with both arms and legs. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and force my breathing to stay even as I cry into his shoulder.

Finally, he lowers me to the ground and pulls me into the water. “Turn around.”

I do, and he tips my head back, wetting my hair. His fingers massage shampoo into my scalp, and I shudder with the goose bumps despite the cloud of steam enveloping us. He rinses my hair and starts on my body, his soapy hands so gentle as they find every part of me. But when he’s done, he pulls a towel off the rack and wraps me in it, and I realize everything about that felt like good-bye.

“Go make some coffee,” he says, kissing my nose. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

When I step through the door into my bedroom, I’m looking over my shoulder at Blake, his hands braced against the wall and his head hanging under the water, so it’s not until I’m fully out the door that I look up.

And my bleeding heart screeches to a dead stop.

Chapter Thirty-Five

“MARCUS,” I GASP. I pull the towel tighter around my chest, as if it might somehow stop a bullet from the gun that’s pointed at me.

His scowl deepens. “Ben was right. You were working for them the whole time.”

“No! I was never working for them. I swear it. I loved working for Ben.”

His jaw tightens as he lifts the gun higher, pointing it at my face. “I saw you at that cabin, and I heard you in there. You’re screwing that narc.”

“I was . . .” My face is burning, and I can’t believe, in the adrenaline-fest of my bloodstream, there’s any left to rush to my face. More than that, I can’t believe I even have the presence of mind to be embarrassed with a gun pointing at me. But at the thought of Marcus listening, I relive just enough of the experience to send blood to my cheeks. “I never met him before my first night at Benny’s. I wasn’t working for them. I swear.”

Marcus moves closer, his fingernail blanching white as his finger tightens on the trigger. “I’m going to finish you both.”

I listen for the shower to turn off, but Blake’s still in there. I can’t call for him, and I can’t warn him. All I can do is try to talk Marcus down. My eyes flick to the gun, but I force them not to stay there. “You don’t have to do that. The murder charge is gone. It’s been dropped. There’s nothing I can do to hurt Ben now.”

His piercing gaze stays locked on mine. “Ben pulled me off the street when I was seventeen. He’s been a dad to me for eight years. I’m not going to let you and that cop ruin him.”

I take a slow step toward him, not sure what I mean to do. But, just at that second, the bathroom door flies open.

A buck-naked Blake launches into the room like a shot with my hair spray can. He’s in Marcus’s face before I can even blink. A cloud of hair spray envelops Marcus’s head and he cries out as Blake takes him down to the floor. The next second, there’s a loud pop as the gun fires.

“No!” I scream. My towel drops to the floor, forgotten, as I run toward them.

Blake and Marcus are tangled together on the floor. I don’t see any blood, but they’re wrestling for the gun.

“Get to the panic room!” Blake barks.

My heart feels like a trapped rabbit. “I’m not going without you.”

“I said go, Sam,” he groans as Marcus grabs for his family jewels.

I lunge for the hair spray can as Blake cries out. I aim for Marcus’s face and spray.

He lets go of Blake’s junk and claws at his face. Blake yanks at the gun, but Marcus’s huge paw stays wrapped around it.

“Go, Sam! Now!” he shouts at me. “I’ll come for you.”

Marcus swings out with his free hand and catches Blake across the jaw, so I spray him again, then give him an elbow to the nose for good measure.

“Get the hell out of here!” Blake shouts, yanking the gun from Marcus’s hand as he cries out. He plants a knee in Marcus’s chest and points it at his face.

I start to grab for my towel, but Blake stands and shoves me toward the door. “Leave it! Panic room! Now!”

He’s got the gun. He’s okay. My eyes plead with him to come with me, but his expression hardens and he jerks his head toward the hall.

So I go. I run down the stairs and yank open the door behind the pool table. Once I’m inside, I pull it closed and tug the lever. I hear the metal dead bolts of the bullet-resistant door clank into place as a fluorescent bulb flickers to life overhead.

I slide down the wall, shaking, and rest my head on my knees. I’m hyperventilating, but I know if I pass out, I won’t hear Blake when he comes for me.

