“Ava, where are you?”

I grimace, not in the least surprised by the high pitch of my coworker ‘s voice. Carol Evans is at her wit’s end, and I can’t blame her. Being the assistant to the editor-in-chief is one shit-ass job. Tanya Bollok, TB, or The Bitch, as we like to call her at work, is the devil incarnated. Because of her endless demands, impossible requests for perfection, and mile-high expectations that would kill anyone’s private life, everyone fears her.

I scowl. “Obviously not at the office.”

“No shit.” I can sense the obligatory roll of her eyes. “I already know that because I looked for you everywhere.”

“You have? Is this about my article?” I wince at the phone and hasten my steps. “Look, I’ll have it done by Monday. TB won’t even notice.”

“Trust me, she will. I need it by midnight.”

I let out a laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

The dead silence on the other end confirms the worst.

We have a tight deadline. I get it. But the print run is Monday two a.m. No article needs to hit the editor-in-chief’s desk before Sunday night.

Try to explain that to TB.

God forbid you actually try to have a life or friends outside of the office.

And God forbid you leave said office as early as six p.m. on a Friday night, which is what I’ve done for the first time in my career, and now it comes back to bite me.

I don’t know why I let my best friend Mandy talk me into driving her to Club 69 on a Friday evening, but as usual, after a five-minute tirade about how she was too late to call for a taxi and she had to be at work that instant, I caved in and took the one-hour drive upon me to help her out.

I shouldn’t have. Because now I’m going to be in a shitload of trouble with my boss.

I groan again. “TB won’t even be back until Sunday.”

“So we all thought,” Carol says. “She took an early flight. I expect her back within the hour.”

“What?” I didn’t mean to shout. Several people turn their heads to regard me. Waving my hand, I mouth, “I’m fine. Haven’t been mugged or anything,” and tune back to the conversation.

“You’re lucky I was here to intercept her call or else you would’ve been the fifth she fired this month.”

“She can’t fire me.” Not in the least because I’m great at what I do, but TB has never been the reasonable type and I’m not one to take my chances. “Okay. I’m coming.” Cradling the phone between my shoulder blade and my chin, I scurry to my car, fishing for the keys in my bag while guessing how long it’ll take me to get back to the office. A glance at my watch tells me it won’t be before ten p.m. Great. I’ll be spending another unpaid Friday night staring at a computer screen with TB breathing down my neck.

I open the car door and throw in my bag, suppressing the urge to remind Carol that everyone’s entitled to an evening off every once in a while. But what would be the point in arguing with her when it’s not her fault?

“What if she arrives before you?” Carol asks.

“Tell her I’m sick.”

“I thought you said your grandmother died. That’s what Jay said you told him when you left early.”

I cringe. “Yeah, that too.”

“Ava, you can’t die twice.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you already told the same lie last year, so keep your lies straight.”

Actually, that was only a half-lie because Grandma was sick and TB wouldn’t let me fly home until I came up with the dying part. Thank God, Grandma lived. But TB even had me show her the hospital bill.

“Yeah. Remind me to make a list.” I let out a nervous laugh as I’m rounding the car to get into the driver’s seat.

“I’ll try to steer her off of you, but no guarantees. Can you be back in half?” Carol asks.

“What? Half an hour?” Yeah, if I learn how to fly. “Sure,” I say chirpily.

My gaze brushes over the busy street and the long line of people trying to get into Club 69 as I push the key into the ignition and start the engine. I throw the car into reverse and try to wriggle my way out of the congested parking lot. I scoot my car forward a scant three feet in line, my eyes focused on the busy street. As I’m about to exit the parking lot, a car approaches mine.

I don’t know my way around cars, but I’m pretty sure it’s a red Lamborghini.

Shiny, and brand new, and expensive as shit.

And it honks impatiently.

Probably some rich guy who’ll wave his wallet into the bouncer’s face to get into the club.

Another entitled jerk who thinks he owns the world.

The guy honks again.

“Asshole,” I half-shout.

“Excuse me?” Carol says.

“Not you. I’m talking to the guy behind me.” I groan and glance in the rear-view mirror. “If TB arrives before me, tell her I’ll be back as soon as I can. And I have every intention of working through the night.”

Which I usually do anyway. Coffee’s my best friend. Sleep’s the enemy. If I could live off one and get rid of the other, TB would probably hug me.

“Try to get here ASAP.”

“I’m on my way.” I hang up and throw my phone onto the passenger seat, my glance shooting back to the red car. As I try to move forward, my engine dies.

Another impatient honk—drawn out and annoying the living hell out of me.

Seriously?

Arrogant bastard. Can’t he wait for two frigging seconds?

What is it with people and Club 69? Just the mere possibility of seeing the it-band Mile High greeting the crowd has everyone, including my best friend Mandy, out of their minds.

