The weight of a psychopath’s gaze rests heavy at the back of my neck. He’s watching me, stalking me, probably already fantasizing about how my bones will break under his fists.

I fight to contain a smile and cross my legs, allowing the hem of my skin-tight skirt to hitch higher along my thighs.

Every move I make is strategic, every slow blink, every bated breath, every swipe of my lace glove-covered fingers along my exposed neck. I’ve practiced this a million times. I always do, because this needs to be perfect. Second chances are for the unprepared, and I’m anything but.

My auburn wig is for his benefit—the brown contact lenses, bright red lipstick, and fuck-me boots, too. Tonight, I’m an actress, and my role is that of a novice escort—his ultimate temptation.

I stir the toothpick-speared olive around in my martini glass, feigning loneliness.

My mark, Dan Roberts, has to be beside himself with interest, salivating, his palms itching, his cock hardening. He’s picturing his hands around my throat, anticipating how hard he’d have to squeeze, and for how long, before I lost consciousness.

I know this because I’ve watched him for weeks. He’s become predictable. All those nights spent in the shadows, stalking him as he stalked other women, has paid off. And it could’ve been just as easy for the local Portland police to track his crimes, if they’d bothered to take the word of numerous beaten women over the statement from a rich senator’s son.

Only they didn’t.

Their pockets had been lined with so much green that the evidence didn’t matter anymore. Fake alibis were taken as legitimate accounts. Photographs of beaten, bruised, and broken bodies were discarded, just like good ol’ Danny boy had done with the women he’d tormented once he’d gained his sadistic fix.

This man is a criminal.

A vile waste of oxygen.

A pathetic piece of garbage.

And apparently, I’m the only one with enough devotion to take out the trash.

From the corner of my eye, I see him approach, stopping directly beside my perch on a cracked leather stool. He jerks his chin at the young female bartender and slides his hand over the scratched wooden bar. “Whiskey.” His voice is loud, with an undertone of control.

He loves control.

Lives for it.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye and see no beauty in what people have described as a handsome man. His pale skin is smooth, his raven hair clean-cut and combed. Dark eyelashes frame what I know are deep brown irises, and his lips are lush and inviting. Or they would be, if I didn’t know he was a few Froot Loops short of a carton.

I scoot forward on my stool to place my drink on the bar, but deliberately miss my target. The glass topples, the liquid racing toward the man’s hand.

I lunge for his wrist, pushing it out of the way to save his immaculate suit, and exaggerate my loss of balance. I topple, my shoulder ramming into him, my stool knocking his. “Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry.”

He turns, those strong, destructive hands clutching my upper arms to stabilize me and my seat. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I lick my lower lip, quick, panicked, and nod. “I was trying to stop your jacket from getting wet and made an even bigger fool of myself.”

“You’re not a fool.” He releases his grip and rights my martini glass as the bartender mops up the mess. “Let me replace your drink.” Dan turns to the woman behind the bar, not waiting for my response. “When you’re done, can you get her another martini?”

“Sure. Just give me a few seconds.”

I remain still, the screaming euphoria of celebration contained to the inner walls of my mind. My plan is working. The foundation has been laid.

“Thanks.” I grin. “That’s kind of you.”

“Not entirely. There’s a catch to my generosity.” He shoots me a glance, his lips kicked at one side. “You have to promise to sit with me until you finish your drink.” His gaze slithers down my body, curving over my breasts, my hips, then lower, all the way to my exposed calves.

I will my cheeks to blush. I will them and will them, but alas, I’m not that fucking demure. Instead, I lower my gaze and bat my lashes. “Actually, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m…working.” I hitch the strap of my small clutch higher on my shoulder. “It’s my first night. I was told to always stay near the bar unless I have an offer.”

His thoughts practically crackle in my head. He’s thinking how easy this is. How perfect. How serendipitous.

You bet it is, buddy.

“Working?” he muses, palming the two drinks the bartender slides toward him.

“Yeah.” I nibble my lower lip, exaggerating my vulnerable, virginal escort role. “I bet everyone can see how nervous I am.”

I glance around the dilapidated bar. Nobody pays me attention. It’s like my favorite drinking hole on the other side of the city—frequented by depressed drunkards too liquored to notice if it’s day or night.

“Maybe a tiny bit.” He chuckles, and I try not to cringe at his equally fake facade. “Come on.” He swings out an arm, his whiskey pointing the way to one of the free booths in the back corner. “It’s only one drink. I won’t take up too much of your time.” He winks. “Unless you want me to.”