Blake. Blake, Blake. Please be okay.

It’s a long time before I can even calm my thoughts enough to think about anything else. Finally, I lift my head and look around. There’s a chest in the back corner. I stand and move to it. There’s a case of drinking water inside, a dozen or so cans of food, and a flashlight.

I’m naked in a panic room with nothing but food. A blanket would have been nice. Or a phone.

I sit on the chest and stare at the door. How long has it been? Shouldn’t Blake have come for me by now? Should I go out there? What if Marcus got the upper hand? What if Blake’s dead?

I crumple into a ball, my forehead on my knees and my hands over my head.

He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine.

He has to be.

God, it’s been hours! Or minutes. I have no freaking idea how long I’ve been in here.

Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. I have to know what’s going on.

I pull the lever and the dead bolts click back. Slowly, I crack the door open.

“Hello, Jezebel. You gave us a scare.”

My heart kicks. “Cooper?”

“The one and only.”

I breathe a relieved sigh and peek around the door. He’s there, coming around the pool table toward me. “Blake? Is he okay?”

“Casanova is fine,” he says, but there’s something heavy in his tone.

“What’s wrong?” I say, unable to hide my panic.

“Come on out. We have some things to sort through.”

“Um . . . do you have a towel or something? I’m kind of naked.”

He blows out a sigh and hangs his head, then pushes away from the pool table. “I’ll be back.”

I tuck behind the door and wait, my heart pounding.

“Jez,” Cooper says a few minutes later. “I got you something.” His hand juts through the crack in the door with my robe in it.

I take it from him and slip it on, then tie the sash. When I step out, Cooper has this paternal disappointment on his face. “Come upstairs,” he says, turning and crossing the room without waiting for me.

“Where’s Blake?”

He shoots me a glance over his shoulder but says nothing.

When we get to the top of the stairs, I start for my room, but Cooper grasps my arm and leads me into the family room . . . and my heart stalls.

Perched on a bar stool, her legs crossed, is a woman in a smart blue pencil skirt and a white blouse, with dark hair wrapped into a clip on the back of her head.

I listen for any sound from my room, but the house is quiet. I turn to Cooper. “Where’s Blake?” I ask again.

“He’s been taken down to the office to be debriefed,” the woman answers.

“Who are you?”

She steps toward me and holds out her hand. “I’m Special Agent in Charge Navarro.”

I tug my robe tighter with one hand as I shake hers with the other.

“This morning’s events demonstrate that you’re still not safe,” she says. “We need to relocate you for a few days until we’ve sorted everything out.”

“How did Marcus find me?”

“Special Agent Montgomery is convinced we’ve got someone on the inside helping Arroyo’s men, and if that’s the case, we need to determine who and how. We also need to know if Arroyo is still after you, or if this Marcus was acting alone.”

“But the murder charge has been dropped. Why is this happening?”

“Pissing off a mob boss is never a good idea,” she says. “Put some clothes on and pack your things.”

I turn and step cautiously into my room. The bed is just how Blake and I left it, a tangle of sex-ravaged sheets.

What’s happening to him?

I look at the floor where he wrestled with Marcus. There’s no blood, so I hope that means he’s okay.

I tug on clothes and fold everything else into the roll-away suitcase someone left inside my door, then sit on the bed and smooth my hand over the spot where Blake laid on top of me only a few hours ago. Finally, I stand and drag the suitcase out to the elevator. Tears prick my eyes as I step into it and look back at the place where I fell in love with him. And I realize as the doors close, this was the only place I’ve really felt welcome in a long time. Blake made this home for me.

Chapter Thirty-Six

IT’S BEEN TWO WEEKS   since I last saw Blake. They moved me to a house inside the Presidio, waiting for it to be “safe” enough to let me go. It’s gated, so I guess they figure between the private security and Jenkins, no one will get to me here.

I’m pretty convinced I’ll never be safe.

Since there’s no pool, I stay in my room most of the time. There’s just enough floor space in here that I can work through my kata. So I do. A lot. It’s the only thing keeping me sane.

