LITMIR.BIZ

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yet, despite all that good fortune, this was the first time he’d awakened at 3:00 a.m. to find a beautiful woman in a tight, short red dress on his porch, with a pair of sparkly silver high heels and matching purse in one hand.

      Too bad. A man could get used to this.

      Not this particular beautiful woman, he amended quickly. Another beautiful woman. One who was closer to his own age of thirty-one, whose ties to him and his family weren’t so complicated.

      Definitely not Daphne Lynch, with her dark hair, blue eyes and curvy, voluptuous body. Daphne Lynch, the twenty-three-year-old half sister of Zach Castro, one of Oakes’s five half brothers.

      Yeah. Complicated summed it up. And was the best possible definition of his family.

      “Daphne,” he said, his voice rough from sleep. He cleared his throat. Wished he’d thought to change into jeans, maybe pulled on a shirt instead of rushing to the door in his bare feet and a pair of thin pajama pants. There was definitely a chill in the early December air. “What’s the matter? Are you hurt?”

      “Nope. I’m just fine and dandy. I haven’t been mugged or in an accident. I’m not being chased by a crazed lunatic or running from the cops.” She patted his bare chest, her fingers cool against his skin, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I’m drunk.”

      “Yes,” he said, taking in her flushed cheeks, glazed eyes and the way she was swaying, like a tree in the wind. “I can see that now.”

      Would have seen it right away, he assured himself, if he hadn’t been so shocked by her presence. It was the dress’s fault. The neckline was too wide and low, showing ample amounts of golden skin and the rounded tops of her full breasts. It was too tight, the gathered material clinging to her waist and hugging her hips. And it was way too short, ending an inch above midthigh.

      “Well?” she asked, her hand now pressed to his chest, her pinkie rubbing the spot just above his heart. His body liked her touch way too much.

      Stepping back, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her hand away before she noticed how hard his heart was beating. “Well what, Daphne?”

      “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

      Invite her in? As in inside his house? No. Better yet, make that hell no.

      He was a smart man. A cautious one. Cautious enough to know that letting Daphne Lynch into his home at this late hour, in her current state, wearing that damn dress, would be the beginning of the end of his life as he knew it.

      A life he liked just the way it was.

      “Please, Oakes.” Her voice was low. Sexy. Inviting. The hairs at the nape of his neck stood on end. His fingers tightened on her slender wrist. She shifted closer, her knee brushing his leg, her scent clouding his brain.

      For a second, a brief, terrifying moment in time, he forgot all the very valid, extremely reasonable reasons why he shouldn’t want her. All the problems that would arise should he give in to his baser instincts, the ones that had dogged him with increasing intensity over the past few years.

      In that all-too-fleeting space of time, he allowed himself the luxury of imagining they were just two unattached adults with no crazy family connections. No shared siblings. No tangled ties to trip over. If he wasn’t a Bartasavich, if she had a different mother, if Zach hadn’t been born, Oakes could take what he wanted. Could finally bend his head, press his mouth against hers and see if the spark he’d been doing his best to deny for six years would sputter and fade. Or burst into flame.

      Daphne shifted. And shifted again, her left hip, then her right. “I really, really have to pee.”

      The breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding rushed out of his mouth on a short, surprised laugh. He needed to check his ego. She wasn’t here to seduce him. She had to use the bathroom.

      He’d go to his grave claiming he wasn’t disappointed.

      “Sorry,” he said, opening the door wider and moving back. “Come on in.”

      She brushed against him as she stepped inside, the contact slight enough, he was sure it must have been an accident.

      Too bad his body didn’t understand that the brief feel of a woman’s soft, fragrant skin and lush curves against him didn’t require the beginnings of an erection.

      “Uh...the bathroom’s down the hall, first door on the right,” he told her.

      Already heading that way, she waved a hand at him, the ends of her dark hair brushing her shoulders. “I know where it is.”

      “Right.” Of course she did. This wasn’t the first time she’d been in his home. They were friends. In a roundabout way. A very twisting, turning, convoluted way.

      In the way that meant he shouldn’t let his gaze drop, shouldn’t tip his head to the side and take in how good her ass looked in that dress, shouldn’t enjoy the sway of her hips. He jerked his eyes up but that wasn’t any better. Again, he blamed the dress. Because instead of a back, one with plenty of coverage, it had only two straps twisted together to form an X.

      And he was going to hell for wanting to trace one of those straps, for wanting, if only for a brief, crazed moment in time, to brush aside her hair and trail a finger up the back of her neck. For not being able to turn away until she’d closed the bathroom door behind her.

      Damn Bartasavich genes. Always trying to get him into trouble. But he wasn’t his father. Clinton Bartasavich, Sr. had spent his entire life taking what he wanted without thought or care to the consequences. Mostly because when you were one of the wealthiest men in the country, there were no consequences.

      It would have been easy for Oakes to follow in Senior’s footsteps. Entitlement came with the last name. Nothing was out of the reach of a Bartasavich, a belief that Senior fully embraced, especially when it came to women. Five of his six marriages ended due to his numerous infidelities, and he’d fathered four sons by three different women.

      Oakes had no doubt his father’s last marriage would have suffered the same fate as his previous ones had he not had a stroke over a year and a half ago. Senior’s young wife hadn’t been able to handle being tied to a man who could no longer take care of himself and had opted for a quick divorce—and the payout guaranteed in her prenuptial agreement.

      Oakes was fully aware that he’d grown up extremely privileged, but his mother and stepfather had instilled in him a sense of gratitude for that life. Had taught him how important it was to give back, to help those less fortunate.

      No, he wasn’t his father. Never would be. And that was why he’d never take advantage of any woman, especially not this particular woman, not when she’d come to him for help.

      Or at least to use his bathroom.

      Feeling much better, he hurried down the hall, tripping over her sparkly shoes before righting himself and continuing on to his bedroom. He changed into jeans then grabbed a T-shirt from his dresser and yanked it on. Stepped toward the door...and remembered the feel of Daphne’s hand on his skin. How soft her fingers were. How warm.

      How much he’d enjoyed it.

      He turned around, crossed to the closet and picked out a sweatshirt. A thick one.

      He was tugging down the hem of it when he reentered the living room and found Daphne curled up on the leather sofa, her legs tucked under her, her elbow on the sofa’s arm, head supported in her hand.

      “You need anything?” he asked.

      She tipped her head back, her grin goofy and so sweet it made his chest ache. “Nope. It’s all good.”

      He wasn’t sure about that. He flipped on the lamp, illuminating her face, then scratched the side of his neck. Was it his imagination or were her lips glossier, redder, than when she’d first arrived? And in this light, he could see she’d done something to her eyes, one of those magic tricks women performed to make

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