I continue to devour my bottom lip. It’s my go-to move. And from the way he keeps glancing at my mouth, it must be working a charm.

“I guess one drink can’t hurt.” I scoot from my stool, grasp the martini glass he offers, and saunter myself to our private destination with the predator close at my back.

My skirt hitches higher with every step, the material creeping teasingly closer to my lace panties, until I slide into the booth.

“Get yourself settled.” Dan places his whiskey on the table, his free hand twitching at his side. “I need to excuse myself for a moment.”

“Okay.” I sip from my glass, watching him over the rim as he strides to the restrooms.

He may be heading for the bathroom, but I know his main objective isn’t to use the facilities. He needs to calm himself. To lessen the adrenaline spurring him to make snap decisions.

Day to day, he can fool the average Joe. From my time watching him, I’ve learned he gets careless when close to obtaining a fix. He turns into a stereotypical addict—jittery, breathless, and unable to control the need to rush to the finish line.

I’ve triggered his game.

There’s no turning back.

He wants me. Needs me. He’s hungry for my screams, and that’s okay, because I’m just as hungry for his.

This man, although vile and psychotic, is actually quite special. He’s not just the focus of another one of my retribution projects. He’s more. Much more.

This smug piece of shit could be the key I’ve spent ten years searching for. He could quite possibly be my Holy Grail.

With a lazy glance around the room, I open the tiny baggie stuck to the inside of my blouse cuff and rest my fingers on the rim of his glass. Fine white powder falls over my palm and into the liquor, the Rohypnol dancing through the liquid with such choreographed perfection I can’t hold back a smirk.

The sight is beautiful. Peaceful. Karma in motion.

I dust my gloves gently, brushing off the evidence, then bite the olive from my toothpick and give the concoction a stir. In seconds, the betrayal disappears, dissipating into sweet nothingness.

Every inch of me thrums, pulsing and throbbing from the inside out. The enjoyment only increases when the door to the men’s bathroom opens and Dan strides forward with a wicked grin.

He thinks he’s good, and I’ve gotta give it to him, when it comes to being a sadistic son-of-a-bitch, he’s a real winner. What he doesn’t realize is that when revenge is the aim, I’m the motherfucking queen.

Years of experience flow through my veins. Retribution is my specialty.

I discreetly flick away the toothpick and paste on a chaste smile as he reaches the booth.

“Everything okay?” I ask as he hovers at the end of my seat, his forehead beading with sweat, his gaze darting around the room.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Leave?” A twinge of panic unfurls in my belly, and I shove it down with a sip of gin. I’m the one in control here. Not him. “I can’t. I’m working, and you haven’t even started your drink.”

He grasps his glass and downs the contents in two large gulps.

Big mistake, Danny. Fucking huge.

I release a girlie laugh, the sound obnoxious to my ears. “You’re eager.”

“I guess I can’t help myself. You’re a beautiful woman who’s nervous about her first gig. My gentlemanly nature means I’m obliged to ease your burden.”

I take another sip, a tiny one to ensure I remain level-headed. “And how will you do that?”

“By being your first customer.”

Ding, ding, ding. Jackpot.

“Oh.” My response is shy, but no matter how hard I try, I still can’t get my cheeks to heat. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

He reaches out a hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Wait.” I can’t leave. Not yet. The drugs need time to start their numbing goodness. “We haven’t discussed payment.”

He reaches for his back pocket and pulls out a wallet. “Name your price.”

“That depends on the service.”

He retrieves a stack of bills and places them on the table. “Is this enough for a few hours?”

My lips part as I pretend to be gobsmacked by his generosity. In reality, I’m scrambling to stall. “Yeah.” I slide my fingers over the money, drag it toward me, then slip it into my clutch. “That’s more than enough.”

“Come on, then.”

He raises his hand again, and I stare. It’s still too soon. Too quick. If I leave now, I’ll have to think on my feet to slow down this sequence, and although I’m shit-hot and shiny when it comes to this, I’d prefer not to take unnecessary chances on such a special project.

“Can I finish my drink first?”

His mask of charismatic charm falters with the narrowing of his gaze. “I don’t have all night, sweetheart.”

“Right.” Fuck you. “Of course not.”

I slide from the booth, ignoring his offered hand, and lead the way outside into the chilly night air. “Maybe I should buy a bottle of something to celebrate.” I spin back to face the door, only to be stopped by his large frame sliding in front of me.

