I can’t help but notice the man sitting at the far end of the bar .

Even though I try to keep my attention on slinging drinks and playing nice with the customers, he draws my attention .

Dark scruff on his sharp jaw. Sexy lower lip. Eyes that are a brilliant green, evident even beneath the shadow of the NY Giants ball cap he’s wearing. His navy-blue T-shirt stretches across a broad chest, and I can see partial tattoos on his biceps, peeking out of the short sleeves .

He’s sex personified .

“Samantha,” a regular, Michael, yells, waving his beer mug. “Refill ?”

I tear my gaze away from the tattooed, mysterious hottie, who is currently unable to tear his own gaze away from his drink. Sidle over to Michael and pour him another beer off the tap. He drops a few bucks on the counter and gives me a nod of thanks, then smooths a thick hand over his balding pate .

My focus once again draws to the corner of the bar. What’s the guy’s story? He arrived two hours ago and he’s already several drinks into his night. Did he come straight out of prison or something—is that why he’s tossing whiskey back like that? Likely, he’s one of those super-handsome ex-cons who gets good girls in trouble from time to time. Seduces them into bed, then sneaks out in the middle of the night with their wallets…and their hearts .

God help me, I have to admit that even if he is just out of prison, I wouldn’t be able to turn him down if he aimed so much as a hint of interest my way .

I wipe down the battered bar top and toss the messy rag in the bin, suppressing a sarcastic chuckle. As if a guy like that would notice me. He’s absolutely out of my league. Besides, he doesn’t seem interested in any female companionship, at least not in our joint. He’s only got eyes for the bottom of his glass .

He’d have to be legit blind though to not notice the attention he’s drawing from many of the women in here. And the type of women who frequent our bar, Bootleggers, aren’t exactly the kind to flirt subtly if they want to hook up. More than one lady has “run” into him tonight and offered coy apologies in an effort to get him to look their way. Massive breasts brushing against his firm back as woman after woman pretend to squeeze through the crowd .

But this guy has no shits to give, barely murmuring a response or glancing up .

The other bartender working with me, Janelle, has her boobs shoved so far out of her white tank top that I’m surprised she hasn’t had a nip slip yet. The girl knows how to work a crowd. I envy her talent in that, to be honest .

I’m too awkward .

She smooths her fiery red ponytail and sways over to me; several of the guys lined up along the bar top are riveted by the sensual movements of her hips. Janelle never has a problem getting a man to notice her .

“That dude looks like he needs an angry fuck, amirite?” she whispers to me with a wink and nod in the mystery man’s direction .

I elbow her in the side, chuckling as I shake my head. “You’re terrible. I think he just wants to be left alone .”

“A person that hot should never be alone,” she retorts, fluffing her breasts and preparing to go over to him .

“Janelle,” Chet, our manager, bellows from the far end of the room. He narrows his weaselly gaze at her and waves a frantic hand in her direction. “I need help bussing tables . Now .”

Janelle sighs, pursing her bold pink lips together, and gives me a knowing look. None of us really likes Chet—I don’t even think Chet likes Chet. He’s loud and annoying and has short-man complex. Doesn’t help that he’s not that attractive. His eyes are too close together, his beard looks like spotty pubic hair, and he’s constantly sporting a frown. If the guy smiled once in a while, it might help his odds. Instead, he spends his work hours either yelling at us to move faster or bemoaning the lack of dates in his life. Janelle has no problem flirting with him though, just so he’ll give her the best-paying work shifts. She’s shameless .

I probably should do the same, but I can’t seem to make myself flirt with him. I find him too repulsive to even fake it. Likely to my detriment .

“Here we go,” she says under her breath with an accompanying eye roll. Pasting on a broad smile, she moves away from the bar, casting a longing glance over her shoulder at mystery hot guy, then weaves through the crowd to help Chet bus tables .

Without her to serve drinks with me, my work load doubles, and I’m drawn away from my musings to the tasks at hand. Pour, clean, offer friendly smiles, take money. Lather, rinse, repeat. Not exactly what I envisioned for my life, but hey, it’s money .

My chest tightens as I wonder for one moment, one brief moment, where I might be right now if I hadn’t made the mistakes I had .

