Marlis’s jaw hit the small, high-top table they sat at in the corner of a crowded bar. Actually, her entire face met the lacquered surface. “No!” She thrashed, gasped, and laughed simultaneously. “You didn’t.”

“Of course, I did.” Genevieve signaled the waiter for another round. “That was the third time that rat fucker tried to blackmail me.” She drained the last of her crafted beer from a mug almost too heavy for her to lift. Gen’s face scrunched, her shoulders slumped, and she coughed like the lecherous old judge presiding over her latest case. “Let me shove my hand in that honeyed pussy, and I’ll see he does sixty to life.” The voice that exited her pretty mouth was more foul than the dumpsters they’d passed to get into this place.

“I might throw up my crab cakes,” Larkin admitted. “Please, don’t ever do that again.”

“I won’t.” Gen straightened and grinned. “He won’t either.”

“Isn’t it illegal to tape someone without their knowledge?” Marlis’s shoulders bobbed. “I’m not the lawyer, but I swear I’ve heard that before.”

“It is,” Gen agreed with a grin. “But the recording of his crass proposition, along with the boast of power in his position, is enough to keep his hands far away from my ass and his rulings on my side of favorable.”

“You’re blackmailing him back. Which is also illegal.” Mar pointed out the obvious.

“The way of the world, sweetie.” Genevieve shoved Mar’s half full or empty—depending on one’s perception of the world—mug toward her. “You’re falling behind, short stack.”

“I’m not short,” Mar snapped.

Larkin leaned over, prayed she wouldn’t tip the table, and grabbed Mar’s ankle. She lifted. Five inches of high heel threatened to maim any person who ventured too close. “Not with these weapons, you aren’t.”

“Christ, Larkin, you’ll show off my goods.” Marlis wrangled her foot back and straightened her skirt.

“Maybe I’ll get you a date with an actual man.” Larkin gagged. “These yuppie types you’ve been entertaining are too …”

“Prissy to give it to you good,” Gen offered.

“Bull’s-eye.” Larkin drained the rest of her beer and shoved Mar’s toward her again.

Marlis picked up the mug with both hands and tipped it up. It took several long gulps, but the golden liquid drained. She slammed the thick glass onto the table. In any of their usual establishments, the sound would have screeched everything around them to a halt. In the ruckus of jukebox music, at least fifty flesh and blood men—none of whom were sporting skinny jeans, nor manicures—and the ten or so girlfriends or hangers-on with them didn’t pay the noise any attention.

“I dropped the last of Marc’s things off at his office this morning.” Marlis sighed.

“Honey, he ran away from a street beggar and left you behind to deal with him.” How many times could Larkin gag in one night. “What if he’d been a mugger instead?”

“That asshat would have left you to save his own over-moisturized skin.” Genevieve snarled.

“Then he yelled at me for giving the man a gift card, saying that he could spend it on booze just as easily.” Marlis planted both hands on the table. “Fuck him.”

“Yes!” Larkin fist pumped the sky and instantly regretted it. Her ribs ached.

“That’s my girl.” Gen high-fived Marlis and yelled at the waiter to hurry with their refills.

Thank goodness their late lunch had turned into an early dinner. It sounded like they could all use a drink or five. She was also grateful for this night. The last thing she needed was to run into another pompous asshole. She needed a man. Not for forever. Hell, not even for the night. Just a few minutes would take the edge off her clawing desire. Her gaze scanned the room. There was a thicker guy in a back booth who looked like he rode a motorcycle. Too bad he had the ponytail to go with it. A man at the bar leaned over to grab his drink from the bartender and exposed a nice bicep. Too nice. He probably wrestled with a ‘roid needle on the regular.

She needed someone to make her stop thinking about the man on her roof. When she closed her eyes, she felt his unforgiving forearm band around her waist, yanking her against an impenetrable wall of muscle. He locked her against him. Under the table, her thighs thrashed. Moisture gathered. The folds of her sex pulsed.