Every time I ask Jenkins what happened to Blake, he gives me the evil eye. Every time I ask Jenkins how long I have to stay here, he gives me the evil eye. Every time I ask Jenkins what’s for dinner, he gives me the evil eye. So I’ve stopped asking him things. I don’t think he wants to be here any more than I do.

A cool San Francisco breeze wafts in through my open window, drying the sheen of sweat on my neck and face as I work through my last series of kicks. I stand and bow, then flop back on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

The knock at my door surprises me. Jenkins usually leaves me alone.

“What?” I yell, sitting up.

The door cracks open and he sticks his ginormous head through. “There’s someone here you’ll want to see.”

My heart leaps. It’s got to be Blake. There’s no one else I want to see who they’d let in here.

I spring off the bed and nearly knock Jenkins over pushing past him out the door. I bound into the living room.

“Jezebel,” Cooper says.

My eyes dart around the room, but there’s no one else. The air is knocked out of my lungs.

“Have a seat.” He waves me into the sofa and sits on the coffee table across from me.

I sit, petrified. I can’t force words up my throat, because the only thing I can think to ask is if Blake’s okay, and I’m terrified of what his answer will be.

He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “Special Agent in Charge Navarro has decided Arroyo is no longer a threat. We’re sending you home.”

My eyes spring wide. “Home?” But as I say it, I realize I have no idea where home is. I can’t go back to Mom’s . . . at least not until I sort some things out. All my stuff is still at Jonathan’s, but I truly hate myself for thinking the worst of him when all he was trying to do was help. How can I ever apologize for that? I can’t go back to Katie’s. Izzy? Last time I saw her, we’d just gotten shot at. She was pretty shaken.

I belong nowhere.

“Sam?” Cooper says, and the sound of my actual name coming from his mouth shakes me out of my scrambled thoughts.

“Where’s Blake?”

He stands and rubs his palms down his slacks. “It’s a nice day out. Why don’t we take a walk?”

I gain my feet and find they’re numb, cement blocks at the end of spaghetti legs. We pass Jenkins, who’s standing in the corner with his arms crossed over his chest, and he starts to follow us to the door.

“You know, Jenkins,” Cooper says, flashing him a look, “I think we’re good. Why don’t you stay here and pack your stuff?”

Jenkins gives him a narrow-eyed look and turns for his room.

We slip through the door into rare San Francisco summer sun. There’s a stiff breeze off the ocean, but it’s not cold for a change.

I watch the sidewalk unfold as we stroll toward the water. “Is he okay?”

Cooper walks next to me, his head down and his hands in his pockets. “He’s on administrative suspension.”

“Because of me.”

It’s not a question, but he nods anyway. “In a manner of speaking, but not for the reason you think.”

“What do you mean?”

Out of the corner of my eye I see him lift his head and look at me. “Blake needs your help, Sam.”

I stop walking and look at him with wide eyes, my heart galloping a mile a minute. “What does he need? I’ll do anything.”

“Someone from inside the department was leaking information to Arroyo’s people. Internal Affairs is on a witch hunt. They think it’s Blake.”

My jaw is gaping and I close it. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

“If Blake wanted to give me up to Arroyo’s guys, he would have just let them into the house.”

He juts his chin. “Only if he wanted everyone to know it was him.”

“You’re crazy.”

He shakes his head again. “Look, Sam. I don’t believe it either, I need you to tell me exactly what happened. Unless we can come up with a better alternative, I’m afraid they’re going to pin this on Blake. His code is the only one that was used to access the house on the morning you were attacked.”

I rub my forehead to stave off the headache that’s forming there. But then I think about what he said. “In the morning? What time?”

“Seven-fifteen was the last time his code was entered.”

My eyes widen. “It wasn’t him.”

“And you know this because . . . ?”

“I just do,” I say, panic and the memory of exactly what I was doing to Blake at seven-fifteen that morning kicking my heart into overdrive. “He was with me.”

His lips press into a grim line. “They’re not going to take your word for it, especially when Montgomery refuses to corroborate that.”

