Her slick-bottomed shoes skittered over the first two rungs. Only her sweat-slicked grip kept Larkin from plummeting the twelve feet to the floor below. Her ribs and lats screamed at the overextension, but she didn’t dare pause or look up. Fear of him standing over her in the open manhole was too much. She repositioned her feet and half shuffled, half slid down the ladder.

The clack of her heels slamming into the marble-tiled floor reverberated inside the empty hallway. Shock of the impact shot white-hot pain up her heels, calves, and thighs. Her breaths echoed loudly in the eerie silence.

Only ten feet away, her slick white door and its ornate gold knocker beckoned. She supported most of her weight on her left foot and hobbled the distance as fast as she could. Her ankles throbbed and wobbled. No sound except the pounding of her pulse and the whooshes of her breath stood out. He could be right behind her. His approach on the rooftop had been silent. So too could he be now.

Larkin collapsed against the shiny, cold door and wrenched the knob. Of course, the damn thing was locked, and she didn’t have her key. A sob threatened to crumple her to her knees right there. Liking old-fashioned things—like actual paper notes and fancy keys in locks—would get her killed.

Thank the heavens above for Lucas. Five months ago, her head of security had suggested keypads, in addition to her ancient key lock, be installed on all her doors for an added layer of security. She pounded in her entry code as well as a security alert.

When the mechanism released, Larkin chanced a look down the hallway because the last thing she wanted to do was lock herself inside her apartment with a man like that. Still, the hallway remained empty. She wrenched the knob, flung herself inside, and slammed the door closed behind her. The electronic lock slid automatically in place. A flip of the deadbolt shored her nerves enough to stand. Automatic lights flicked on behind her through the sitting room and kitchen, giving warmth to the cool, modern surroundings.

Metal on metal trilled.

Larkin’s feet left the floor. Every nerve ending short-circuited, making her legs and arms shiver. She whirled to the right in search of the sound. The antique phone on the high table next to the door rang again and again while she stared at it and struggled to calculate what the hell was going on. Her jittery hand reached for the ivory handle and lifted.

“Hello?” she squeaked.

“Miss Ashford, I’m headed up as we speak. Are you all right?” Lucas’s concerned voice poured through the phone. He used her formal title, which meant he brought backup. Good. Lucas Backstrom was lethal, and nothing about him was small. Judging by the size of the stranger on the roof, he’d need backup.

“I’m …” Shit. She could think but apparently, speaking was too much to ask. “I’m … I’m … okay. I think.”

“What’s the problem?” he demanded. A month ago, she’d liked the command in his voice, but now, it seemed intrusive, and she didn’t exactly know why. “Do you have … company?”

Ah, and there was the reason it irritated her. He hocked the word company. It landed on her cheek and slid to the floor like the unwelcome accusation it was. Anger stiffened her spine, and calmed her fear and the rush of blood in her ears.

“There was a man on the roof,” she snapped.

“On the roof? Did you bring him up for the view?”

The thunder of her heartbeat returned but for an entirely different, much more manageable reason. Give her irritation over gut-churning fear any day. She’d spoken of the view to Lucas but had never taken him or anyone else up there. And she never would.

“I went up for air, and he was there. He scared the shit out of me,” she snapped.

“Hold tight. Lock your door. We’ll take care of it.” The line died.

Like she was dumb enough to leave her door unlocked. Hell, she’d gotten herself away from the man and in here without Lucas’s help.

“Dipshit.” Larkin dropped the receiver into the cradle and teetered past the sleek fireplace, the white and gray seating area, and the glitter of the New York City night through the wall of windows.

Her palms splayed on the wet bar built into the wall as her gaze pinged across the labels. She reached past The Dalmore and other expensive liquors and went straight for her run-of-the-mill vodka—the liquor that would burn the worst and, she hoped, settle her nerves. The bottles clacked and rattled as much as the stack of rings on her pointer finger.

“The ring.”

God, she was an idiot. She’d abandoned her mother’s ring and her jacket. The jacket didn’t matter. The ring … It was worth a sizable fortune. She wanted it back so she could toss the damn thing off the building.