It shouldn’t be like this. She should be scared. She was scared. But horny too. No one had ever handled her the way he did.

She should leave now and speed dial her shrink.

“Quit holding out on us, Larkin.”

“What?” She choked.

When Larkin came back to the present, Gen had her lawyer’s gaze narrowed. “We’ve let you be quiet long enough. Spill it.”

“Spill what?” How had Genevieve found out about her man on the roof? Libby? No, she hadn’t reported it to anyone. There’s no way they could know. She should have told them by now, but …

Mar clapped. “Yeah, what’d I miss?”

“Ladies, sorry it took so long.” The too young, too thin waiter plopped down their third round. How’d he manage all those mugs with no muscles?

“Thank you,” Marlis cheered.

“Thanks,” Larkin offered.

Genevieve grabbed hers and chugged.

Maybe that would occupy her long enough to forget that Larkin had been at the interrogation table. Nope. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and leaned in. Her breasts pressed against the lacquered wood, shoving her full cleavage higher still. “Bronson Beauregard and his fine vagabond ass is back in town.”

Relief drained the nerves from Larkin’s body.

Marlis squealed and then swooned, placing the back of her hand to her forehead and everything.

“And,” Gen stabbed an accusing finger at her, “you have a date with him.”

“What?” Marlis’s eyes gleamed like disco balls.

“It’s not like that.” Larkin waved them off. “How’d you know, anyway?”

“Forget about how I know.” Gen rested an elbow on the table and propped her chin atop it. “I want details first.” She chased the proclamation with a gulp.

“We both do,” Mar interjected.

“It’s nothing really. He’s back in town. I saw him and his father—”

“Yum, times two.” Genevieve licked foam from her upper lip.

Larkin rolled her eyes. “I saw them at that horrible lunch with my father. His family is throwing him a welcome home party, and he asked me to go as his plus one.”

“When?” Mar shouted.

“Easy there.” Larkin calmed her with both palms out as she would a rabid dog. “The party is Saturday.”

“This Saturday? What are you going to wear?” Marlis grabbed her cheeks. “God, it’s a good thing we have a spa day already scheduled tomorrow.”

“It’s not like that,” Larkin reiterated. “I’m not sleeping with him.”

“I expect the last thing you’ll be doing with him is sleeping.” Gen cackled as though it was the funniest thing she’d ever said.

Mar joined in.

“Oh, that reminds me. I pushed our appointments to six. That way Libby will be able to make it, and we’ll get a full day of work in.” Larkin grabbed her phone and shot them all a quick text. Who knew what they’d remember once tomorrow hit.

“Yay, Libby!” Mar squealed.

“I’m glad for Libby, but I was looking forward to blowing off a half day of work.” Gen syphoned off the last of her beer.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.” Larkin clanked her mug to Gen’s and then Mar’s. “Hell knows, you deserve it.”

They drank, paid, squeezed into the back of Mar’s Town Car—sans men—and before Larkin knew it, they were in front of her building.

“Sweet dreams about having Bronson Beauregard’s baby,” Gen singsonged.

Larkin stepped out into the cold night and looked back at Marlis. “If I pay your driver, will he smother Genevieve in her sleep?”

“No,” she whispered. “Mine’s not as good as Douglas.”

“A shame.” She grinned and blew them each a kiss.

“See you tomorrow,” Marlis called.

“Mrs. Beauregard,” Gen taunted.

Larkin slammed the door in her face and turned toward the building. Her ankles wobbled, and three extra-large beers sloshed around her equilibrium. Great. She searched the street left and right. Nights were quiet in this part of town. Offices filled the structures surrounding her. No right-minded person lived where they worked. Obviously, she was lacking in some corner of her brain.

A hooded jogger paid his dues, renting his fitness and shuffling one foot in front of the other. Cars thundered through the street, utilizing the lower traffic flows to get across town in half the time.