My hands fist at my sides. “It wasn’t him,” I repeat through a tight jaw. My brain scrambles, trying to decide what would be worse for Blake, admitting he was in the shower with me or letting them think he let Marcus in.

He tips his head, giving me a wary look. “No one else would have had that code. We both chose our own and programmed them into the security system. We didn’t even know each other’s.”

I rub my forehead again. There’s something caught in there that feels important, but my brain won’t spit it out. “If they decide he did it, what would it mean? What would happen to him?”

His frown creases deep lines into his face. “Prison time.”

“Oh my God.” Tears press at the back of my eyes. “He was with me, Cooper. I woke up at seven and climbed in the shower with him. Marcus was in the bedroom when I came out at least forty-five minutes later. Blake didn’t let him in at seven-fifteen. We were in the shower together.”

His lips purse and he scrutinizes me before turning up the sidewalk.

“What do I do, Cooper?” I ask, moving beside him.

“That’s up to you. You can sign a statement to that effect, if you want. It will save Montgomery jail time. But you know that alibi isn’t going to keep him out of hot water.”

I look at him, searching his face for what he thinks I should do. “He’s already in trouble for that, right? I mean . . . he was naked in my bedroom when you got there.”

He flicks me a look. “But not when Navarro came in.”

My eyes widen. “The department doesn’t know?”

He shakes his head and traps me in his severe gaze. “Only me, you, and Montgomery know what state he was in when he contained the suspect. If he was with you at seven-fifteen, that would clear him, but he’s not going to be the one to tarnish your good name. Believe me, I already tried convincing him. So the choice is yours, Jezebel.”

This is the very least I can do for him. Blake has done so much for me, including taking a bullet. I shudder as images from the night Blake got shot flash through my mind: the blood, and Blake being carried away on a stretcher. “Nichols!”

Cooper lifts his head and gives me a guarded look.

“Nichols brought me home the night Blake was shot. He gave her his code and told her to flush it when she got to the house. When she left in the morning, she had his key. He told her to give it back to you because he had yours.”

In the next three seconds his gaze shifts from guarded to stunned to enraged. And the second after that, his phone is in his hand.

“Where is Nichols?” he barks into it, spinning on his heel.

I follow as he hoofs faster than I even knew he was capable of, moving back toward the house.

“Lock her down,” he says after a pause. “Interrogation 3. I’ll be there in thirty.” He shoves me through the door in front of him. “Jenkins!”

Jenkins comes loping up the hall.

“Don’t let her go anywhere until you hear back from me!” And then he’s gone.

IT WAS NICHOLS. Cooper came back later that night to tell me and bring me home.

She broke down and confessed when they questioned her. When she was under cover at Benny’s, she apparently let things go a little too far. I remember her saying she and her husband went through a rough patch when it took so long to get pregnant. She and Ben had an affair, and it turns out the dressing room wasn’t the only place Ben had cameras. He had pictures of them together in his office that he used to blackmail her to bring him information from inside the department.

And the worst part, she thinks the baby is his.

Cooper loaded up my things, and when he asked me “Where to?” I called Izzy and asked if I could stay with her for a few days. He dropped me off at her apartment. “When agents cross the line, it never ends well,” he’d said just as he was leaving, and from the look he gave me, it was clear he wasn’t just talking about Nichols.

And that’s when I knew.

No matter what happens, Blake isn’t coming back.

I’ve been at Izzy’s for a week, and I still haven’t been able to bring myself to call Jonathan. I’m sure he hates me for throwing him under the bus. But it’s time.

The Astray website says Hell’s Gate is playing there tonight. For better or worse, I have to know if I’ve lost Jonathan’s friendship.

Izzy and I take the bus downtown and push through the door of the packed club just as Jonathan is tearing through his rendition of a Disturbed song. We grab drinks at the bar and luck into a booth that a group of drunk college guys is just vacating to the right of the dance floor. I scan the crowd and catch sight of Ginger’s white hair as she thrashes up near the stage.

