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step and walked toward him, her pace brisk.

      Blake watched as Meghan approached, anger evident in every short and determined stride.

      He could tell that much. She was not only upset by whatever had happened up in that room with the blood-smeared window, she was mad. He didn’t need to ask if she was pissed off at him.

      She was always pissed off at him.

      “What are you doing here?” She stopped sharply before him and jammed her hands onto her hips. The motion strained the fabric of the white chef’s jacket covering her ample breasts.

      “Out for a stroll. And you, love?” He jerked his head in the direction of the bloodied window. “Having a bit of fun?”

      She slapped him hard, rocking his head back with the strength of the blow, surprising him with the force of her vehemence.

      “Don’t you respect anything?”

      He rubbed his jaw and snorted. “’Course I do, love. Motherhood, apple pie and Chevrolet.”

      Meghan whipped her hand forward to strike him again, but he snagged it midslap.

      “Don’t,” he said, then immediately added in a softer tone, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start off on the wrong foot.”

      “Wrong is all we ever do, Blake. Don’t you get that by now?” She jerked her wrist out of his grasp and rubbed it, as if to wipe away something dirty.

      Irritation flared up in him, but he tamped it down. There had already been too much violence and hostility between them, although there had been other things as well. Good things.

      “We managed to do some things right.”

      She sighed roughly and smoothed back a strand of hair that had escaped her French braid. “Why are you here, Blake? Why tonight?”

      He didn’t want to admit that the cute blond chit earlier that night had satisfied one hunger but whetted another. With a negligent shrug, he said, “Heard a rumor that Diego and Ryder were still hiring.”

      “As if you know what it is to earn an honest day’s wage.”

      He arched a brow and disdainfully raked his gaze over the chef’s attire she wore. “Want to make a little wager, love?”

      She snorted and crossed her arms again. Leaning forward slightly in challenge, she said, “A wager? With you?”

      “’Fraid you’re wrong about me? ’Fraid I might prove I’m not the kind of man you think I am?” He stepped close to her, raised his hand and was about to cup her cheek when she took a step back out of his reach.

      It might have hurt less if she had hit him again.

      “Chicken,” he taunted, and sauntered away.

       Chapter 3

       The Blood Bank, New York CityThree years, eleven months and ten days earlier

      Meghan and her friends had heard about the Goth bar rumored to have the kinds of men and pleasures in which good little Midwestern farm girls didn’t get involved.

      All the more reason for her to check out the place, she’d thought, when one of her more world-weary college classmates had dared her to go to the hangout. After having spent the last four years in New York City as a good girl, she knew this was her last opportunity for a walk on the wild side before she headed home.

      Her Midwestern parents expected her to do as they had done—a nine-to-five job, marriage by twenty-five, followed by kids and a nice home in the suburbs. The only problem with that American dream was that it wasn’t her own.

      Meghan loved the whole Manhattan vibe and could easily imagine herself staying here, continuing to explore the kinds of things only Manhattan could offer.

      Like this supposedly dangerous Goth bar.

      It had taken the better part of the day to prepare for the senior dare.

      She and her NYU friends had spent the morning searching a variety of vintage stores near Washington Square, rounding up accessories for their Goth getups. Two of her friends had even bought temporary black hair dye to make the look complete.

      Meghan, however, had opted to keep her blond locks, thinking that her black clothes would be more than enough.

      As she walked through the door of the Blood Bank, she reassessed that thought.

      Black was definitely the one and only theme.

      Everything and everyone in the bar was swathed in darkness.

      The floors and walls were black, as were the surfaces of all the tables and booths scattered throughout the club. The dark color swallowed up the overhead spotlights that panned the sea of bodies on the dance floor and at the tables.

      As the light swept the far end of the bar, however, she caught sight of one glaring platinum-blond head. The daring of that one brave individual brought a grin to her face before she forced it away and tried to adopt a serious glare in response to the threatening looks being sent her way by the patrons.

      She slipped into a gap at the bar area, close to the spot where she had noticed the man with nearly white hair. After she and her friends had squeezed their way to the edge of the bar, they all ordered shots of Cuervo.

      The punky, peroxide-headed Goth down at the end of the long wooden bar wasn’t drinking. Instead he shuffled an empty glass from one hand to the other. He had big hands with long, nicely shaped fingers. His hands were sure as he repeated the shuffle of the glass back and forth, obviously bored by all the goings-on around him.

      When he finally picked up his head, their gazes connected.

      He had amazing ice-blue eyes, and when he smiled, a sexy grin dragged a dimple out on the right side of his handsome face.

      She smiled back, picked up her glass of tequila and downed it in one gulp, wincing at the strength of the straight liquor.

      Mr. Platinum Punk clearly seemed amused by her as he chuckled and shook his head. The longer strands of hair at the top of his head shifted with the motion. He picked up his empty glass and motioned to it with an index finger. She noticed as he did so that he wore a steel ring with some kind of ornate design on his thumb and some thin black bracelets on his wrist.

      He definitely had the whole Bad Boy thing down pat.

      She didn’t need any further prompting, determined to live out the dare that had been made earlier in the day. The dare that said she not only had to visit the hangout but hook up with at least one bar denizen before leaving for the night. While she wasn’t into one-night stands, a makeout session with someone as sexy as the man at the end of the bar wouldn’t be so bad.

      She shoved two fingers into the air and waved them to get the barkeep’s attention. When he brought the shots over, she reached into her jeans, pulled out a twenty and tossed it on the counter. Ignoring her friends’ excited squeals as they realized her intent, she sashayed the few feet to the handsome punk, smiling as his gaze drifted down her body to where her hips were encased in snug black jeans, then shifted back upward across her breasts and finally settled on her face.

      Slipping onto the cracked plastic pad of the empty bar stool beside his, she slammed the shot onto the bar.

      “This is what you wanted, right?” she said.

      Blake’s gaze slipped from her attractive face to linger on her body, admiring all the lush curves. Her full breasts strained over the edge of the cotton tank top she wore beneath a leather jacket that was a bit too big, almost as if she had borrowed it for the night.

      She shifted the glass closer to him and a hint of black lace peeked out from the neckline of the tank top as she said, “Well? Cat got your tongue?”

      “No

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