“Another,” a gravelly voice says, and I turn to see the hot guy lifting up his glass in my direction. His eyes are dark and hard on mine, his mouth a thin line .

But beneath that hardness, there’s something else. Some deeper emotion that makes me almost uncomfortable with its intensity. This man isn’t drinking for pleasure. He’s drinking for escape .

I move to take his glass and offer him a fresh whiskey when a hand clamps down on my upper arm .

“Cut him off,” Chet whispers hotly in my ear. “Get him outta here .”

The sensation of his breath on my neck makes me involuntarily tighten in response. I hate him being this close to me .

I blink in surprise and pull back. Cutting off a customer is rare in this place. It’s not like we’re a posh bar or something. No, we’re a semi-dive bar catering to a less…affluent crowd, to put it kindly. We usually only kick people out if they’re getting belligerent with employees or other customers .

This guy isn’t doing anything wrong .

“Are you sure?” I ask as I gingerly tug my arm out of his grip. “He’s just sitting there quietly. I don’t think he’s gonna be a danger to anyone .”

Chet’s brow furrows, and a deep line forms. “Are you questioning my decision?” he asks in a warning tone. “Maybe you need to focus more on doing what you’re told, Samantha. You’ve already made enough mistakes in the short time you’ve worked here .”

I know what he’s saying between the lines—I’d better listen to him now and do as he’s demanding, even if it doesn’t make sense to me .

What’s Chet’s problem with this guy, anyway ?

Then I see the way my manager’s nostrils flare as he glares over at the mystery guy again, and I think I get it. Chet’s jealous. He’s been not-so-secretly pining for Janelle, who will only flirt with him to get what she wants. Take out the competition, and he may have a better chance at keeping her attention on him for the night .

Pathetic .

My nose wrinkles in disgust at him, but I give a curt nod. Besides, Chet is right—about me struggling, anyway. In my brief tenure as a waitress and bartender, I’ve found it tough to get along in the rough-and-tumble world of New York City. I get easily flustered, drop things, even forget orders or screw them up due to my anxiety. Especially when dealing with rude or pushy customers .

Chet barely tolerates me. I’m just hanging on to this job, and I can’t afford to screw up more .

I was far better at academics. I knew myself in that realm; I was confident. Here, I’m lost, pretending I’m someone I’m not. Someone who has her shit together and knows what she wants in her life. Someone who didn’t let her parents down. Who didn’t let herself down .

After sucking in a slow breath, I walk over to the guy. My heart is thrumming beneath my ribcage. I’ve never had to cut someone off before—how is he going to react? I clear my throat and stand in front of him, separated only by the bar . “Um .”

The man looks up at me, and our eyes connect. I feel my pulse scream through my veins in a sudden rush of shock. Something about him elicits mixed emotions in me—fear, arousal, and a startling desire to know why he’s here, losing himself in whiskey. He intrigues me .

Still, I take his glass from him and clench it. I’m doing my job, that’s all. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut you off.” There’s only a slight tremor in my voice .

The way his eyes shutter and grow cold as he glares at me makes my stomach flip with anxiety. I can tell this is about to go badly .

“Are you telling me no ?”

I swallow and continue in an even tone. “I’m just..I’m just doing my job,” I stammer .

His jaw is tight as he stares at me, like I’m nothing more than a pest, a problem, something in his way. He doesn’t respond right away, just looks at me curiously, his eyes clear and focused .

He’s not drunk, or if he is, the man hides it damn well .

“Look, I’m sorry, sir, but this isn’t my decision,” I continue. Despite my instinct to run away from this conflict, I straighten my back and attempt to project some semblance of authority. Laughable though it might be .

“Oh? And whose decision is it, then?” he asks in a deceptively light tone .

The way he speaks, I can imagine this is a man used to getting his way. There’s a commanding air about him. He doesn’t have to pretend the way I do. He wears his authority like a second skin. As intimidating as it is, I kind of envy it. Envy it and find myself strangely drawn to it. Wanting to please him. Which is insane .

Because who I need to please right about now, is Chet, who can hire and fire me at his whim .

I draw my lower lip between my teeth; the mystery man’s gaze darts down to my mouth, and I realize my breath is hitching in my lungs in response to his scrutiny. What would it be like to have this guy look at me in a very different way? Not with anger, but passion? I shake off the thought as Chet comes clomping over, three bouncers at his side .