Izzy presses her shoulder into mine. “I’m going to get Ginger,” and before I can decide if I want her to do that, she’s already weaving through the crush of bodies toward the stage.

I alternately chew my cuticle and sip my drink as I watch Jonathan seduce the room, and I wish with every fiber of my being things could be how they were before I ruined everything. Will he forgive me?

“Holy fucking shit,” Ginger says as she steps out of the fray on the dance floor. Her arms are crossed over her chest as she looks me over, and I can’t tell if she’s pissed or just surprised. “Jonathan is going to shit his pants. Where the hell did you come from?” she says, launching herself at me and giving me a one-armed hug.

“I’m sort of back, I guess.” I start to open my mouth to ask if Jonathan hates me, when Izzy wrestles her way out of the crowd and slides into the booth across from me.

“She wanted to surprise Jonathan,” Izzy offers, and I realize how much better that sounds than what I was going to say.

Ginger looks around. “Where’s your secret agent man?”

“Um . . . I’m on my own. They let me go.”

She grabs my hand, dragging me out of the booth and back through the writhing bodies to the front of the stage just as Jonathan is swinging his mic by the cord to the last pounding beats of the pizza song.

When he looks down from the stage and sees me, his eyes widen and my heart stops. It feels like the rest of my life later that a grin breaks over his face.

“We’re gonna take a short break,” he says into the mic, hopping off the stage and landing right in front of me. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He flicks the mic off and tosses it onto the stage, and then he just looks at me with those incredible eyes. “Long time no see.”

It’s only as the first tear leaks over my lashes that I realize I’m crying. “I’m so sorry, Jonathan.”

He tips his head at me with a question in his eyes. “For what?”

“I thought you—” The words choke off on a sob and I drop my face into my hands.

“C’mere,” he says, and I feel his strong arm wrap over my shoulders. He moves us through the jostling crowd as everybody tries to get their piece of him, tugging on his clothes or grabbing at his arms. He manages to break through and guide me up the stairs on the side of the stage. He leads me backstage and turns me to face him, a hand grasping each of my upper arms. “What’s up, Red? Why the tears?”

“Do you hate me?” I ask, my voice thick as I rub at my wet cheeks.

His face scrunches. “What?”

“I thought you . . . might have . . . with Ben . . .” I stammer, fully aware that I’m making no sense.

“Hey,” he says, giving me a little bit of a shake. “I was afraid you’d never forgive me for being so fucking stupid. You have every right to hate me.” He lets me go and hangs his head. “I got you shot at, for fuck’s sake. I’m never going to forgive myself.”

I wipe my eyes again, and as our surroundings come into focus, I realize the entire stage crew is staring at us. I haul a shuddering breath, trying to get my shit together. “I’m so sorry I doubted you.”

He looks up at me, then opens his arms. “I’m a moron. I deserve to be doubted.”

I step into his arms and they close around me.

“Jon,” someone says from behind me.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” he answers, but he doesn’t let me go. “So, Red. I gotta get back out there, but we need to talk, okay? After the gig, if you’re still around? Or tomorrow?”

I nod and pull back, stretching up on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I love you.”

He gives me his signature crooked smile and cocks a pierced eyebrow as he backs toward the curtain. “I know.”

I stumble down the stairs and to the table where Izzy’s still holding down the fort.

“Everything good?” she asks when I slip into the seat across from her.

“I’m good,” I say, and it doesn’t feel like a lie.

I’ve talked to Mom. She wants me to come home. I think we understand each other a little better now. She gets that she needs to let me make my own mistakes, and I get that I need to try to make less of them. But the truth is, I really feel like it’s time to stop relying on everyone else and stand on my own two feet. I’ve been researching scholarships and grants, and I think I want to try the college thing again—on my own this time. San Jose State offers a victimology concentration in their criminology program, and I want to minor in women’s studies.

I’ve spent a lot of time at the shelter over the last week. Sabrina and I have talked and cried together. If all I can do for her now is to be her friend, I think that’s something, but I want to learn to help women like Sabrina for real. I want my life to mean something. Which means I need to get it straightened out, and the first thing that’s going to entail is getting a real job so I can keep living at Izzy’s and pay for school. The next thing is going to be figuring out how to shake the feeling like I left a huge piece of my heart up on that hill in Berkeley.

