My fury only increased when I stepped out of my elevator to find my neighbor Luis lurking by my front door. His ratty bathrobe hung to his knees, exposed in the cutoff pajama pants he wore. His scalp glistened within the nest of thin blond hair which he insisted on keeping in spite of his rapidly spreading forehead. He always seemed to be hovering in the hallway, but this was the first time I had caught him at my door.

“Did you need something?” I asked as civilly as possible.

“Oh! There you are…oh.” He looked me up and down disapprovingly. “Walk of shame, I see.”

“That only works if I’m ashamed of myself,” I pointed out lightly.

“I see,” he said, his frown becoming a glower. “You know, young lady, you should really be more careful about your reputation. There are some terrible characters around.”

“So I’ve heard,” I said seriously. “Mrs. Morales told me just yesterday that there’s some creep in the building going around looking backwards through peepholes.”

He flushed bright red and shuffled away from my door. I moved past him to unlock my door when he grabbed my wrist, and I froze.

“If you need a chaperone, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” I hissed, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Can I go now?”

Without waiting for an answer, I yanked my arm away and unlocked my door as quickly as I could. Luis opened his mouth to speak, but I ducked inside and slammed the door before he could. His irritating presence would have been a mere annoyance most days, but today it only stoked my rage.

With my mind filled with everything that was wrong with the male species, I marched to my computer. I was set on writing the most scathing, career-destroying expose on Mr. Drake that I could come up with. My fingers flew over the keys, fueled by my hurt.

Dante Drake: Heartthrob, star player, asshole. Yes, dear readers, the man you all love and adore is one-hundred-percent douche bag, and I will tell you why. Mr. Drake is not only determined to ruin Joel Palmer, he is dead set on ruining every woman who has the misfortune of crossing his path. He will whip up your emotions, see into your soul, and then…

I paused, hands poised, waiting for instruction. The “and then” was tripping me up, filling my mind with memories from the night before.

“And then he’ll rock your world,” I mumbled, staring off into space.

My body still held the impression of him. His firm torso. His gentle, demanding hands. His talented mouth, and God, those lips. A hot chill rushed over me, pooling in my belly.

“No, damn it! I’m pissed,” I scolded myself. “Who does he think he is, using me that way? How many women has he slept with and tossed aside? Somebody needs to warn them.”

I glared at the cursor flashing on the screen, willing my brain to put the words together. They wouldn’t come, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I knew why. I didn’t want to ruin him, not really. An article like this would not only end his career, it would kill his chances at having a fulfilling personal life.

Not that he deserves one, I thought bitterly. But still…did I even have it in me to be that cruel?

I did, and I knew it. If I were pushed to it, I could be the most vindictive person I knew. But Dante was right; I got exactly what I came for, and it was glorious. I didn’t regret the dinner and I certainly didn’t regret the sex. The only wound I carried lay on my pride, and my pride wasn’t worth a man’s livelihood. With a heavy sigh, I selected everything I had written and deleted it.

“Congratulations, you get the ‘I wasn’t a bitch today’ gold star,” I muttered to myself.

I was far from finished with him, though. He would not get away with making me his pawn in this childish game. I refused to allow anyone to control me like that—unless it was in the bedroom, and the control was firm but gentle…

I shook the thought away. How on earth was I supposed to stay angry at him with those images replaying in my head? I fixed a scowl to my face and set my mind on a more active path.

“Can’t undo it,” I murmured. “Wouldn’t want to, though. No, bad thoughts! Focus.”

I rocked in my chair with my knees tucked under my chin, staring at the blank page on the computer screen as if it would magically tell me what to do. I felt like the solution was right in front of me, but somehow I kept missing it.

I absently began reshuffling the pile of papers and stray notes on my desk, stacking by size, then color, then…something fell out of the stack, onto my lap.

“Joel Palmer—All-star player, sex god. Ha! Really?” His phone number was printed underneath, with “Call me” printed in tiny letters under that.

“Can you get any more disgustingly sure of yourself, Mr. Palmer?”

But I was beaming. The pieces all fell together with that single little card. I knew exactly what I needed to do.

“H’lo?” he answered, his voice thick and sleepy.

“Hello, Mr. Palmer,” I said, keeping my voice low and just the tiniest bit husky. “This is Livia Ramos, the reporter.”

“Mm? Oh! Hello, Livia.”

I could feel his leering grin over the phone, and I rolled my eyes, suppressing my laughter.

“I really appreciate you giving me your number.” I oozed sensual suggestion with no subtlety whatsoever. I didn’t trust him to pick up on subtlety. “I was left terribly unsatisfied after our quickie interview. I would really, really love to talk to you again.”

“Well, well! I would love for you to talk to me again. Couldn’t really talk with my agent right there—you know, he gets a little bit picky about what goes in print. He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with yet.” He let out a little grunt, as if he had just flexed a muscle. He was utterly, delightfully transparent.

“Oh, good,” I cooed. “The sooner the better! I’m just aching to get this story.”

“Aching, are you? Well, I know how to handle that. Just call me Doctor Palmer.”

After a millisecond of debate, I allowed the giggle he was expecting to titter out of my mouth. It left a stupid aftertaste, but I could deal with it in the name of sweet revenge.

“Well, doctor, where and when?”

“My place,” he said proudly. “Eightish…maybe nine.”

“Pick one, silly!”

“Okay, nine,” he laughed. “Gives me time to rinse off this hangover. Here, let me…”

He gave me his address quickly, and I wrote it down as my eyebrows crept up my forehead. I recognized the area; it was full of celebrities and the financial elite. Just how much were they paying this kid, anyway?

“Don’t be late,” he said. “This will be a very…long…talk.”

“I can’t wait,” I told him in my best sexpot voice. “I’ll see you then!”

“Bring your appetite,” he instructed. “But eat dinner first. If you know what I’m saying.”

“Oh, my!” I tittered, rolling my eyes. “I’ll do just that. Bye!”

I ended the call, checked to ensure it had disconnected, then sat back and howled with laughter.

“Let’s hope his sex game is better than his pickup game,” I gasped through my cackles. “I could make a pizza with all that cheese.”

I had plenty of time to prepare, and I used it well. I left the house at 8:30 with a fully-developed strategy and my hormones dialed in on “young stud.” I never knew revenge could be so much fun, and I smiled wickedly as I drove over to his house.