Right then he holds his hand out of the window and waves at me, motioning for me to move ahead.

“Thanks, jerk!” I gesture at him through the open window and then press hard on the gas at the same moment the red Lamborghini moves forward, whipping around me.

The crash is inevitable, the sound of scratching metal making my heart drop into my lap.

Fucking hell!

Why would he give me a heads up to move and then do the same?

And who the fuck drives like a maniac, heedless of the usual traffic around Club 69, or the fact that it’s Friday night and the streets are bound to be busy?

My blood’s boiling in my veins, the thick liquid thrumming in my ears.

I kill the engine and jump out of the car, leaving the door ajar.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” My voice is a choked mixture of rage and exasperation.

Maybe the owner of this quarter-million-dollar chick magnet has the fluffy bank account to have their car repaired, but I sure as hell will have to live with the dents forever. I’ll probably have to skimp on food for a month to save the money for new headlights.

“I could ask you the same thing.” The low grumble of a male voice reaches me through the open window before the door’s thrown open and out jumps a male in his late twenties.

I take a sharp breath. Then another, my heart skipping beats.

Wow.

He’s hot. And certainly not in an earthy, imperfect way.

He looks like a god.

His hair, dark and shiny, frames an attractive face with a straight nose, chiseled chin and the most stunning eyes I have ever seen. The expensive, light blue dress shirt can’t hide his broad shoulders or the fact that he’s probably sporting a six-pack beneath it. The sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong, tan arms and capable hands that don’t look like they’re stuck to a computer keyboard all day.

He works out…probably a lot.

He steps closer, and I can make out the color of his irises. In the dim light, his eyes shimmer in the dark crystal green shade of a beautiful, untouched lake.

Standing at six-foot-two, he oozes confidence and money.

And something else.

Sex.

The word invades my mind, and for a moment that’s all I can think about.

Hot, steamy, wild, rough sex. The kind of sex that has you gripping at the sheets as wave after wave of orgasm rolls over you.

I’m not cheap, but I’m not a saint either. I appreciate a hot guy when I see one. And this one tops the charts. And judging from the long line of women glancing at him, like bees swarming around an exotic flower, I know I’m not the only one having those kind of thoughts.

But not even a hot guy can distract me from the situation at hand.

I examine the damage to my car.

My car’s headlight is broken, while his car looks intact.

“There’s a scratch.” His voice is deep and low. His sexy accent sends a delicious tingle down my spine as I stare at my car in the knowledge it’ll cost me way too much to get it repaired—money I don’t have.

“You call that a scratch? Can you—” I turn sharply to face him and stop midsentence, expecting him to be inspecting my car.

Instead, he’s leaning over his car. “You’re right. It’s more of a chip.” Hot Guy points to a small nick, which I swear could just as well be a smudge of dirt, and trails a finger over it, his face drawn in worry. “This is going to be expensive.”

I scoff, feeling angry.

“You’re talking about a chip? Have you seen my car?”

He glances at it fleetingly before his eyes return to me. “That old thing? I’m surprised you can still drive it.”

My jaw drops as I’m rendered speechless.

My beloved Ford might have been previously owned, twice—at least I hope the car dealer told me the truth—but it’s been with me through more ups and downs than any human being in my life.

I feel strangely nostalgic toward my beloved Ford, and tears begin to sting the corners of my eyes.

Yes, it’s just a car and a battered one at that, but I can’t let a guy get away with hurting the one thing that I worked my ass off saving up for—the most valuable thing I own, even though it probably costs less than his polished pair of dress shoes.

“Why are we talking about your car?” I ask. “You can hardly see the damage.”

“Do you realize how much my Lamborghini’s worth?” Mr. Expensive Shirt says, raising a perfect brow, reading my thoughts.

I can’t believe it.

“Jerk!” I yell. “Arrogant prick. I don’t know how much your damn car’s worth, and I don’t care because it’s your fault.” I spit out the last two words, oblivious to the fact that I probably look like a madwoman the way I stab my finger into his chest. He doesn’t even seem to register it as his gaze travels down the front of my snug top and tight jeans, which I threw on in haste.

“Did you just call me a ‘jerk’ and a ‘prick’?”

Oh, that voice. Deep and hoarse and penetrating, carrying the slightest hint of amusement. It instantly sends a pleasant chill through me. I can almost feel it vibrating between my legs. My skin prickles from the expression he gives me as he scans my body.

I’m suddenly aware of the fact that I look like a hot mess: my brown hair’s all tangled, and I’m hardly wearing any makeup. I couldn’t stand out more among the Club 69 crowd of long, oiled-up legs and short skirts. Had I known I’d be having a close encounter with Mr. Sex On Legs, I might have even made an effort.

“Yes, I did,” I spit out. “Because it’s your fault.”