I’ve got to let Blake go, but I can’t deny the hole in my chest every time I remember the brush of his lips over mine; the feel of his hands, so gentle on my skin; the press of his body against mine as he loved me.

I miss him.

“Have you heard from him?” Izzy asks just over the music, reading my mind.

“No. Nothing.” I’ve resisted the urge to call him, and after what Cooper said, I’m glad. If he’s trying to get everything straightened out and keep his job, I’m only going to be a problem for him. I have to stop pining for him.

“He’ll call, Sam. When he can. I’m sure of it.”

I just nod, because if I try to say anything, I’m going to start crying again.

“Hey,” someone says from the end of our table.

I look up and see a dark Hispanic guy. He’s totally hot, and Izzy sits up a little straighter when she sees him. “You up for a dance?” he asks, grinning at her.

She looks in my direction with a hopeful expression.

I give her a nod. “Go.”

“I’ll be right back,” she says, giving me a quick hug before sliding out of the booth. I watch as he guides her to the dance floor.

Jonathan is screeching into the microphone as his guys back him up with a breakneck rhythm, and Izzy starts to move. She’s a great dancer, and her guy can’t take his eyes off her. Half a song later they’re pressed together, swaying half-time to the beat.

I slouch into the booth and tip my head into the back of it. I need to forget about Blake and move on. I listen to Jonathan sing and resolve right then that I’m going to dance with the next guy who asks me.

Jonathan and the band wind down their song, and there’s a pause in the music. It’s a few seconds later when he says into the mic, “This next one goes out to my best friend, Red. Things aren’t always going to suck. Starting now.”

I sit up and look toward the stage, where he’s grinning at me as he breaks into the Bruno Mars song that was playing the first time I met Blake. I’ve never heard him do this song before, but as he starts on the first verse, my heart contracts into a hard ball. He doesn’t know what this song means to me. I close my eyes and lower my head, determined not to cry, as the lyrics yank at the deepest part of my soul.

“Dance with me.”

At the slow warm-honey drawl, my breaking heart explodes. I lift my head, and my eyes find the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

BLAKE IS STANDING   at the end of the table in the same pink button-down he was wearing the night we met, his hand out to me.

In a total daze, I take it and blink away tears as he guides me out of the booth and to the dance floor. His hands on my back are so gentle, but at the same time insistent, as he pulls me tight against him and begins to sway to the song. I don’t know how or why he’s here, but I’m not going to worry about it now.

My heart swells at the feel of his body pressed against mine, the heat of his breath in my hair. I press my face against his chest and hear the beat of his heart over the music. His hands smooth slowly over my back, one of them gliding up to the nape of my neck. He weaves his fingers into my hair as he nuzzles the crown of my head. I can’t stop the tear that escapes over my lashes when I feel him sigh.

People move all around us on the dance floor, but all I know is Blake, and Jonathan’s voice singing our song as we move together in our own universe. His lips brush my forehead and down my temple, and when he starts to sing the chorus in my ear, slow and sure, the floodgates open and I cry into his shoulder. He strokes my hair and pulls me closer, and we dance, blending together into one on the dance floor.

When Jonathan trails off at the end of the song, Blake pulls back and looks down at me, cupping my face in his hands and wiping my tears away gently with his thumbs. “Hi, Sam.”

I press my eyes closed to stop the last of the tears and sniffle. “Hi.” When I open my eyes, he’s still here. Real. For now, anyway. He still has my face in his hands, and he watches me as he leans in slowly. It still surprises me how my body reacts to the feel of his lips brushing across mine. He twists his fingers into my hair and deepens our kiss, and afterward it’s as if I’m finally able to exhale the breath I’ve been holding since the morning he left.

He pulls back a few inches and gazes down at me with hungry eyes. “I need you alone.”

I take his hand and tow him toward Izzy, who’s dancing close with Hot Hispanic Guy.

