“We have a perfectly good restaurant of our own below the mezzanine,” I remind my business partner, Paul, as the hostess at Romano’s shows me to the table he’s waiting at in their VIP section. “It would have been far more convenient to have this meeting there.”

“I like the ambience here,” Paul says, laughing off my grumbling. His ability to do that is probably one of the reasons we’ve managed not only to remain friends since college, but also to build a five-star hotel together without killing each other.

I know I’m not the easiest person to get along with—at least, Paul says I haven’t been ever since I almost made the mistake of putting a ring on Gretchen’s finger before realizing she was far more interested in marrying my bank balance than me—but despite my veneer of crankiness, I’m secretly grateful that he occasionally bullies me into getting out of the hotel. My home is one of the penthouse suites; my offices are on our executive floor; and yes, I would eat all my meals there if he didn’t force me to leave the premises once in a while.

“Besides,” Paul continues, waggling his eyebrows comically. “The Kohs are arriving today, and I’d rather we gossip about them where there’s no chance they’ll wander by and overhear.”

I’ve just lifted the mineral water he pre-ordered for me to my lips, and I snort at his antics, almost choking on it.

“Dammit,” I splutter, snatching up one of the thick linen napkins to dab at my shirtfront as Paul grins unrepentantly. “This is your fault. And we’re not here to gossip, we’re here to form a strategic plan that will ensure they sign the development contract for our sister hotel.”

“They’ll sign it,” Paul says confidently. “They’ve flown all the way in from Singapore, Luke. I’d say that’s a pretty good indicator that they’re interested in doing business with us.”

I bite my tongue. My secret fear is that Mrs. Koh talked her husband into flying out simply because she wanted to spend Christmas in New York. After all, the Kohs are some of the biggest property developers in Singapore, and no matter how nice The Luminare is—and don’t get me wrong, I’m justifiably proud of the hotel Paul and I have built—our success can’t compete with the scope of their property empire. To them, we’re small potatoes.

“We can’t count on that,” I tell Paul, since it’s true. I know for a fact you can’t count on anything without a contract. “We need to woo the Kohs over the next few weeks. The numbers are solid, but we need to make them want to do business with us. Make them like us. The word is that Mrs. Koh is the more influential half of the couple, and that she makes a fair number of her decisions for emotional reasons.”

The word is sour in my mouth, and Paul laughs outright. He knows me too damn well.

“Woo them?” he repeats, still chuckling as he makes air quotes around the word. “Make them like us? Who are you, and what have you done with cold-hearted Luke Masters?”

I snort, taking another sip of my mineral water and glancing around the secluded dining area to avoid meeting his eyes. For all that I’d grumbled about coming, the service here in the VIP room is usually impeccable, and I’d really like the distraction of a server coming by to take our order… and to distract Paul from his too-close-to-home teasing. He’s right, though. Gretchen froze my heart solid, but I’m fine with that. Better lonely than hurt again.

I really am surprised no one’s been by our table yet. The only server in the VIP room is a startlingly lovely girl who’s currently being monopolized by a table of men who—despite their thousand-dollar suits—give off nothing so much as an air of frat boys that have never grown up.

I pause with my hand frozen in mid-air, forgetting to set my water back down. She’s not just lovely, she’s magnetic. I can’t look away. But then my eyes narrow as I note her body language. She’s uncomfortable, and a pink stain rushes over her cheeks when one of the men says something to her.

She nimbly dodges what looks like an intended pat on the ass, a fake smile firmly in place on her face, and I frown as a surge of irrational anger fills me. That kind of groping is totally inappropriate.

More importantly, I don’t want another man touching her.

“Luke?”

I grunt a response to Paul, still riveted to the drama unfolding across the room despite being fully aware that these sudden feelings of possessiveness are patently ridiculous. I don’t know the girl, and she’s definitely not mine. I’ve learned my lesson well, and I don’t look for that kind of companionship anymore. Paul can call me cold all he wants, it doesn’t change the fact that quick, no-strings fucks when needed are all I want in that area of my life.

Not… more.

“Luke?” Paul says again, snapping his fingers to get my attention. “Are we here to plan our winning-over-the-Kohs strategy or just to ogle the waitress?”

“I wasn’t ogling her,” I snap, embarrassed at being caught. I finally remember to set down my mineral water, doing it a little more forcefully than necessary and sloshing water onto the table.

Paul laughs, the bastard. “Oh ho! So you did notice her. I was chatting her up when she brought the water by, before you arrived. She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she? A bit young, but you know I’ve never minded that.” He winks salaciously and my blood boils with that same irrational possessiveness.

Paul is the epitome of a playboy; attractive, rich, and with a different girl on his arm every week. No way am I letting him near this one.

“Are you gentlemen ready to place your drink orders?” the girl in question asks, suddenly appearing at my side as if I’ve conjured her.

Her voice is soft and a little breathless and it instantly makes my cock start to harden… which brings me to my senses. That’s dangerous territory, especially with all the other shit she stirs up in me, so I grit my teeth and ignore it, reminding myself that it’s not my place to “let” Paul do or not do anything with her. She’s simply our serving staff, not my… my… anything else.

“I’d love to hear what you think we should be drinking, beautiful,” Paul says, giving her the smile that brings out both of his dimples and invariably ends with the girl it’s directed at dropping her panties for him.

My eyes narrow. Fuck it not being my place. I snatch the wine list out of his hands and shove it and the two leather-bound menus at the pretty server.