“I know you’re nervous, but we don’t need it.” His rush for a fix has risen to fever-pitch. His eyes are glazed, his cheeks flushed.

“It’ll only take a second.” I sidestep, and he shadows me.

“I’ve got whatever you need back at my place.” He walks forward, and I’m forced to retreat. One step. Two.

I raise my hand, placing it on his chest as I plant my feet. “I’m sorry, I’m going about this all wrong. We haven’t even discussed logistics.” Stall, stall, stall. “I have a room within walking distance. It’s small and simple and does the job. I’d just prefer if we had something to break the ice when we get there. Maybe a bottle of wine or some whiskey. I know a lot of body parts that taste better when moistened with liquor.”

Those plump lips smile down at me, and I see the expression for the threat it is. “With you, sweetheart, I don’t want booze.”

He grabs my hand in a tight grip, and it takes all my strength not to knee him in the groin like my intuition demands.

“Now, come on.” He tugs me along the footpath, toward the parking lot. “My car is down here.”

“We don’t need to drive. My hotel is literally at the end of the block. It’s an easy walk.”

“I’m not interested in walking.” He tries to charm me with a playboy sparkle in his eyes. “And my place is warm and clean. Not some seedy hotel on the wrong side of town.”

If I get in his car, we won’t make it to his Lake Oswego home. I’ll be driven to an isolated industrial area where he’ll try to beat me, rape me, then leave me battered and barely breathing on the side of the road.

No, thank you, Danny boy.

“I appreciate the offer, but I insist on my hotel.” I pull my hand away. “Neutral ground, ya know?”

His nostrils flare, and I wonder if he’ll drop this bullshit act and drag me, hair first, to his getaway car.

“It’s decent accommodation,” I exaggerate with a flash of my pearly whites. “You’ll like it.”

“It’s the car or nothing.”

My chest tightens. Fear and anxiety collide in a mass of tangled emotions. I can’t throw away my one and only shot at this.

At him.

But I can’t get in that car either. Not now. Not even with the looming promise of his Rohypnol-induced impairment.

Confinement in a small space would mean my fun would end and his would begin. I’d lose my advantage and he’d gain the upper hand. His strength against my strategy.

I have to stick to my plan or let him walk.

God, I don’t want to let this fucker walk.

“Then I guess this is where we part ways.” My face falls, and I don’t need to fake a stricken expression. I’m on the verge of heartbreak, devastated at the thought of this guy getting away, not only with what he’s done, but with the information I desperately need. “See ya, handsome.”

I give him a timid finger wave and the chance to demand a refund before I turn in the direction of my hotel. I take slow steps, and his pursuing footfalls don’t hit my ears. He’s not following. I guess he’s too frustrated to even ask for his cash.

Shit.

Four weeks of meticulous preparation disintegrate into painful splinters, each one penetrating my skin to exacerbate the failure.

This guy deserved what I had planned. He’d earned it over months, possibly years, of brutality. But losing the connection to my past tears me apart, limb by limb, nerve by nerve.

Anger boils my blood, the potency so rich my throat tightens with the need to scream. I can’t turn back.

I can’t.

Getting in his car is too dangerous. The drugs might not kick in for another twenty minutes. Maybe more. He’d easily overpower me. I’m not stupid enough to believe my years of self-defense, martial arts, and boxing classes could save my ass in a confined space, up against a deranged psychopath.

The knife in my boot is insurance, but I’m not infallible.

I grind my teeth to the point of pain as I trudge the eight-minute walk to the sleazy, pay-by-the-hour hotel, with its flickering red ‘Vacancy’ sign.

What the hell am I going to do?

I may never get another chance to find Jacob. I’ve failed. Again. And not only on a personal level, but all those women Dan has abused won’t get a vicarious taste of vengeance.

How have I messed this up?

Was the meticulous preparation not enough?

Should I have watched him for longer?

Could I have tried harder?

Risked more?

Fuck.

I pull the hotel key from my clutch and stride to door fifteen—the last room in the single-story complex. I slide my key into the flimsy lock, preparing to lick my wounds in private, when the noisy crunch of asphalt alerts me to a vehicle entering the parking lot. My heart kicks. A sixth sense sends goosebumps erupting along my arms. Or maybe it’s optimism.

I want this.

I want it enough that each breath hitches in my throat.

I glance over my shoulder, my limbs throbbing, and come face to face with the impeccable good fortune that stares back at me.