She drew a deep breath, focused on the destination, and walked slowly. The jogger drew near. Each step brought them closer together. Larkin focused on the glass front doors and the light pouring from the interior. His footsteps challenged the concrete. They churned and propelled him. Closer. Her gaze strained to make out his features. His hood was long. It encompassed his face, leaving only a shadow where eyes and a mouth should be.

People jogged these streets all the time. Every day. Men. Women. Fast. Slow. Short. Tall. This man was tall. Taller than any she’d seen before. Thicker too. As thick as the man from the roof.

Larkin swallowed, but nothing moved down her parched throat. Her hands shook, so she shoved them in her pockets. Instinct cried for her to reach for her purse, for her gun, but she shook her head. No. This was just a panic. She was a New Yorker, born and raised, and a jogger would not scare her.

“Good evening,” she managed.

He didn’t speak. His feet continued churning, propelling so close that the scent of his sweat permeated her nostrils. Her heart rate revved.

The jogger broke even with her, pressing between the few feet from her and the door. Music, harsh and wailing, sank its beats into her eardrums for a second, maybe two, as he passed. As quickly as the tunes came, though, they disappeared.

Larkin stalled. After only a few strides, darkness enveloped the man’s broad back. There was no moon. Only the darkest night. A gust of winter air seeped through her coat, and chills cascaded over her entire body. The desire to run after that man and make certain it wasn’t her man from the rooftop warred equally with the desire to run inside and seek warmth and safety.

“Miss Ashford?” Lucas stood in front of her. Behind him, the rotating door spun. How had she not noticed his approach? “Is everything all right?”

She blinked and focused on his face. “Yes. I was just enjoying the changing weather before I turned in for the night.”

“I’ll wait with you.” His sweet smile curved. “It’s not safe for a woman to be alone …” He stalled so long, she thought he was leaving that sweeping generalization at her feet. “Not out here, at night.” Good for him, he didn’t.

“I’m ready to go in.” She motioned him ahead.

“Ladies first,” he insisted.

“Thank you.” Larkin hurried ahead, hoping her bubbly beer haze could keep up. She pushed through the doors, past the deserted main lobby to the mouth of the elevator bank.

“Miss Ashford?”

Damn. Her strides slowed to a stop. Blame the beer and politeness, but she turned.

Lucas walked her way with two large bouquets in stunning crystal vases. “These came for you this evening.”

“Oh.” Her mind struggled with the calculations. Two vases plus two arms equals no hands with which to open her door. Still, she reached for them. Flowers cheered her up even on the shittiest of days. Today didn’t rank that high on the scale. Otherwise, she’d have stopped off for her own damn flowers.

“I’ll carry them up.” He sidestepped her and walked to the elevator before she could rebut.

“Really, that’s not necessary.”

“There are over a hundred flowers, two gallons of water, and twenty pounds of crystal in my arms. Don’t argue, Larkin. Press the call button.”

“Bossy on the late shift.” She jabbed the button. The thing lit like the star atop a Christmas tree.

“Last I recall, you liked it.” He adjusted a vase cluttered with flesh-pink calla lilies to the side and gave her a questioning look.

Drunk or not, she wouldn’t be baited into this conversation. “The service elevator didn’t work today.”

“I never received any calls about it,” he grumbled.

“Surely, I wasn’t the only one to have trouble with it.” Larkin stepped forward and stabbed the button again. What the hell? The car should be on the bottom floor, waiting, like usual.

“Why were you taking the service elevator?”

“I didn’t. It was broken.”

“Where were you going?” He hitched a vase of red roses and weird white bulbs with black dots in the center higher on his hip. “I didn’t know you knew there was a service elevator in the building.”

It was her building. Of course, she knew there was a service elevator. Service stairs too, which she’d taken. The elevator dinged, and the doors opened.