“Ignore him,” I snap at her, bristling even though I know Paul well enough to guess that he’s flirting on auto-pilot, not because he gives a shit about this particular girl. “We’ll have a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc with two orders of the shrimp scampi.” And then, even though a traitorous part of me wants to keep her right where she is—by my side—I add another order to push her away: “And some privacy.”

Paul’s eyebrows go up at my abrupt tone.

“Yes, sir,” the girl says, her spine snapping straight at my rude dismissal.

She takes the menus and gives me the fake smile that I saw her use on the other table, the smile that doesn’t reach her gorgeous summer-blue eyes or mask the slightly defeated look behind them. I don’t like her looking at me like that, but it’s probably safer if she does. Besides, I had to push her away, didn’t I? I definitely don’t want her spending long enough in Paul’s presence to fall under his charm.

Still, when she turns and walks away, I feel like I’ve lost something.

Paul raises an inquiring eyebrow at me, but I have no idea why I’m feeling uncharacteristically possessive about a girl I don’t even know, so I ignore his unspoken request to explain my behavior and dive into the reason we’re here instead, hoping to forget about her.

“You’re going to need a girlfriend, Paul,” I tell him firmly. “Better yet, a fiancée.”

He laughs, rocking back in his chair as he holds up his hands as if to ward me off.

“Just until Christmas,” I assure him.

“Nope. I’m good, thanks,” he says, lips still twitching. “No ball and chain for me.”

I shake my head impatiently. “It will just be a business arrangement, Paul. I’ve been doing my research, and the Kohs are very family-oriented. Based on some of their past deals—and more importantly, some of the development opportunities they’ve passed on—it’s clear they don’t trust doing business with bachelors and playboys. They’re more likely to sign that contract with us if they have the impression that they’ll be investing in a business run by solid, stable, married men.”

“I hate to break it to you, Luke,” Paul says, laughing again. “But neither one of us is likely to ever be that.”

He’s right. Him because he prefers to play the field and me because history has proven that wanting something and actually getting it are sometimes two mutually exclusive things.

“The Kohs will just have to base their business decision on our track record with The Luminare,” Paul says, already dismissing my idea. “But what we should talk about is—”

“It’s a sound business move, Paul,” I interrupt, not willing to let it go. I’ve done my homework. “Maybe a little unconventional—”

“And dishonest,” he interrupts right back, raising an eyebrow that challenges me to deny it.

I wave the comment off. Technically, he’s correct—and normally I’m a stickler for ethical business practices—but this deal is too important. Besides, engagements end all the time. I really don’t foresee a problem if we present Paul as one-half of a happy couple only to have it go nowhere in the end. Hell, knowing him, he’ll have a blast with the charade and so will whichever girl he picks to play the part of his better half.

I’m about to make a case for my proposed fake-fiancée strategy when a sudden movement across the room captures my attention. One of the men at the far table has pulled the pretty server onto his lap—forcefully—and I instantly see red, the words I’d been about to say to Paul dying in my throat.

My girl’s face is white as a sheet, and when she scrambles to her feet amidst the men’s raucous laughter, her elbow knocks into the glass of red wine in front of her tormenter. It drenches the man’s expensive suit, staining his formerly pristine white shirt, and he’s on his feet almost as fast as I am, face twisted in rage.

“What the fuck, Hannah?” he shouts, grabbing her by the arm so hard that his knuckles turn white.

Oh, hell no.

“I’m… I’m so sorry,” she whispers, words that come out so quietly I read them on her lips rather than hear them.

“Sorry doesn’t pay my fucking dry cleaning bill, bitch,” the jackass says, shaking her. “You’re fired.”

If I thought she looked pale before, I was wrong. All the blood drains from her face, and she looks like the only thing keeping her upright is that fucking hand the man has on her.

“No… p-p-please,” she says, her voice breaking. “Mr. Romano, I’ll do anything. I can’t… I need… I’ve got Jessie, and—”

I don’t get a chance to hear who Jessie is or whether Hannah’s plea moves the Romano asshole who just fired her, because even though I don’t remember leaving my table, my fist is suddenly planted firmly in his face, Hannah tucked securely behind me and adrenaline ramping me up so high I don’t even feel it when my knuckles split open.

The punch lays him out, and I’m vaguely aware that unlike Romano’s friends, Paul is on his feet now, too; ready as always to have my back if I need him.

“What the fuck?” Romano says, eyes narrowing dangerously as he cups his bloody nose and glares up at me from the floor. “Who the fuck are—”

“I’m her new employer,” I answer in a hard voice without bothering to wait for him to finish, the foot I plant on his chest keeping him down when he tries to rise.

My eyes narrow, and whatever he sees in them, it makes him stop struggling and stay down.

“What the fuck?” he repeats, looking around at his wide-eyed friends for support. He doesn’t get any, so he looks back at me, rage in his eyes as he spits out, “She doesn’t work for you, dickwad.”

“She does now,” I say, because I’m going to make it true if a job is what Hannah needs. She for damn sure isn’t staying at this one if this is the way the slimy shit treats her. “Hannah is now an employee of The Luminare. My hotel. My employee. Mine.”

Behind me, Hannah gasps, and when her trembling eases a bit and I feel her press against me, I almost smile. I’m still looking at Romano, though, so smiling isn’t in the cards.

I want to kill him.

Instead, I let my voice drop low and dangerous, making him one last promise: “And you, Romano, are going to pay for touching what’s mine.”

A promise I fully intend to keep.