“Hey, Iz. We’re gonna go. Can you tell Jonathan we’ll talk tomorrow?”

She grins at me, a slash of white in the dark of her face. “Told you.”

Blake takes my hand and wends us through the press of bodies toward the door, and we escape into the cool San Francisco night.

“What now?” I ask, turning to him.

Slowly, he lifts a finger and traces the scar on my cheek. It’s hardly visible through my makeup, but he knows exactly the spot. His touch sends a shudder through me. “I’m going to take you back to my room and love you all night long,” he says, his gaze burning into mine.

“Okay,” I say, totally mesmerized.

He hales a passing cab and we climb in.

“No Escalade?” I say after he gives the driver an address.

He pulls me against him, both arms holding me tight to his side. “No Escalade,” he says into my hair.

I sink into him, savoring the feel of his arms around me, and focus on the steady beat of his heart. I watch the city pass by, not even caring where we’re going if it means we’re going there together. But when the driver turns down Market Street, I sit straighter. “Please tell me we’re not going to the Federal Building.”

He gives me a small shake of his head and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Never again.”

We pass the Civic Center and turn onto Haight, and not long later, the driver pulls to the curb in front of an old Victorian house.

Blake pays the driver and helps me out.

“Where have you been?” I ask as he takes my hand and tows me up a set of stairs to the door of the house.

He slides his key in and opens it. “There were some things I needed to handle.”

“Why didn’t you call?”

He pulls me through as if he’s on a mission. “Because I didn’t know how things were going to turn out, and there was no way I was going to drag you into the middle of anything else.”

There are only wall sconces lit, but in the dim light I see we’re in a foyer, with parlors overflowing with antiques off to either side. Ahead and to the right is a staircase that Blake tows me toward without slowing down. He jogs up the stairs, pulling me behind.

“Cooper told me about Nichols,” I say, a little winded, when we reach the second floor, but he’s already got me pressed between him and the wall.

He crushes me in a kiss, then pulls away and stares fire into my eyes. “Can we talk later?”

His kiss leaves me breathless. And speechless, apparently, because all I can do is nod.

He hikes me off the ground and I wrap my legs around his hips as he carries me up the short hall and unlocks a door. He throws it open, then kicks it shut. Navigating us past an antique chest, he sets me down on a four-poster bed and proceeds to waste no time undressing me. He slows down then. Kneeling between my knees at the side of the bed, I watch his hands flow over every inch of my skin as if worshiping me, pricking goose bumps to life everywhere he touches.

“You promised to love me,” I say, my voice breathy, but thick with need.

His fingertips caress my nipple, feather light, and his gaze lifts from my body to my eyes, burning through them. “I am.”

I let him continue loving me in his way as I work the buttons of his shirt loose, one by one. When I get to his jeans, he stands and lets me slide them down his legs. He moves us into the center of the bed, then continues his soft exploration, this time with his lips and tongue.

He works his way up from my ankle, past my knee, to my inner thigh, and there’s not an inch of me that’s not thoroughly ablaze by the time his mouth finds the sweet spot between my legs. It’s not a minute later that I’m crying out with my climax.

He fixes his condom in place and settles his weight between my legs. He takes a few more minutes with his mouth to make sure my breasts don’t feel neglected before rocking into me.

“I’m going to make this last forever,” he whispers as I moan.

And he does. He takes his time with me, and anytime he gets close, he withdraws and makes another slow exploration with his hands and mouth. If his kiss or caress gets a moan, he stays there awhile. I lose count of how many times he makes me come before he finally gives in to his own release. And after, his kiss is so deep that it turns me inside out. Everything I’m feeling swells and overflows, and I can’t stop the tears that spill over my lashes.

He kisses them away. “I’m sorry,” he whispers over and over as he drops kisses along the line of my jaw and down my neck, and I’m not totally sure what he’s apologizing for until he says, “I’ll never leave you again.”

I cling to him, my whole body shaking and exhausted, as I recover from the emotional high of having him back. When my nerves finally settle to where I feel like I can speak, I pull myself up onto his chest. “What happened with the review board? Did you have to tell them about us?”