“My fault?” He turns his head to me, his gorgeous face drawn in surprise. “You gave me the signal to go ahead.”

“I did what?” Frowning, I let out a sarcastic laugh. “No, you gave me the signal to go ahead.”

He shakes his head. “I most certainly didn’t.”

Is he suffering from some neurodegenerative disease?

I stare at him, open-mouthed, then mimic his wave. “This is the go-ahead sign to move.”

“No, it means you drive like an eighty-year-old, and I don’t have all day to watch you amble around.” His eyes meet mine, his gaze challenging.

His features are relaxed; his mouth is slightly open as he stares me down in amusement. I don’t know why, but I get the distinct feeling he’s enjoying the situation.

Well, I’m not amused.

“I wasn’t ambling. I was waiting to get in line and you tried to overtake me,” I state the obvious.

“You stopped,” Hot Guy points out. “That means you gave me the all-clear.”

My mouth opens and closes, which probably looks like I’m a panting fish out of water. At last, I shake my head in disbelief. “Are you for real? I stopped to check if a car was coming.”

“So you say.” His lips twitch. “Let’s face it. You were distracted by that phone glued to your ear, chatting as if I had all the time in the world.” He steps forward. “Has no one ever told you that talking on a phone while driving can cost lives?”

I want to remark that I wasn’t driving while I was on the phone, but I refrain from it, because he’s right. “This is hardly a highway.”

“It’s still called dangerous driving,” the guy says.

For a few seconds, all I can do is stare at him. My pulse quickens and my breathing sounds just a little louder than it should. Knots begin to form in my abdomen as I stare at his perfect teeth and his perfect lips.

God dammit.

He screams sex on legs.

The kind of guy you take home to let him fuck your brains out, and then you discard the next day because there’s no way in hell a guy like him settles for anything less than a harem.

He also screams incurable, arrogant bastard.

Everything he’s said so far tells me he’s a big-ass jerk.

I don’t know why the thought that his dick’s probably had more mileage than a porn star’s pops into my head. But it does, and it reminds me that I’m very angry.

Fuming mad.

He hit my car…I remember. I can’t afford any repairs. On top of that, I shouldn’t be thinking about sex, especially not with Mr. Arrogant who’s more concerned with his stupid car than with the damage he’s caused to mine.

“It’s just a scratch,” I point out. “Nothing a good paint job won’t solve.”

“Look.” He sighs. His hot, sexy breath hits my face as he turns to me. “I get it. You don’t have the money to pay for the damage. You probably don’t even have insurance, and I wouldn’t wait for a check anyway, but damn, I just had it flown in from Italy. Don’t you have eyes, woman?”

I gape at his audacity.

He’s the one driving like a moron, and he’s still trying to blame me for his shortcomings?

And what kind of accent is that?

A slight drawl, rather subdued, as though he’s trying to hide it.

No one’s ever made me hot and bothered by just talking to me, and it’s not even dirty talk.

I can’t help closing my eyes for a moment, enjoying the onset of sexual tension. When I open them barely a second later, I find him staring at me, his tongue tracing his lower lip.

And is that the slightest hint of a smile I glimpse on his lips?

It can’t be because that would imply he’s—

Laughing at me.

I cringe.

“Jerk,” I mutter.

“Really? Do you know who I am?” he asks, completely oblivious to my growing annoyance with him.

My brows shoot up. “Should I? I don’t think so…unless you’ve done something worth remembering, like saving the world or—”

I gesture with my hand, trying hard to think of something that could prove my point. Truth is, I most certainly wouldn’t forget him if I knew who he was because he’s anything but forgettable.

His grin turns into laughter. I stare at him, confused.

I just insulted his expensive ass.

Why the fuck is he laughing?

“Trust me, if I did something, you wouldn’t be asking. You’d definitely be feeling it for days to come.” His green gaze shimmers, challenging me. “I might be a jerk, but I’m the kind of jerk who always lets the woman come first. And not just once.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

Sensing my confusion, he continues, “Either way, I’m okay with settling this incident privately.”

“How do you propose we do it?”

“I know a few ways.” His lips crack open into a smile.

My jaw drops. Is he hitting on me? Can’t be because—

“What?” I croak, my voice suddenly hoarse and my body on fire. My nipples strain against the thin fabric of my top, and most certainly not because of the cool NYC air.

Oh, the traitors!

Mr. Sex On Legs licks his lips slowly and deliberately, his gaze seemingly glued to my heaving chest. He doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s eye-fucking my breasts. Hell, in his dirty mind, I’m probably eagle-spread on his bed with him on top of me.

“I’m sorry. I don’t follow.” I shake my head, trying to make sense of his words. “What are you talking about?”

“You can repay the damage by going out with me tonight,” he says. “After which we can head over to my place.”