“Never mind.” She stepped inside, pressed the button for the top floor, and entered in her passcode. Soon, they were closed inside together. Maybe she’d pass out standing up and not be expected to carry on civil conversation.

“So you’re fucking Bronson Beauregard.” His gaze cut to hers.

“Excuse me!” Her bubbly beer haze evaporated in pure indignation.

“You could have just told me there was someone else. I’m man enough to understand that you’d want someone with money and homes around the fucking world, instead of war stories he’ll never tell you.”

“I’m not fucking anyone. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Come on, Larkin.” Lucas shook the vase of calla lilies. “He dropped these off himself. Not a florist shop delivery guy. Bronson fucking Beauregard. A man doesn’t do that unless he’s in deep.”

“Bronson dropped them off?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t see him. He left less than a minute before you stalled at the front door.”

She hadn’t seen him, but she might have seen HIM. Which they weren’t talking about.

“I get it. He’s on your level. I’m not.” Lucas shrugged, and the flowers bobbed.

“Christ, Lucas. Bronson and I have been friends since we were young. He just got back into town, and we saw each other at Per Se. I haven’t ever fucked him, and I’m not about to start. Fucking people you come in contact with on a regular basis fucks you harder every day after, until it’s unbearable.” She growled the last word, making certain there was no room for misunderstanding.

“I didn’t mean to … Damnit, Larkin. I’m sorry. I just …” He looked at his shoes. The elevator continued its infinite rise.

She relished the silence. And the smell of the flowers. The roses really filled the dank space. “Who sent those?” She held up a hand. “I’m not fucking them, whoever it was.”

“I don’t know. It was a delivery guy.”

The doors opened, and Larkin shot out of the car and to her door. She unlocked it and stopped in the doorway. “I’ll take them from here.” He hadn’t been lying about the weight. She hefted the roses into her arms, walked them to the kitchen island, and then returned for the calla lilies. Luckily, he’d stayed put outside.

“Thank you for carrying them up. I wouldn’t have been able to manage them both.” She took the remaining vase.

“Let me come in.” He stepped forward and leaned one thick shoulder on the doorframe. “I’ll make you forget the day and all the stupid stuff I said.” His fingers grazed her cheek, brushing a strand of hair that had fallen from her ponytail behind her ear. “Then I’ll go.”

Larkin might be the only woman in the history of women who hated when men pulled that move. Who gave them the right to shove hair behind someone’s ear? It was uncomfortable, belittling, and possessive. If she wanted hair behind her ear, she’d put it there. The irritant was enough to take the edge off his proposition. It gave her perspective enough to look past the screaming orgasm he promised to the added layers of shit she’d have to deal with days after.

No matter what he promised in the late hours, he wasn’t the type to fuck and forget. She’d already learned that the hard way. Never double down on a bad bet.

“Good night, Lucas.” Larkin gave him a friendly nod and closed the door. The electronic lock did its job without trying to fuck her. Why couldn’t Lucas? She flipped the deadbolt. It thunked into place, and she hurried to the counter. The flowers were heavy.

She set the calla lilies next to the odd arrangement and shucked her jacket onto the back of the sofa. Her fingers tore open Bronson’s card first. An embossed BBB scrawled the front of the card. The interior …

Larkin gasped.

“Looking forward to Sunday morning. Love, Bronson.” Larkin bit her tongue. “Seriously?” There weren’t any more provocative flowers than skin-colored calla lilies. The flowers, in any color, looked like a vagina. The card could not be any more suggestive. She dropped it onto the counter. “I will not sleep with Bronson. I will not sleep with Bronson.”

While she chanted her plan, she opened the second card and pulled it out. The front was blank. The interior …

Larkin gasped.

Her heart flipped inside out. With every beat, it compressed her veins until they might explode. She’d been called worse in her life, certainly, but never in quite this way. Her lips refused to give the word more life than it had in her hand, in her home, on this card. Her gaze found the morbidly shaped berries that looked like eyes, then the word.

CUNT.