"There you are, Herne. I've been looking for you all night!"

I try to keep my face neutral at the sound of the feminine voice behind me. Maybe if I ignore her she'll take the hint. The man in front of me looks over my shoulder, his eyes widening at what he sees.

"I'm guessing you would much rather speak to her than me," he says with a sour little smile, stepping back politely.

Not true. But it would be rude of me to say so. I don't mind being rude under the right circumstances, but only if it serves a purpose. I have no desire to be mean for the sake of it.

Which means I'm stuck.

I swallow a sigh and turn around to talk to Rita. She’s wearing a sequined gown that somehow manages to cling to the lower halves of her breasts while leaving the upper halves exposed. It’s a gravity-defying feat of engineering. The rest of the dress clings tightly to every curve. She poses for maximum effect—hand on her hip, chest thrust out.

When she's sure she has my attention, she flips her dark hair to the front as if making sure I see the thick extensions. Rita is a beautiful female specimen, no doubt about that. She works hard to look the way she does. I appreciate hard work, and that’s the reason I was interested in her at all, even briefly. The problem is that nobody has a higher opinion of Rita than Rita does. It's difficult to spend much time around someone with that kind of attitude.

"It is good to see you, Rita," I murmur, taking her offered hand and bending over it, making sure my lips don’t quite touch the back of it.

She smiles with satisfaction, her enhanced lips slick with gloss. She sets a proprietary hand on my forearm as I straighten, staking her claim.

I never should have accepted her offer before. I'm usually pretty good at spotting bed partners that may cause potential problems, but I missed this one. She knows the score. I was clear about my lack of commitment to her, or to anyone. But her type often believes they can change someone like me.

That’s her mistake.

She’s my mistake, at least for the moment.

"Why haven't you called me?" she demands, trying to disguise the question as playful flirting by slapping my arm.

There's a hint of steel in the question that lets me know she's more serious than she wants to let on. She isn't the kind of woman who is accustomed to getting the brush off.

"I've been busy," I say. I don't owe her an explanation. Not when I was honest about my intentions. And I have been busy, so it isn't a lie. Overseeing multiple corporations and business ventures takes a lot of my time. I enjoy the wheeling and dealing, the market forecasts, the creativity and steady hand needed to roll with the punches. Outside of business, my life is simple. Uncomplicated. And I like it that way. If I feel a pang of emptiness now and then, well, perfection doesn't exist. My life is full enough.

"Oh?" she says, arching one slim, perfectly shaped brow in warning. "Busy with other women?" she asks, giving me a hard look.

I firmly curb my impatience. If she thinks she has any claim on me after one night of sex, she is sadly mistaken. Perhaps she feels betrayed or misled but that’s not my problem. I was nothing but honest and upfront.

However, it isn't entirely her fault that she believes partying has me busy. I'm careful to present myself as the perfect Singarti playboy. It's not completely off the mark, though it isn't the whole picture either. Women are my weakness and I indulge that weakness as often as I can.

I keep my beast on a tight leash by making sure it is the only indulgence I have.

My almost-human appearance proves how much control I have over myself, so Singarti society at large looks the other way, assuming I'm mostly harmless. Because of our inner beasts, we are taught to live in strict moderation, for fear that hedonistic pursuits will feed the beast too much.

It happens. It's happening with my friend Adir right now. His appearance is becoming more and more animalistic—increased body hair, the beginnings of a snout, elongated ears…I worry his beast may consume who he is.

That fear has our people always pushing monk-like lifestyles. I do not believe such an extreme solution is necessary, however. What is the point of living if one cannot enjoy oneself, after all?

It’s surprising how much leeway a nice suit and impeccable manners can get you.

I walk a narrow line with my public image. Projecting the image of a mostly-in-control, charming playboy without a desire for actual work takes some finesse. The vast majority don't know how many companies I have a hand in. And I like to keep it that way.

If I'm not out in the open, they can never see me coming or even know that I was the one who trounced them in the marketplace. All of that makes these social circles a lot less dangerous to navigate.

Which brings me back to Rita. Rather than answer her question, I take her hand in the crook of my elbow and start walking towards the refreshments.

"Have you had anything to drink?" I ask, smoothly redirecting the conversation as I nod at those who greet me.

"No," she says, not pushing the matter as she clings to me. "I would adore a drink." And cling is entirely too accurate. She smiles sharply at any woman who looks our way as we walk across the room.

It's exceedingly tiresome.

This kind of thing is another reason I like to keep my business life hidden. I have plenty of attention already from gold-digging types like Rita. If they find out how large my portfolio actually is, I might start feeling like a prized cow. Plump and ripe for the slaughter. I smile to myself, shaking my head. A little overly dramatic, but not inaccurate.

As I pour a drink for her and consider possibly taking her to bed again—the damage is already done, after all—I wonder at the large contingent of people who are content to live off others. It is so foreign to my own nature. Motivation has never been a problem. Yes, I started with a silver spoon in my mouth, as every Singarti here on Earth does. We are the ruling elite of the planet, alien or not, and with that position comes wealth. Even so, I've never been content with what I was given. I never felt it was truly mine since I didn't earn it myself.

So I set about rectifying that with a vengeance. I've multiplied my holdings many times over the years. Not because I want more money, but because I enjoy creating something from nothing. I enjoy having actual power in the ability to take action, rather than just the social and monetary power my position automatically gives me.

Which is to say, I find I really cannot respect a gold digger like Rita. She has no desire to create the life she wants. She would rather find someone else to give her that lifestyle.

She smiles at me as she takes a slow sip from the glass I hand her, the motion meant to be provocative. She licks her lips slowly.

I resist the urge to yawn.

I take what they so freely offer because it satisfies the man and the beast on a base level. But I cannot have someone so shallow as a real part of my life. I would never be able to care about her. I could never love someone with so little behind her pretty face.

I decide against a tumble in bed, feeling only a slight twinge of regret. It would give her too many ideas if I spend another night in her bed. Rita has already shown she won't accept my words as truth. Simply telling her how I feel hasn't been enough.

I need to show her.

I scan the room until I catch another hungry young woman's eyes. The cunning in them tells me she knows the game and is adept at it. She is not a victim.

Perfect.

"Excuse me, I see someone I know," I murmur, stepping away from Rita. She sputters, but I keep moving.

"Hello," I murmur when I reach the woman, bowing to the petite brunette with the short hair. "Would you care to dance?"

She smiles at me, looking up through her eyelashes with a coy expression. Practiced and honed. I don't know why the very things I used to look for started bothering me. After all, women like this won’t cry when I leave them.

"Why, of course, Prince Herne. I would be delighted," she coos, her roaming eye taking in the interest of those around us. She enjoys the attention I bring her. Another common factor with the women I meet at such social gatherings.

I force a smile, but it fades as we reach the dance floor. I have no real interest in this new woman either. She's a shark like the rest, looking for easy prey. She will be disappointed when I'm not caught. But she'll shake it off and find someone else to sink her teeth into. I have no doubt about it.

Dancing with her serves a purpose. It will send a clear message to Rita not to expect anything more than that one night we already had.

I search for her as we turn on the dance floor and catch sight of her sequins on the other side of the room. She's already in another rich fool's arms. I hope he knows what he's getting into. I smile to myself as I murmur something polite to my dance partner. These waters are indeed infested with pretty predators.

But I'm not interested in being hunted.