“You couldn’t think of anything more original than a strip club?” I glance at my brother, the perpetrator of this cliché bachelor party, as a smirk stretches across his face and meets his eyes.

Jerry, the groom-to-be, smacks my brother in the chest and winks. “He’s a smart man.” He flicks his wrist, motioning for our group of five to head toward the dance stage.

It’s three-tiered and glittery like a birthday cake. The dancer’s leg curls around the pole as the candle on top.

“Come on, bro. You need to lighten up.”

I exhale through my nose and look to where a woman wearing only silver stilettos gives a guy his own personal show.

“Why this place, though?” Strands of green beads dangle like partitions between the booths around the outer rim of the club, and the Irish flag is positioned on nearly every wall. This isn’t our typical hangout.

Corbin directs his attention to the blonde dancer with her ass up in the air on stage. “It was Jerry’s idea. Maybe he didn’t want to be recognized.”

“No one should recognize him here. Well, other than maybe a few criminals he put behind bars and are now out on parole.”

“He’s a homicide detective. Let’s hope none of those assholes are back on the streets,” Corbin says.

True. “Just try and stay out of trouble, okay?” I warn.

“Hey, I haven’t gotten arrested even once this entire year.”

Laughing, I tip my head back and squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. “It’s January sixth.” Having friends like Jerry has had its perks for my brother.

“What? That counts for something.”

Corbin’s only thirty. He hasn’t managed to tame his wild side yet. Maybe he never will.

“Come on. Tonight is for Jerry.” He casually strides through the crowd toward the stage, already reaching into his pocket for his wallet.

I need a drink if I’m going to survive tonight.

I head to the bar and move a stool out of the way so I can remain standing.

The bartender takes a shot of whiskey straight from the bottle, then fills a glass to the brim. He slides it to some guy a few feet away with a thick neck displaying a tat of a serpent darting through the eye hole of a skull.

“Jack and Coke. Light on the Coke,” I order a minute later and turn toward the stage while I wait.

I honestly don’t have anything against strippers. A lot of them are dancing to pay their way through college. I respect people who work hard. Period. But this particular blonde on stage isn’t doing anything for me. And I assume she’s wearing a wig. The almost-white hair reaches the small dimples on her back, and every time she bends over, it slips out of place.

At the sound of a glass sliding behind me, I start to pivot, but I stop dead in my tracks at the sight of a woman walking through the crowd, heading my way.

My gaze slides over her, assessing. She’s in a classy black, fitted dress that hugs her body but isn’t too tight. It falls just above her knees, showing off her long, tan legs. Legs that go for fucking miles.

The lighting is shoddy, but she still looks pretty bronzed for this time of year.

But Jesus, it’s her eyes. They’re narrowed as if I’m not someone she expects to see here.

Yeah, I feel the same about her.

The closer she gets she sucks me into her orbit almost to the point where I don’t feel in control. And I’m always in control, so it rattles me.

She stops in front of the bar and tips her chin up, her beautiful pouty lips tightening.

“Your usual, love?” I hear the guy ask, a faint Irish accent evident in his voice.

Her eyes land on mine, but it’s only long enough for me to catch sight of the color. A gorgeous hazel.

She shifts a barstool out of the way and remains standing like me.

Her fingertips drum on the counter as if annoyed or impatient. The color of her nails matches her black hair.

I can’t help but eye the small angel wings tattooed on the inside of her wrist when she reaches for whatever the bartender is offering her.

There’s something eerily familiar about her, but I can’t quite place it, which is strange for me. My memory is crazy. I remember the play-by-play of every moment in my life. Important and useless information is stored in my head, even when I try to forget it. So, there’s no way I know her, right?

“Ahem.”

I inhale her scent as I drag my gaze up. She smells like freshly cut orchids, the kind my mother always had in every room of our summer home.

“Is there a problem with your eyes?” Her dark brows go inward as she lifts her cocktail. “Perhaps you should change your focus to the stage.” She tilts her head that way.

“Say that again.”

“Say what?” Black eyeliner wraps around her almond-shaped eyes, making her irises appear lighter.

She’s unbelievably stunning. What the hell is she doing in a place like this?

“Say anything.” I take a swig of my drink, the warmth hitting my chest. “I like your accent. I can’t quite place it, so I need you to talk a little more.”

She surprises me with a smile, flashing me white teeth. “Well, you’re in an Irish club, so . . .”

I shake the drink in my hand, knocking the cubes around. “Your accent is not Irish. Not even close. Although, if you’ve been hanging out in this bar”—I raise my glass—“maybe some Irish has rubbed off on you.”

Her lips purse for a moment. “I’m from Brazil.”

“But . . .?” I smile, enjoying myself a hell of a lot more right now than I was five minutes ago.

“I’m half-Irish.”

“Portuguese and Irish, huh? It makes for one hell of a combination.”

“One point for you.” She lowers her tumbler and sets it on the counter. “At least you know I speak Portuguese.”

“I didn’t realize I was collecting points.”

A small chuckle escapes her lips, but her hand immediately darts to her mouth, covering it.

“That will be the only point you get.”

She starts to turn, but I touch her forearm, and she stops moving.

“What’s your name? Do you work here?”

She faces me again, and I release my hold. “No, but I can introduce you to a dancer if that’s what you’d like.”

“Not interested.” I take a step forward, and she takes one right back. “Your name?” I ask again, my voice deepening, my intent clear.

I want this woman in every way possible. I’ve known her for a few minutes, but Christ, I need her on her back and in my bed, pinned beneath me.

She’s probably only in her mid-twenties, which is way too young for me, but right now, I can’t seem to care.

“My friends call me Gia, but I’m not available, Mister . . .?” Her palm presses to the counter.

“King,” I say. “But you can call me Cade.”

She rolls her tongue over her teeth, which is entirely too damn distracting. Her eyes sweep over my black dress shirt before settling on my mouth. “Hm.”

“Are you married? Have a boyfriend?” I have one rule: I don’t get involved with anyone who cheats. My father’s string of affairs left a bitter taste in my mouth, and as much as everyone assumes I’m like him, I’m not.

I watch the movement in her throat as she swallows, her gaze cutting up to my eyes, and although I sense confidence in those irises, fear is overshadowing it.

“I’m not the kind of woman you want to get to know, Mr. King.” The tone of her voice changes as my last name edges off her tongue.

“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that, Gia?” I’m saying her name like I know her, like I already know the curves of her body, the way her hip feels against my palm, and the touch of her tongue in my mouth. But there’s something about her, and it’s not just her looks; there’s something beneath the exterior that I need to get to know. Now.

“Walk away from me. Please. I’m the wrong person to hit on.” There’s a slight tremble to her bottom lip as she talks, and it has my hand rushing to cover hers that rests on the bar.

“Gia, I don’t know who you are, but that’s something I’d like to change.” In bed. Preferably sooner, rather than later.

She’s looking at the bartender instead of me now. The man tips his head to the right.

Her eyes widen, and she retracts her hand from beneath mine, stumbling back a step in the process. “I have to go,” she says in a rush and brushes past me.

“Do yourself a favor, mate. Don’t pursue her.” The bartender refills my glass but leaves out the Coke.

“Who is she?” I ask without touching the tumbler.

He leans forward, crossing his arms, and his green eyes find mine. “She’s like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow: un-fucking-attainable,” he says, exaggerating his accent.

He straightens and pulls on his red beard before wiping down the bar counter.

I ignore his comment—or maybe it was a warning; who the hell knows?—and turn around to see where Gia hurried off to.

The place isn’t all that busy, and most people here are either crowded around the center stage or tucked away in private booths. Of course, even if the place was packed I doubt she could ever go unseen.

She’s standing alongside an empty table twenty or so feet away, and she’s with some guy in a suit.

He’s clutching her forearm, tight enough that even from where I’m standing I can tell something isn’t right.

The guy jerks her toward him, and her palms land against his chest. When she steps back, she looks my way for one fleeting moment, and then he urges her by the elbow to walk with him.

I start in their direction as they head toward the back of the club, unable to think twice about it.

There’s one thing I have zero tolerance for, and that’s abuse. My father smacked my mom one time—well, once that I know of—when I was eleven. I stood stupidly, frozen in place after seeing it happen. I should have done something. But I couldn’t get myself to budge. I may not be my mom’s greatest fan, but no woman should ever be hit.

This woman from the bar is no exception, and I’m getting the feeling something shitty is about to go down.

“Yo, you good?” Corbin swoops in front of me from out of nowhere.

I don’t want him getting mixed up in anything. That’s the last thing he needs. “Bathroom.”

“Jerry got himself a private room. Just meet up with the rest of us at our booth near the stage.”

“Sure.” I nod, my body on fire, worry drilling through me.

Once Corbin’s back is turned, I head to the hall where Gia disappeared.

“Please, let me go.”

It’s her voice. The accent . . .

But the hall is empty.

There’s only one door and it’s cracked open, so I shove it inward without thinking.

The guy in the suit has her pinned to the wall near a desk, his palms pressed over her shoulders.

I enter the room and hiss, “Back away from her.” My heart pounds and climbs up into my throat.

He looks over at me. “And who the fuck are you?”

“Who the fuck am I?” A humorless laugh floats from my lips, and I start at my sleeves, rolling them to the elbows, exposing the tattoos I normally hide on the inside of my arm.

I cross the office with slow and purposeful strides. The need to hit the son of a bitch is overpowering right now. “I don’t think you want to find out.”

Another strange sensation of familiarity crawls up my spine and splinters out, but it’s not like the feeling of a good whiskey as it spreads warmth through my chest—no, it’s more like the woozy feeling from too many shots of bad tequila.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why is this son of a bitch, and even Gia, giving me the feeling of déjà-fucking-vu?

“Are you the arsehole who was hitting on my woman at the bar?”

“Your woman?” I snap back to the present, to the prickly sounds of this man’s Irish tongue grating on my ears. “Sounds to me like she isn’t yours at all.” I’ve always liked the Irish, but this bastard is leaving a bad taste for the country in my mouth.

“She’s for sure as hell not yours.” His jaw is tight, a slight tic in his cheek.

I glance over at Gia. She tugs her lower lip between her teeth as she studies us.

I’m standing a few feet away from them both, waiting to see if the asshole will make a move.

He cocks his head, and his green eyes tighten to thin slits. “Do I know you?” A long finger stabs at the air.

Yeah, the feeling is mutual.

“I do, don’t I?” He taps the side of his skull.

“I’m pretty sure you and I don’t hang out in the same circles.”

My arms loosen at my sides in anticipation, but he doesn’t look like he’s ready to charge at me yet.

“Gia, come on, let’s go.” I hold my hand palm up, offering her the chance to leave, but she doesn’t even flinch.

She stares at my hand like she’s in a trance.

“Are you that ballsy that you think you can waltz out of my club with my woman on your arm?”

“She’s not yours. I thought we cleared that up already.” My body remains ready, poised for action, as he strides my way. “She comes with me and no one gets hurt.”

God, I feel like I’m in some bad action flick right now.

He stops moving, leaving a few feet of open air—more like tension—between us. He rubs his thick beard as his eyes focus on mine. “I think you know as well as I do that if you even try to walk out of here with Gia at your side, you’ll end up with a body full of bullets. And since you walked through a metal detector to get in the club, you’re not packing heat.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“No.” At the sound of Gia’s voice, my attention sweeps over his shoulder to her. “Leave, please.” She’s got a gun in her hand—aimed at me.

“It’s okay. I’m trying to help.” I keep my voice low and smooth, trying to calm her. Why the hell is she pointing that thing at me?

The guy smiles. “Told you she was my woman.”

“Go.” She removes the safety, her elbows locked, her arms stiff. There’s not even the slightest bit of a tremble.

“Please, put the gun down.” I try one more time, not sure how the hell this situation turned out like this.

The guy continues to observe her with a hint of a smile on his lips, not saying anything.

“Go!” she cries again, and I note the break in her voice.

Why is she doing this? And how the hell can I leave?

But she’s not giving me much of a choice.

“I’ll be seeing you around,” the guy says as if he really means it. But none of my plans include ever dealing with this son of a bitch again.

I finally start for the door, guilt clawing its way through me one inch at a time.

I check my impulse to steal one last glance at her before leaving.