“Okay, buddy. Time to hit the road.” By the smug look on Chet’s face, I realize that my earlier suspicion was correct. Chet’s goal was to make himself look like a powerful authority in front of Janelle and everyone else. But seeing these two men side by side just makes Chet look like a total powerless douche. He has to rely on backup. This customer, however, naturally exudes supreme confidence. It’s no competition at all .

“Come on, get to stepping.” Chet jabs his thumb toward the door. The three meatheads behind him are more brawn than brains, offering smarmy nods in support of Chet’s posturing .

“I haven’t done a fucking thing,” the guy says quietly. His eyes are flinty as he takes in the scene .

People around us are getting quiet; we’re drawing a crowd. Shit. Maybe I can do some damage control .

“Um. Let’s just square up your bill,” I tell the guy. “No harm done. Maybe you can find another place — ”

“I’m not leaving,” he says, not tearing his gaze away from Chet. “This peacock can flare his feathers all he wants, but he can’t intimidate me .”

Something about that dark warning in his voice fills me with dread…and another, foreign sensation. One that makes my lower belly tighten in response and my nipples bead. Holy hell .

I usually don’t find male posturing sexy, but this doesn’t seem like the usual immature pissing contest that customers typically engage in here .

No .

This man is simply a rock, a force of nature. If he doesn’t think he should leave, then he’s not going to move. And that is sexy as fuck .

Chet’s face turns beet red, and he sputters, “What did you just say ?”

Shit. This is going to spiral out of control, fast. Time to intercede before it spills over into a fight. Because the way the guy’s clenching his fists by his sides, he’s itching for one .

“Let’s all take a moment—” I start to say .

“How about you just shut up and go back to fucking up customer orders as usual?” Chet lashes out at me .

In the brief space of time after Chet says the words, I feel tears well up in my eyes. The humiliation of being spoken to like I’m nothing, the way Chet has treated me since hour one at this job, hurts .

And I’m so tired of it .

There’s a pause, and then the guy’s fist jabs out with a sickening crunch to Chet’s nose, and Chet’s head is flying back as blood spurts. Chet’s hands fly to his face and he cries out in shock and pain .

I gasp .

And then all hell breaks loose .

Patrons move out of the way as the three bouncers jump on the guy. You’d think it would be an easy fight, given that he’s crazy outnumbered, but he doesn’t back down. It’s like he’s a caged tiger who’s been let loose on his captors. He’s lethal, deadly, lobbing punches on everyone. Chet flails around in an attempt to recover his masculinity, but he only manages to graze the guy’s ear .

But eventually, the bouncers and Chet—blood flowing from his nose—grab the man and drag him to the door, forcing him outside .

“Leave, or I’ll call the cops on you!” one of the bouncer yells as he shoves the man out and closes the door behind him .

Now that the drama is over, the crowd goes back to drinking and talking among themselves. The bouncers all have red marks on their faces that look like they’re going to develop into painful bruises. Chet’s grabbing a dish towel and pinching his nose in an effort to stave off the blood flow .

“Samantha!” he says in a pinched tone, glaring at me .

My heart leaps to my throat, and I swallow. Shit. The three other bouncers are talking to each other about how that guy was wilder than he looked, how that should have been easier .

“Do you want some ice for that?” I offer to Chet. “Or I can drive you to the hospital. I think your nose is broken .”

His jaw flexes. “This was your fault,” he spits out .

“My fault? How is that? I was trying to do what you told me to,” I retort. I know I should be quiet, not argue, but I can feel my own anger welling. I didn’t do anything wrong. Hell, that guy didn’t either. He was just enjoying his drinks to himself. And I’m tired of being Chet’s scapegoat .

“Get out of here,” he says as he removes the dish towel and gingerly touches his broken nose with a wince. “You’re fired .”

My heart sinks, and I say, “That’s not fair !”

Chet doesn’t respond, just turns away from me. Fury replaces the sinking feeling in my chest, and part of me wants to grab him and punch his broken nose again for being such a dick, but what good would that do besides getting me arrested ?

I stomp to the back and grab my purse, then fly out the front door. Hot tears are stinging my eyes, and I blink them away, swiping them off my face with an angry gesture. Unbelievable. What the hell am I going to do now? I don’t have a lot of money saved up. And I sure as hell don’t see my roomie being patient about me being late on my portion of the rent. She’s nice to me, sure, but we’re not exactly friends. She’ll kick me out and replace me with someone else in a New York minute .

I step into the humid summer night and see the man who caused me to get fired standing on the curb, arm in the air as if he’s going to hail a cab. Despite the heavy drinking and fighting, he doesn’t seem any worse for wear. The asshole must be a professional boxer or some kind of criminal, I guess .

I step up to the edge of the sidewalk scour the street for a cab to take me home, my back stiff .

“Guess your shift’s over, huh?” the mystery man says glibly, his gaze raking over me then dismissing me .

That does it .

I suck in a deep breath and turn to this man who wreaked havoc on my life without one care in the world. “Yeah, my shift is over. Permanently. Know why? Because you got me fired, you self-centered jerk. You couldn’t just leave and go drink somewhere else. No, you had to pick a fight with my boss, and now I don’t have a job because of you.” The words spill out of me in a furious rush .

Rather than being upset, or even chagrined, the guy gives me a nonchalant shrug. “Bummer. Eh, seemed like a shitty job anyway. You’re better off .”

My jaw drops. “Are you serious? Who the hell are you to judge me? At least my work is legit, and I was earning an honest dollar .”

But my heated words roll off his back, which infuriates me even more. A hint of an arrogant smirk curves his cheeks. “And now you can earn an honest dollar somewhere that will actually be worthwhile. That guy was a cocksucker. You know it, and I know it. Maybe you should be thanking me for freeing you from that shithole instead of blaming me .”

God, he’s so damn smarmy and arrogant .

But worse than that, I totally hate that part of me likes the attention he’s giving me. It’s only because he’s hot, though. He probably knows how attractive he is, of course he does. Which explains the cocky know-it-all attitude. Thinks he can get away with murder and probably has .

He’s bad news, and that should bother me far more than it does at the moment …

I scowl at him and face the street again, gathering myself. I need to get out of here. Screw waiting for a cab. I’m not that far away. I’ll just walk .

“Want a ride home , doll ?”

“I have a name,” I ground out. Why am I still standing here, entertaining this conversation ?

He doesn’t seem perturbed. Instead, he steps closer to me until we’re inches apart. I can feel the heat pouring off his body. His head is tilted as he’s studying me like it’s the first time he’s seeing me. “What’s your name ?”

“Samantha,” I find myself saying. Though I don’t know why I bother. I’m never going to see him again .

“Samantha,” he repeats in a low tone that almost sounds like a purr. His hand reaches up and strokes my upper arm, and my skin erupts in goose bumps from the touch. “I’m Bentley. Let me take you home .”

I find my body swaying toward him before I even realize what’s happening. He’s looking at my mouth again, and I suddenly want to taste the whiskey on his lips. I want to get drunk off him .

But then I remember exactly why I’m standing here now instead of working. “Fuck off,” I say, then stomp down the street away from him .

The sound of his light chuckle follows me, which I studiously ignore. I keep my back straight and don’t turn around. At least not for a minute or two .

When I finally do turn to peek over my shoulder, he’s not there .

And that’s for the best, I remind myself. That guy is trouble—I shouldn’t be thinking about what I just turned down because of my pride .

Yeah, okay, he got me fired, but deep down I know he didn’t mean to. He only threw that punch because Chet was being a dick to me. And he wanted to give me a ride home, to boot. It just burned me up that he didn’t feel any guilt over me getting canned .

And if he had given me a ride home, what would have happened next? Would he have just let the cab drop me off, or would he have tried to come inside? And would I have let him ?

Doesn’t matter. I lift my chin and keep moving .

There’s a change in the atmosphere, and then drops start falling from the sky. The clouds open up and it pours rain, plastering my hair and clothes to me. Great. Of course. Because it’s not enough for me to be fired. It also has to storm. This is exactly the kind of shit that happens to me .

Not a minute later, a shiny black limo pulls up beside me, and then the back window rolls down as the car rolls along beside me. Bentley is nestled inside the back seat, peering out at me .

How in the fuck is this ex-convict sitting in a limo and I’m getting soaked to the bone in the rain ?

He quirks a brow in amusement at my predicament as I shiver in my soaked clothes. “Get inside, Samantha,” he says smoothly. “I’ll take you home .”

“I’m fine.” No way am I getting in a car with a total stranger. I don’t trust him, no matter that there’s a part of me that wants to. A part of me that wants to give in to the quiet command in his voice .

Besides, my apartment isn’t that far away now. I don’t need his help. Clearly he’s insane—maybe the limo is stolen. I’m so not getting involved in that shit .

Naturally, the rain chooses at this moment to dump harder on me, and I try to pretend I have a shred of dignity left as I keep walking in the soaking rain, the car just purring alongside me .

“Samantha,” he says in a warning tone. “Stop being stubborn .”

My nostrils flare in irritation, and I say loudly, “I’m not interested. You’re a jerk and you’re arrogant. Goodbye, Bentley…” I drawl off because I realize I don’t know his last name .

“If you insist,” he offers, a laugh evident in his tone .

I pretend to ignore him without responding. My apartment building is on my left, and I dart up the stairs and fly inside .

Once I’m in my apartment, I strip off my sopping-wet clothes and hop in the shower to warm up. My skin is clammy and chilled. I let the steam heat bring life back to my limbs, and as I scrub myself down and try to wash the bad day down the drain, I try not to think about Bentley what’s-his-name, the guy who messed up my life .

Then I crawl into bed and close my eyes and will myself to continue not thinking about him .

It’s much more difficult than I hoped it would be .

* * *

S unlight peeks through the broken slats of my window blinds as my phone’s alarm screeches at me. I reach over with sleep-heavy eyes and shut it off, groaning and scrubbing a hand over my face. Shit. I have to go job hunting today, and I know I look like crap .

I barely slept last night. Despite my attempts to force myself to not think about Bentley, the crazy-drunk guy who evidently steals limos for shits and giggles, I couldn’t get him off my mind .

He wove his way into my dreams, those sexy lips sliding down my rain-damp skin as he pulled me into the backseat of the limo. And God, he knew how to use those hands of his to make me orgasm again and again .

I shake off the thought and peer out the window to see if it’s still raining .

The limo from last night is parked there in front of my building .

My heart gives a startled lurch. Is that… Is he really here? Shock floods my veins. Shock and more than a bit of excitement, even if it’s crazy to feel that. He’s clearly a stalker, and if that limo is actually stolen, then he’s dumber than I gave him credit for being .

I run a brush through my hair, clean myself up a bit, and pull on a skirt and light shirt, then slide into sandals and head outside. I’ll give him hell, I rally myself. And even if I am a tiny bit excited to see him again, it doesn’t matter .

I step onto the sidewalk, and the back door of the sleek vehicle immediately opens .

Instantly I realize my mistake .

Bentley wasn’t waiting out front all night. He’s freshly showered, shaved, and wearing an impeccable dark gray suit. The man before me is nothing like the one I saw last night—well, not completely. That same weighted look is there in his eyes. The same element of danger, the mysterious brooding. But everything else is different .

Gone is the baseball cap, the jeans, the ex- convict vibe .

It’s like he was wearing a Halloween costume, playing pretend. And as hot as he looked before, he looks ten times hotter and more intimidating now …

Bentley steps out and stands over me, and I try not to gawk. This I hadn’t expected. And it’s clear he didn’t steal the limo. It’s his. Everything about him, from the suit to the shoes, screams money. And I’m utterly lost and confused. Why is he here ?

“Who are you?” I manage to ask, finally, when I regain my voice .

“Bentley Strongwell,” he says, flicking a business card out of his wallet and handing it to me .

When I look down at the text on the pristine white card, my stomach twists. And I realize how familiar his name is. Data is flying in my brain left and right .

Bentley Strongwell…of course. I know that name. Everyone knows that name .

Strongwell Ink, the largest independent book publisher in the world. A company seen on the fronts of NYC magazines due to its innovative approach to the industry .

This man is rich. Powerful. Sexy as hell .

And standing on the sidewalk of my crappy apartment building .