Larkin ripped the crystal stopper out of the bottle filled with vodka, ignored the shelves of glasses, and tipped the liquid to her lips. The first sting did little to knock away the haze of terror, so she tried another gulp. Liquid fire burned its way over her tongue and up her nose. A hiss sang between her teeth.

The tremors in her fingers and heart regulated. Her stomach churned. It had been too many hours since she’d eaten, yet the thought of food ignited a flash fire across her skin. She set the bottle on the white granite counter next to the other bottles. No need to compound her issues tonight. Her hand fell to her belly, and she sighed.

“Breathe, Larkin. You’ve been through worse.” Emotionally worse, yes. Physically? Not even a play-yard scuffle. Nothing remotely dangerous had ever crossed her path and revealed itself.

No one had the audacity to touch her without her permission, much less attack her in the night, in her favorite place on the top of her building.

Her fingers slipped from the quieting rumble of her stomach up to her ribs. She closed her eyes and felt his thick arm banded around her. People were always so delicate with her, even her lovers, even when she hadn’t wanted them to handle her with kid gloves. The stranger used a barely hinged force she’d never experienced. Between his compulsion, her fight to get away, and her easily marked skin, she’d bruise by morning. Even now, her skin ached.

She found her reflection in the mirror behind the shelves and glasses. Sections of formerly ordered hair hung loose around her face and neck. Thick black lines of melted mascara formed a pool under one eye and ran down her cheek on the other. It looked as though she’d cried. She hadn’t. She didn’t. Though the evidence stared back.

Larkin ignored the disarray for the moment and lifted the thin material of her wrinkled shirt until the underwire of her lace bra peeked out. A wide red swath marred her porcelain skin. She let her fingers ease across her upper ribs and then down to within inches of her belly button.

He’d been savage with her. At the same time, his parting words replayed in her mind.

I hope your night gets better.

The words were kind. Shit, if she could take a step back from her shock and fear and look at the situation with her usual collected calm, she could see it from his perspective. A crazy woman scampers up the manhole that no one except him and a maintenance man or two had ever been through. She rips off her jacket, screams at the night, and rushes headlong at the ledge.

“Sweetheart, I just saved your life. I’m not going to hurt you.” His words whispered across her cheek.

Her shirt slipped through her fingers and covered her gym-tightened stomach. The stranger had been so solid and immovable it caught her unaware. Most men she’d been with had been fit by reps and metal weights, but that guy …? The world had honed his body into a lethal force she couldn’t reckon with.

Larkin smoothed her shirt with a disgusted huff. She kicked off her scuffed and beaten shoes and stormed through the seating area. A wall of glass fronted cabinets, neatly decorated with wine glasses and china she never used, and the massive granite slab atop the kitchen island created the hallway through the kitchen to her bedroom. At her presence, warm light eased on in the bathroom and closet, creating twin funnels of light that illuminated her king-size bed. It beckoned her, but her stomach refused the invitation.

Makeup slowly dried like cement around her eyes. She needed it off, as well as the feel of the stranger’s arms. The thick band hung around her middle. His hot chest molded to her backside. Her fingers trembled over the first button of her shirt.

“Dammit, Larkin. Get it together.” She gritted her teeth and unfastened it, and then another. The boiling water from the shower would wash the night away. It had to. No way would she go back to the pills.

A solid double bang reverberated through the apartment. Her breath clogged her throat, and her head snapped away from the glass and marble shower ten feet away to the long, dim corridor.

Why hadn’t she had them program those lights?

“Because you are not afraid of the damn dark.”

The heavy knocks came again, insistent as ever.

She hadn’t expected the guys back from the roof so soon. Had they taken down the stranger? Her feet moved hesitantly down the hallway. What if the stranger was standing on the other side of her door? What if he forced his way inside?

Damn, if only she had her sidearm.

Beside her, the refrigerator’s compressor hummed to life, and she startled. Jesus, she was well and truly falling apart at the worst possible time. Her company needed her now more than ever. Her hands balled to fists, and she squared her shoulders, marching to the door.