“It was none of their business,” he says, propping his head in a hand. He cups my chin in his palm and brushes his thumb over my swollen lips. “And thanks to you putting together the pieces, I didn’t have to.”

“I can’t believe it was Nichols.”

He shakes his head, disgusted with himself. “With everything that happened at the cabin, I’d forgotten I gave her the code that night.”

“It couldn’t have had to do with severe blood loss or anything. You were shot, Blake.”

He shrugs it off. “It was my error.”

“But everything’s straightened out now, right? I mean, you’re not in trouble for . . . what we did?”

“I wasn’t willing to tell Navarro and the review board what I was doing when Arroyo’s man gained access at seven-fifteen that morning . . . and when the review board pushed, I told them to take their job and shove it.” He grins. “So, yeah. All straightened out.”

“Oh, no!” I say, sitting and staring down at him. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I was done. I was there for all the wrong reasons.” He props himself on his elbow, gazing at me with a mix of exhilaration and trepidation. “Come with me to Houston.”

My eyes go even wider. “You’re going back to Texas?”

“Back to Johnson. They’ve taken me back into the training program.”

I smile. “You’re going to be an astronaut after all?”

He pulls me down and swirls his tongue in my belly button. “I’m all for exploring the undiscovered,” he says, peeking at me from under his long lashes and trailing his lips lower.

“Don’t let me stop you,” I say, feeling the ache build between my legs again.

“So, you’ll come.”

I shudder with the movement of his hands over my body. “In about five minutes, if you keep that up.”

“And after that, you’ll come with me with me to Houston?” he asks, his hand slipping between my legs.

“I’ve been thinking about going back to school.”

He sits back on his heels and I watch as he changes out his equipment. Smiling so sexily it hurts my heart, he kneels between my legs and scoops me off the mattress so I’m straddling his lap. “I think you should. As a matter of fact, I have a few things I’d like to teach you right now.”

I lift my hips and sink onto him, and I can feel him move through me all the way up to the top of my head and all the way to the soles of me feet as we blend together. I arch into his body and he takes my nipple into his mouth, giving suck and curling my toes. “That’s a good one,” I moan. “I’m taking notes.”

“Mmm,” he hums in agreement. He kisses his way across the valley and up the mound to my other nipple. “There’s some memorization involved too.”

He moves under me, taking me to the moon again, and we finally collapse on the bed as pink rays of sun appear on the horizon out the window.

“That’s a solid B-plus,” he breathes into my hair.

I roll onto my elbows and scowl down at him. “You’re seriously giving me a B?”

“Not you. Us,” he says. “There’s definitely room for improvement. And you know what they say?”

“What do they say?”

“Repetition is the mother of retention. There’s going to be lots of homework.”

I can’t stop the smile as I settle in beside him. “So, how long does this class run?”

He rolls to face me and traces my eyebrow with the tip of his finger. “As long as it takes me to memorize this . . .” His finger comes full circle to the flare of my nose. “. . . and this . . .” Tracing upward, he comes to my other eyebrow. “. . . and this . . .” But then it stalls over the scar on my cheek. “. . . and until I can make up for this.”

“You have nothing to make—”

His fingers drop to my lips and stop my protest. “Making up for almost getting the girl I’m in love with killed could take a while,” he says, tracing the lines of my lips. “Most likely, forever.”

My heart sputters and I stop breathing for a second before it thumps back into rhythm.

“You never agreed to come to Houston with me,” he says, leaning in to kiss my nose. “Say you will.”

I press myself deeper into him, feeling at home for the first time since he left. My head gives me every logical reason to say no, but my heart overrides them all. “I am so in love with you.”

That dazzling smile I’ve missed so much breaks over his face. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes.” It comes out sure and strong, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last few months, it’s that life is too short to waste a minute. And where I want to spend all my minutes is right here, with the only man I know who can take me to the moon, body and soul.

Content

A Little Too Hot
A Little Too Far - 3
by
Lisa Desrochers

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven