“I should go back to my friends.” I stepped back, one heel skidding across the floor, and I grabbed the railing to keep upright. He watched me closely, in complete control of himself, and I hated how calm he looked at a time when my heart was galloping around my chest.

“Don’t leave.” He stepped forward and I shrank a little against the railing. He stopped, considered me, and then withdrew, his hands raised. “Okay. Maybe I misread you. I’m sorry about that.”

He didn’t misread me. In fact, if he could read anything, he’d know I was a half-second away from barreling into his arms and getting another kiss. My weight stuttered on my stilettos, torn between sprinting toward the exit and flinging myself at him.

I’d kissed a lot of men in my life, but never had an experience like that. I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t want that level of chemistry infused in a situation I was already struggling with. Why had I come up here? Why had I let the girls bring me to this club? Why had I answered his text?

I edged toward the stairs, each step a struggle in self-control. I don’t like to waste my time, Bell. If you don’t want me to chase you, I won’t. I could leave. Walk down those steps, find my friends, and go. Never see Dario Capece again.

The thought wounded me, and the fact that I cared? That absolutely terrified me. The confident girl who had tossed back barbs with this man just minutes ago was gone, rattled to the core by the impact of that kiss.

A kiss. Two lips touching. Colliding. Deepening. It happened a thousand times a day, yet I didn’t seem to be able to handle this one.

“Don’t worry.” His words stopped my retreat and I looked at him, finding a moment of grounding in the solidness of his eye contact. “I won’t kiss you again unless you ask me for it.”

The sentence had enough mocking ego in it for my backbone to peek her head out of hiding. I straightened a little, forced my vocal cords to work, and attempted a dismissive sniff.

It didn’t do much, but I still saw the softening of his eyes, the hint of a smile on those deliciously addictive lips. God, I wanted to kiss him again. I wanted to shove him down in one of those club chairs, hike my dress around my waist, and grind my panties across the seam of his zipper. I wanted his hands in my hair, my skin against his skin, and to see in his eyes some of the discomposure I felt rippling through me.

For me, sex had always been about control. Now, just from a kiss, I felt powerless and afraid. Needy for more.

It made no sense.

“How many women do you sleep with?” My palm was sweaty, and I clutched the railing tighter, my need for information winning the battle against flight.

He tilted his head at me. “I have a mistress of sorts. And a waitress I occasionally fuck.”

“It seems like you’ve got enough women already. Why go after more?”

“They don’t mean anything to me. Maybe I’m ready for someone who does.”

It was a reference to more than just passion and pleasure, and the sort of statement that normally had me breaking out in hives. I didn’t flinch, and it was official. I’d gone completely mad.

“Tell me about this boy toy of yours from the university.”

His tone was so innocent, the comment so loaded. It caused my attention to flee relationship talks, ricochet off the man who had followed me, and plunge into a pool of fear. He knew about Ian. I had forgotten, for a moment, who he was.

“Stay away from Ian.” Fear crystallized deep in my ribcage. I’d heard the stories. There were some casinos you could fuck with. Count cards. Get sloppy. There were others you avoided. Dario Capece’s, you avoided. Did he rule his relationship prospects with the same iron fist?

He chuckled. “I’m not going to touch the man, Bell. I just want to know the extent of your relationship.”

I shook my head, his easy tone only half-extinguishing the alarm bells ringing through my head. “We’re not in a relationship. It’s just…” I didn’t know how to describe my sexual fling with Ian, not in words that didn’t make me sound like a carefree slut. I raised my chin and forced my voice to remain strong. “It’s just a physical thing.”

“I can’t imagine any man being happy with a strictly physical relationship with you.”

“Yet, that’s what you’re proposing. Right?” I released my hold on the railing, the kiss’ effect fading, our focus on Ian giving me the distraction my sanity needed.

He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he pulled at the end of a bright blue shirt sleeve, adjusting it under his suit jacket. “I have to be careful who I allow close to me. It doesn’t make sense for me to get involved with a woman in a relationship. It’s too risky for me.”

He was giving me an out. If I wanted Dario Capece to walk away from me, all I had to do was say the words and tell him that Ian and I were dating. It wasn’t that far from the truth. I could take Ian up on his dinner invite. But it wasn’t what I wanted. Not with Ian…

“We’re not dating.” I don’t know why I said it, but I did. I don’t know why I stepped closer, but I did. Maybe it was because my lips were still tingling from his kiss and the chemistry between us was crackling like a live wire.

I wondered how much he knew about me. He’d had me followed. Knew about Ian. Found my phone number. Probably done a complete background check and history. Did he know about my poor upbringing? Dad’s drinking? The night I was raped? Had the last forty-eight hours been a dissection of my life?

The last forty-eight hours… I stopped as something mentally clicked into place. “That guy at work … the one who offered me money to sleep with him. Did he work for you?”

To his credit, he didn’t deny it. “He did. In this town, with your looks...” He lifted one shoulder. “A lot of the girls earn a secondary income. I needed to know if you were one of them.”

“I didn’t apply to be your girlfriend.” I spit out the words, my irritation turning to anger. “How fucking egotistic are you? You think that once you check off all of my boxes, that I’ll just jump into your arms, grateful to be a side piece of ass?” I closed the distance and shoved him as hard as I could with the palm of my hand, his chest like a stone column. “Next time, just ask a girl and find out for yourself.”

He caught my hand. “I’m not proud of the methods I’ve used, but I’m not some bartender on the Strip. I can’t afford strangers in my life, and I expected...” He swallowed and held the thought for a beat. “I expected to be disappointed, to find an excuse to leave you alone.” He released my hand. “I didn’t.”

I dropped my hand from his chest and watched as he stepped away, his gaze holding mine.

“I know it’s a lot to think about.” He slid his hands into his pockets.

I swallowed. “I don’t even know what it is.”

“Yeah.” He chuckled. “I’m trying to figure that out myself. With other women, it’s been simple. With you…” He broke eye contact, turning slightly toward the exit, then glanced back. “I have a feeling it won’t be. Let’s start with something simple. I’d like to see you again. Dinner, the next night you have off.”

The closest thing I’ve ever had to a date was with Elliot, a dinner at TGI Fridays on prom night. We split a cheese fries appetizer and I spilled a drop of honey mustard on the skirt of my dress. It had been the most basic of events, one I’d never had the urge to repeat.

He took another step toward the door and nodded at me. “Goodnight, Bell.”

I turned back to the club floor, unable to watch him leave and unsure of what to say. I waited for half of a hip-hop song, then glanced back.

He was gone, and somehow, void of any sense, I wanted him back.

I felt the poke of a long fingernail in my side and turned my head, meeting Meredith’s quizzical look.

“What’s wrong?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.” I rested my head against the glass, comforted by the cool surface of Lydia’s window.

I’d bet the title of this club that you want me to fuck you. Yeah. He’d been right about that.

I don’t fuck strange women that I know nothing about. I’m not proud of the methods I’ve used, but I’m not some bartender on the Strip. I can’t afford strangers in my life. I understood that he lived a different life than the rest of Vegas. I understood that he had to be careful who he went to bed with. But did that excuse his invasion into my life? It didn’t, and it did. I could become offended and riled up about it, or I could accept the situation and look the other way.

If you’re struggling with a moral line caused by my wedding ring, I can assure you that my wife doesn’t care who I fuck, only that any indiscretions are kept secret. What woman could marry a man like Dario and not keep him to herself? I felt an unfamiliar flare of anger and wondered if it was what jealousy felt like. I have a mistress of sorts. And a waitress I occasionally fuck.

That’s what he wanted. Another mistress. Or another “occasional” waitress. That was really the bulk of it. Sure, he was attracted to me. Sure, we had chemistry. Sure, he made me feel things that no other man had. But was that worth it? Or was that even more reason to run the other way?

I’d like to see you again. Dinner, the next night you have off.

I closed my eyes and tried to forget everything but couldn’t block out the hurricane force of that kiss.

I shook, poured, and slid the martini to the side. Using the bottle opener, I popped open two Bud Lights and set them on my tray. Balancing it on my shoulder, I caught Britni’s eye. “The skinny guy at four wants an ashtray.”

“Got it.”

She took my place behind the bar, and I moved through the floor, heading to the top table, and thinking about the remaining to-do items on my list. Don Julio to the bald guy at three. Hot tea to the woman at two. Cigars to the tuxedo at craps. I walked, smiled, delivered, and failed miserably at the biggest item on the list: Don’t Think About Dario Capece.

It was an especially difficult task in a room full of men like this. All were power-hungry. Sharks. Egos bigger than their dicks. Dicks more active than their luck. All of them striving to be Dario and none of them succeeding. It was a powerful thing to think, in a room like this. But it was true. I didn’t know why he was different, but he was. And all I could think about was his dinner invite. What would a dinner alone with him be like? Had I agreed to it with my silence?

I delivered the cigars, the tea, the tequila. I high-fived the CEO of the MGM when he won a hand. I downed shots with a group of Chinese investors and ate breadsticks and Alfredo sauce with the boys back in the control room. I watched the hours tick by and didn’t check my texts or look for his call. I laughed, pocketed tips, and bet Lance and Rick a hundred bucks that someone would vomit before the end of the night.

I lost the bet, went double or nothing on a quick game of War, and talked celebrity gossip with Britni on the way to our cars.

At the red light three blocks over, away from the eyes of anyone, I checked my phone. I skimmed through a coupon from Best Buy, a voicemail from Meredith, and an obnoxious group thread from my roommates that stretched 41 texts long. Then, at the bottom, sent five hours ago, there was a text from Dario.

—When is your next night off?

A simple question, but one that assumed an outcome.

I typed out a response slowly, questioning the action even as I hit send.

Sunday

Sunday. As good a day as any to meet with my devil.

I closed the text, took a deep breath, and locked the phone.