I blink once, twice. My mouth parts ever so slightly. My labored breath barely makes it past my suddenly parched lips.

Fuck, that’s hot!

Oh, I want that.

I haven’t been with anyone in more than a year. It’s been so long I wouldn’t be surprised to find cobwebs down there.

If I were into one-night stands, he’d be perfect. Hot, arrogant, the kind who wouldn’t even think about asking for your number, let alone call you after you’d done the dirty deed.

But there’s no way in hell I’d hook up with someone who’s so obvious and obnoxious about it. Somewhere in the background, I can hear my phone ringing, reminding me that time is of the essence.

“Is that your boyfriend calling?” He grins. “You seem to be ignoring him.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“No boyfriend, then.” His arrogance is monumental. You can probably see it from outer space. And it irritates the hell out of me. “So, what do you say? In case you didn’t get it, I asked—”

“I heard you loud and clear, and the answer’s no.”

“No?” His brows shoot up in surprise.

“No.”

“You sure?” He peels his gaze off my breasts, albeit unwillingly, and finally settles on my face.

I cross my arms over my chest and regard him coolly. “Has your flavor of the day stood you up and now you’re in desperate need of a replacement hookup? I’m no replacement fuck, ever. There’s definitely not going to be any coming. And I’m not a hooker. I’m not offering up my body to pay for the damage to your car.”

“I figured that much. At least let me buy you a drink, and we’ll take it from there.” His gaze sweeps over me again in that deliberate, tantalizing way. “You owe me.”

In spite of his harmless words, I can feel what he’s thinking.

“Owe you?” I laugh. “Why are you like this? You don’t even know me.”

“In my line of work, I don’t have time to waste, especially not when I like what I see.” He peers behind him. I follow his line of sight to the long queue in front of the club.

What is it that he does?

Is he a pimp?

A drug lord?

I’m fascinated and curious as hell.

I almost take the bait and ask, but bite my tongue to stop myself before I do.

“Sorry, I think I’ll pass. You’re not my type.” I take a step back to put some distance between us. A pang of disappointment flashes across his face, but he seems to get the message.

“I’m everybody’s type,” he says. “You just have to realize it.”

I have no doubt about that, but I keep my stony expression in place, proud that I’ve just rejected the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. Later, in the loneliness and privacy of my four walls, I’ll probably feel differently.

His flirty expression seems to change before my eyes.

Yeah, he definitely got the memo.

His gaze travels the length of my Ford, assessing it with what I assume are knowing eyes. Without waiting for my reply, he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and begins writing a check that he goes on to squeeze into my hand. I peer at the sum he’s just agreed to pay, and my mouth goes dry.

Holy cow.

That’s a lot of money.

My Ford’s not worth that much.

“This should cover your repairs, though my advice is to buy a new car.”

My gaze jumps from the stark white piece of paper to his smug expression and then back to the check. I thought I was angry before, but it was nothing compared to what I’m feeling now.

The lump sum he’s offering is enough to cover the cost of a new car.

My heart pumps so hard, it might just be about to burst out of my chest…and not in a good way.

I’m humiliated…and furious.

Not because his gesture implies that the accident was all his fault and he’s basically in my debt. I’m furious because the smugness in his expression tells me he’s convinced of the exact opposite.

He feels sorry for me, and his generous check is basically a handout.

A pity check.

The audacity!

Is that the reason why he hit on me in the first place? Because he thought I might be poor and impressed by his flashy car and clothes, and consequently eager to spread my legs for him just because he’s privileged?

“What do you think? Is this enough?” he prompts impatiently.

Ignoring his questions, I smile sweetly and step closer.

The plan is to look straight into his eyes and tell him where he can shove his check. But instead, I find myself having to tilt my head back to look all the way up into a pair of sinfully green eyes the color of deep, dark forests and haunted meadows. Somehow, my frosty stance doesn’t look as confident and significant as I had planned it to be.

In fact, his height intimidates me and I almost choke on my words.

“Keep it. I don’t want your money,” I push out through gritted teeth. “And there’s no way I’d ever sleep with you. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Got it?”

With shaky fingers, I throw his check at him, careful not to touch him in any way.

His brows rise. Slowly, his smile dies on his lips.

“I’m not demanding that you—”

I’m no longer listening as I turn my back to him and jump into my car, then slam the door shut.

I avoid looking at him as I start the engine, but I can feel his gaze on me, and it’s burning my skin. My insides are on fire, even though my anger seems to have evaporated into the balmy night.

Without looking back, I speed past him. I don’t live in his world, so I know I’ll never see him again. But that doesn’t make his eyes easily forgotten, nor does the knowledge dull the delicious throb between my legs.

The fact still remains: he was a jerk.

Some arrogant bastard I’ll never see again.

I’d rather eat his check before I accept a handout from a stranger with the sick fantasy of settling it in private—in his bed.