It loomed large and foreboding.

Three more vicious knocks shook its frame. “Open the door. It’s Lucas.”

He’d never been so demanding, but she’d never been in real danger before. Up until now, his job consisted of managing the building’s security staff, shooing away unwanted advances, and sitting around bored to death for hours on end.

Larkin wiped the makeup from under her eyes, drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly. When her fists eased enough to allow blood flow, she stepped to the door, opened it, and stood in the doorway, faking the hell out of her cool demeanor.

Lucas’s crystalline blue gaze assessed her top to bottom and back again. His wide jaw worked his lips into a sneer.

A lump formed in her throat. She’d never seen this side of Lucas.

“Did he hurt you?” Lucas pointed at her chest.

Her head shook as her gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts on display between the two open buttons on her rumpled, untucked blouse. “No.” She choked on the lump and grabbed the fabric together.

“You sure?” he insisted.

“No. He just surprised me. No one is ever up there. Maintenance during the day occasionally, but no one at night.” She needed to redirect and fast. “Did you find him?”

Lucas’s longer than a military buzz, but not by much, hair clung to his head as he shook it. “Carl and Dan are doing a floor-to-floor sweep on each end of the building, but no one was on the roof.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know how she felt about that. He hadn’t hurt her. He hadn’t even threatened her.

“What was he doing up there?”

Fuck if she knew. Stargazing? Howling at the moon? “I don’t know.”

“What did he look like?” Lucas’s gaze narrowed.

“What?”

“Pressed and ready in business casual?” Lucas’s large hands turned toward the heavens, and he shrugged. “Was he dirty, drunk, and hanging his legs over the edge of the building?”

“He was … none of those things.” Larkin shrugged and tightened her grip on the material.

“Well, what was he then?” His tone slashed and grated at her withered patience.

“He was there. Just there, okay?”

“Like he appeared out of thin air?” Doubt scrunched Lucas’s light brows.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s not there anymore.” She let her grip slide down the door to the handle. “I need a shower and sleep.”

Lucas took a step forward. “Are you sure he didn’t hurt you? If he did, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He reached for her shoulder. His hand eased to her elbow and then fell away. “It happens every day, and women don’t report it.”

“He didn’t even touch me,” she lied. Why, she had no idea, but suddenly dealing with Lucas drained her more than the stranger had.

“Do you want me to stay?”

Lucas was hot, knew how to fuck, and was a blue-blooded hero for goodness’ sake. He’d dragged a gut-shot comrade off a battlefield through a hail of bullets. If this were a romantic drama, they would have rolled the credits months ago. But Larkin didn’t do romance. She didn’t do overbearing. She did business and men but never interchangeably. Well, never again. Lesson learned the hard way.

“No. I’m fine, thank you.”

“It’s been a long time, Lark. I thought we were good together.”

“We were.” No need to deny it.

“So?” He leaned in, almost imperceptibly.

“You wanted more than I can give.” Larkin backed farther into her apartment and eased the door between them.

His hand met the door and stopped it cold.

Larkin’s pulse revved.

“Come on. If you’d just let me in …”

“I don’t do that. It’s for fairy tales and movies, not real life. Good night, Lucas.” She shoved the door.

Again, it didn’t budge.

“Wait.”

“No.” Sickness churned in her stomach and rose into her esophagus.

“You forgot this stuff out here.” Lucas crouched, stood, and offered her the items he’d picked up off the floor next to her door. Her neatly folded jacket lay in his palms, and her mother’s ring sat at the center of the fabric. “Good thing you didn’t take this up there. The guy would have tossed you off the roof to get that rock.”

Larkin stared at him for a long second. She thought he’d retrieved them from the roof, but … if he didn’t, did the stranger?

“Larkin, are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. Thanks for this.” She accepted the items he shoved through the small opening between the door and frame.

After a long, hard look, Lucas lifted his palms in surrender and eased away. When the door met the latch, Larkin slid the bolt into place and melted onto the floor.