LITMIR.BIZ

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my sexual reaction I studied him, trying to figure out what he was doing here.

      I don’t believe in coincidence and I never get this lucky when it comes to men in bars.

      The guy had broad shoulders and a massive chest beneath a forest green shirt open just enough to reveal a navy T-shirt. His forearms looked as if they’d been sculpted from Carrara marble and his large, blunt-fingered hands… I was getting all kinds of ideas about his hands.

      His face had wide planes and interesting angles, with heavy brows that accentuated a coldly compelling blue gaze. The only soft things about him were the slight curl of his dark-blond hair and a deliciously sensual mouth. He was watching me with the barest hint of a smirk.

      His eyes hinted that he’d seen the dark side of life and had laughed in its face, that he had secrets and no intention of sharing them. He had the air of a hunter, both patient and persistent. And like any prey, I felt the thrill of danger. All the way down my body.

      “Sorry, no McEwan’s. See anything else you might like?” I cocked my head and gave him a playful look.

      “Aye, something’s caught my interest.”

      I leaned my forearms on the bar, briefly drawing his attention to the lettering over my breasts. “Well, catching is one thing, keeping is another.”

      He resolutely kept his gaze on my face. A real gentleman, this guy. “It’s a bit soon to play for keeps.”

      But apparently he did want to play. So did I. If the game got out of hand, I had a borrowed car and one hell of a right hook. What I didn’t have was a date for Valentine’s, as Mom had been reminding me all evening.

      “You mean it wasn’t love at first sight that made you trail me all the way from downtown?”

      His mouth lifted a fraction of an inch and he nodded to admit he’d been busted, but there was no hint of apology. “Why were you taking my photo?”

      “I wasn’t. You just got in the frame.” I grinned and gave him the once-over. “You’re kind of distracting.”

      “As are you.” His lips curved a little more and I found myself anxiously awaiting his smile. “What was a sweet lass such as yourself doing there anyway, eh?”

      “A job. Why were you there?”

      “A job.” He returned my deadpan expression in kind then reached across the bar to offer his hand. “Cameron Stone.”

      “I’m Steele Mezzanotte.”

      “You don’t look like ‘steel.’” He smirked, as most guys do. I’ve got my Papa’s bone structure, my Mom’s curvaceous figure and, so I’m told, an innate sex appeal all my own. No matter how smart or how tough she is, nobody takes a pretty girl seriously.

      “Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving.”

      As his large, calloused hand closed over mine, energy— unexpected and potentially lethal—shot through my palm. It reminded me of when I was five and stuck a knife into a wall socket. Every nerve in my arm vibrated with sensory overload and I caught my breath. A little shaken, I dropped his hand and stepped back. I felt myself blush as I cleared my throat.

      “What can I get you instead of the McEwan’s?”

      “Surprise me, why don’t you.”

      “I just might.” Letting a slow grin spread across my face, I was suddenly feeling very lucky, indeed….

      However, I woke up the next morning alone in a hotel suite, unsure of which was worse, my hangover, my heartache or the trouble I had gotten into this time.

      CHAPTER TWO

      The Waiting Game

      THE PORCH LIGHT was on. A sign of invitation, welcoming him for his efforts these past couple months. He smiled in the darkness.

      He’d been careful to park around the corner, but still close enough to get a clear view down the street to her house. The sun was stealing over the mountains in the distance. He had to leave soon. Some early-bird neighbor might notice a strange car and it was almost time for her morning run.

      A dog barked nearby, startling him. But he continued to watch the house, wondering which room she slept in. Wondering if she slept naked. He pictured her long dark hair fanned across the pillow, her blow job-worthy lips parted slightly as she breathed.

      He shifted in the driver’s seat. The thought of her mouth always got him hard.

      Letting his mind stretch further, he imagined she did sleep naked, her bare skin slick with sweat, the bed sheets twisted around her long athletic body. One hand would part her thighs while the fingers of his other tangled in her hair…

      He wanted to hear her voice, if only a single word. Reaching for his cell phone, he dialed the number from memory. Anticipation had his heart racing, his body tense. He ought to speak this time—

      “Huhlo?”

      He closed his eyes, savoring the sleep-roughened rumble of her greeting…then disconnected the call. The time wasn’t right.

      Soon.

      But not yet.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Through a Glass Darkly

      BLINKING AGAINST the late spring daylight, I checked the bedside clock. Christ, did that thing really say five-fifty? I reached for the phone to stop the damned ringing.

      “Huhlo?” My voice sounded as raw as it felt. I must have been screaming in my sleep again.

      Silence greeted me in return. The heavy menacing kind that made the fine hairs on my skin stand on end. I sat up, wide awake now. I couldn’t hear so much as an inhaled breath, let alone any identifiable background noise. But I knew someone was on the line. Waiting. Intimidating.

      Just like the other calls.

      And, again like the others, my caller ID didn’t register a number. The line disconnected abruptly, leaving me to hang up with an ineffectual bang. Shafts of early May sunlight streamed across the bed but I was shivering, the sheet twisted beneath me damp with sweat. The sun had barely risen, but going back to sleep wasn’t an option.

      I swung my legs off the bed and padded down the hallway to the kitchen in nothing but my panties. Twinges of pain had me glancing down. The bruises on my ribs were as muddy as day-old coffee and the one on my face probably didn’t look much better. Both of my jobs seem to make me a regular target.

      The freezer yielded a half-empty bottle of Armadale vodka. I hate taking any kind of medicine. A double shot in my orange juice would hold off the worst of the pain and wash away the aftertaste of uneasy sleep. I’d been dreaming, the kind of dark, restless nightmares that leave a metallic taste in the mouth.

      A few minutes later, I had three slugs in me—one from an old bullet and the other two from the vodka. I stood there in my gradually lightening kitchen, feeling the alcohol begin to warm my blood. One of these days I needed to quit drinking. Not today.

      Back in the bedroom I threw on a T-shirt and bike shorts, sunglasses and a baseball cap. I used to run track in high school. There are probably still some ribbons and trophies in my parents’ attic. I usually do between three and five miles, depending on my route. But my heart wasn’t in it—I’d barely covered a mile—so I turned around.

      After a quick shower, several ounces of hair goop and a half hour with my professional-grade ionic blow dryer, I started on my face. Normally I just wear moisturizer. But I was going to need some of Mom’s stage makeup tricks to disguise the black eye I got last night.

      My dad’s place is not a dive, I swear. But with the restaurant being right across from UNLV, on weekends the bar clientele includes a lot of students blowing off steam… Sometimes in my

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