I’m working the crowd with a smile as guests partake in Seven Sinners’ best whiskey, but inside I’m having a minor meltdown. Ronnie Lyle keeps trying to corner me, Gregor Standish hasn’t shown up yet, and the auction starts in ten minutes.

Leaving the crowded restaurant, I slip into the alcove near the bathroom where the noise of conversations is muted to a dull roar and pull out my cell phone to call him again.

It goes straight to voice mail.

“Where the hell is he?”

Spinning around, I search the room for Keira. I need to update her on the situation so we can make a decision.

I catch a glimpse of a face in the crowd that freezes my feet to the floor while it sends a pulse of heat through my body.

I know that mouth. That jawline. Those broad-set shoulders.

No. Impossible. My mind is playing tricks.

There’s no way the guy from the club can be here.

I blink twice, staring at him—until he turns and his icy blue eyes lock with mine. Shock and recognition flit across his face.

No. This can’t be happening. Goose bumps pebble along my skin as he surveys me, his gaze traveling down my body before returning to my face. One corner of his mouth lifts, and an expression that looks a lot like satisfaction settles on his features.

Is this a setup? Is he going to approach me? What the hell am I going to say?

My phone buzzes, and I’m torn out of the staring contest I’ve been unwittingly dragged into by the stranger who I let fuck me within the first fifteen minutes of meeting him.

Classy, Temperance.

I look down at the phone and breathe a sigh of relief when I read Gregor’s number. “Mr. Standish?”

The response is garbled and impossible to decipher.

“Sir?”

Something that sounds like office comes through my phone, and I hope like hell he’s telling me he’s down in my office. I step forward, my gaze automatically cutting back to where the stranger was standing, but he’s gone.

Was he really here? Or have I moved on to full-blown hallucinations as a result of the orgasms he gave me?

I move through the crowd toward the stairwell, trying to speak with Mr. Standish, but his phone is cutting out in the middle of every other word. Cell service is crap in the basement where my office is, so I hope that means he’s down there.

The call drops as soon as I reach the middle of the crowd.

Hell.

I excuse myself at least a dozen times as I make my way to the stairway. I push open the door and grab the rail to race down the first flight of stairs. When I reach the landing, the stairwell door behind me slams shut.

“Running off again?” There’s no mistaking that deep, rasping voice.

“You,” I whisper.

His mobile mouth quirks into something that would barely qualify as a smile, and I absorb the impact of his face without a mask. Not classically handsome, but rugged and raw in the same way that I like my art. His masculine features lack subtlety, and they’re a punch to the gut.

“Me, indeed.” He takes the stairs almost lazily, stopping when he’s standing before me on the landing.

My nipples approve of his tall form and perfectly tailored suit, but my brain still can’t comprehend what’s happening. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think?”

“I have no idea, but I’m—”

“Running again, like I said. Seems to be a talent of yours.”

“No. I have business to take care of.”

“Maybe I do too.”

Those blue eyes heat, and the expression on his face says he’d just as soon fuck me up against the concrete stairwell as do anything businesslike.

“You can’t be here. You have to leave.”

“Says who? Maybe I was invited, Ms. Smith.”

I’ve been over the guest list dozens of times, but not since Keira added the late RSVPs. Can he be one of them? What are the odds?

But hearing the name he called me that night stops me short. “I tried to tell you I wasn’t her.”

He steps closer, crowding me as he presses a palm to the wall beside my head. “I didn’t give a damn who you were after watching you watch them.”

“I wasn’t—” I say quickly, trying to deny it.

“Don’t waste your breath lying about it. It was sexy as fuck. Just like you.”

Heat zings from my nipples to my clit at the hunger in his gaze. I’ve convinced myself it was just the club itself and watching the couple that made our encounter so explosive, but now I know I’m wrong.

It’s him. This man wears raw power and confidence easier than he does his suit jacket.

“I can’t do this here. Not now.”

“Do what? We’re just talking.”

“I’m at work.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What about later?”

It’s a struggle to fight my body’s reaction. To fight the urge to reach out and press my palm to his hard chest. To remember why I have to hurry the rest of the way down these stairs.

“I can’t. That night . . . it was a mistake.”

He presses his other palm to the wall, caging me between his strong arms. But instead of feeling trapped, my body is staging a mutiny and urging me to wrap myself around him.

God, he smells so good.

I force my reactions down and curl my hands into fists to keep from touching him.

“A mistake? Is that what you’re telling yourself? Because I remember it differently—a beautiful woman bending to my command so I could turn her ass red before I fucked her and made her come so hard, I thought her pussy was going to strangle my cock.”

Oh my God. His words are like fuel on the fire raging inside me, and I can’t form a coherent response.

He lowers his head and skims his lips along my forehead to my ear. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

Unable to respond, I haul in a shaky breath.

“Meet me again. Tonight.”

My chin jerks up so I can meet his fierce gaze. “But—”

“Say yes, dammit, and I swear you won’t regret it.”

“I can’t.”

Those icy blue eyes snap with energy. “You can, and you want to.” He drops one arm and pulls something from his pocket.

A business card.

He presses it into my hand. “I’ll see you tonight.”

He backs away, holding my stare hostage until he turns to climb the stairs and return to the fundraiser. I’m still frozen in place when he disappears through the door.

What the hell is wrong with me? I didn’t even ask his name.

More than anything, I want to chase after him, but—Standish.

Shit. I shove the card into my bra and run.

When I reach my office, there’s no sign of the artist there, in the hallway or out in the parking lot. The valets confirm they haven’t seen a man matching his description.

Just freaking great.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Keira: Auction is starting. Where are you?

Crap.

I tap out a reply.

Temperance: On my way.

I rush to the elevator and ride it up to the top floor. When I step out, I hear the bidding frenzy in process for the first piece.

Standish is shit out of luck, and I’m not taking the blame.

Numbers roll off the auctioneer’s tongue like water off a duck’s back as I weave through the crowd to find my boss and explain why Gregor Standish’s sculpture isn’t on the auction block first.

When I glance up at the stage, I halt in mid-step.

Oh sweet Lord. This is not happening.

There’s a sculpture on the stage, but it’s not the melty yellow blob.

No.

It’s mine.