“Ah, there she is!” Bronson’s voice carried above the din. The dwindling crowd of partygoers clogging the Waldorf’s vestibule parted, revealing the man of the hour. He clung to two leggy blondes. Twins, from the looks of things. Then again, it was hard to see past the stage-worthy layers of makeup, conspicuously perfect breasts, and matching fire engine red gowns.

Larkin waved. An unexpected rush of relief washed over her, taking with it some of the night’s turmoil. Bronson was distracted. She was thrilled it hadn’t taken half as long as she’d thought.

The threesome weaved their way toward her, stumbling and snickering at their own inability to walk in a straight line.

“Larkin! I thought I’d never find you again.” Bronson released the two women and fell to his knees in front of her seat. His arms clung heavily to her thighs as though he was grasping for dear life.

“It’s okay. I’m fine.” She grabbed his shoulder to keep him upright and her dress in its proper position, covering her not-so-perfect breasts. “Did you have fun?”

“No.” His floppy blond hair shook. “I spent all night looking for you.”

Not all night. She was with him for more than half of it.

“Where have you been all my life?” Bronson wrapped both arms around her waist and pulled her close.

Dear Lord, if she didn’t get a hold of this situation, he’d knock them both on their asses. Larkin grabbed a hunk of his hair and turned his eyes to her. They were glassy. His pupils looked as large as the moon.

“You’re being rude, Bronson. Introduce me to your friends.” Larkin pointed at the two women now clinging to one another to stay upright.

“Oh!” He jumped to his feet and grabbed their hands. “Ladies, this is the love of my life. The woman I was telling you about. This is Larkin Ashford.” His gaze swung back to her. His feet teetered for a second but held. “Larkin, this is Brinley and Ashley Vincent. Their father is—”

“Larry Vincent.” The most notorious small games dealer in Manhattan. His game of choice was big bet, big Texas poker. His method of choice for house winning collection was blackmail.

Larkin’s perma-chills from earlier returned with a frigid vengeance. She’d liked these two girls five seconds ago when they could distract her friend. Now, when they could ruin him with an iPhone pic, she didn’t like them near as much. Even as children, Bronson knew how to get himself into deep shit. Seemed not much had changed.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Larkin stood, grabbed Bronson’s hand, and looped it through her arm. “I’m only sorry it was at the end of the night, and I have an early morning tomorrow. Until next time.”

The women stood window-eyed—not much going on inside—with hollow smiles showcasing bleached teeth.

She pulled Bronson along, using every bit of muscle she worked to keep on her frame to maneuver them safely through the gaggle of people as intoxicated as her friend. Despite the gusts of fall wind that infiltrated the doors every time someone exited, a sweat broke out down her back. When the doorman opened the door for her, she welcomed the arctic blast.

“Miss Ashford.” His driver rushed forward from the car she’d ordered fifty minutes ago for when the party actually ended, and she’d expected to find Bronson in the mix. The driver’s eyes widened and the rush of his steps said she looked as desperate for help as she felt. “Here. Allow me.”

“Thank you, Ricky.” The weight of Bronson off her shoulders allowed the fresh and full flow of oxygen into her lungs.

“Guys. Guys. I’m fine. I’ve got this.” Her friend shoved off Ricky and listed toward the concrete.

“I know you do, sir. I just like to help, you know.” Luckily, the driver was a large man all the way around and caught Bronson before he had a hard meeting with the New York City sidewalk.

“Keeps you employed.” Bronson patted his shoulder and nodded.

“Yes, sir. It does,” Ricky agreed.

“Come on, Bronson.” Larkin opened the door and crawled in to the far side of the limo.

“Right behind you, babe.” Contrary to his words, it took the men nearly a full minute to work Bronson safely inside the car. He braced both hands on the seat and leaned his head against the headrest. “Why are you all the way over there, babe?”

“Bronson, look at me.” She waited for him to lift his head, as though it weighed as much as his ego, and find her.

“I am.”

“Good. I’m not your babe, and those girls aren’t your friends.” When he just stared, she continued. “I’m your friend. Not your babe. And those girls are dangerous. Not your friends. Their father will destroy you without good reason if the mood strikes him. If your attitude strikes him wrong. If you screw over either one of his daughters.”

“Babe, you worry too much.”

“And you listen too little.”

Ricky climbed behind the wheel. Larkin turned to the open partition and eased her head close. “I know my building is closer, but please take him home first. I need to know he goes there and nowhere else tonight.”

“Of course, miss.” He nodded.

“Thank you.”

“No trouble at all.”

She turned toward the back to hit him with the hard question but found him leaned over on the seat. Her heart lurched.

Larkin scrambled back, landed on her knees in front of Bronson, and pressed her fingers to his neck.

His eyes cracked open. “I’ve been trying to get you on your knees all night.”

“I’ve been trying not to strangle you all night.” She shoved his shoulder. The rest of his body followed, lying fully on the seat.

He offered a weak chuckle, and then his eyes slid shut again.

“Bronson, tell me the truth.”

“I’ve loved you my whole life. Whole …” His lids closed, his mouth joining it. Several beats passed. “Whole. Life.”

“You’ve loved and lusted after Ava Cory all your life. Besides, that’s not what I was talking about, and you know it.” She shoved his shoulder. “Do you owe Larry Vincent money?”

“Nah, babe. It’s not like that.”

“What is it like?”

A soft snore offered the only answer she’d receive tonight.

She stared at her lifelong friend and felt … nothing. There was no spark, no intrigue, no desire for a great connection. Brice Beauregard was right. She peddled marriage and babies but felt no compunction to experience either. Her dear friend wanting her—as flawed as he might be—gave her nothing but the urge to tuck and roll.

Larkin eased onto the bench seat and watched the city blur past. There was her connection. No matter how crazy it became, she’d never leave the hustle and bustle. The architecture. The people. The stories in each of them intrigued her even on the most maddening of days. This had been one of them. The week. It started off with madness and had carried on the ruckus. Her gaze rose to the tops of the buildings where gargoyles and pigeons called home. Where she called home. Where HE had been.

What seemed like seconds later, the car stopped in front of the Beauregards’ Upper East Manhattan home. Ricky opened the door and smacked Bronson’s cheeks. The severe sound alone of flesh meeting flesh should have roused her friend, but even the contact didn’t gain more than a light stirring.

“I can get one arm,” Larkin offered.

“No, miss. I hate to say, but I’ve had more than my fair share carting Mr. Beauregard up to his bed. It keeps me young.” The driver winked and hooked his arms under Bronson’s to hoist him.

She imagined Ricky dragging him corpse-style up the front stairs and through the house and didn’t know if it’d make her laugh or gasp. It wasn’t to be, though. Once out of the car, he stood Bronson upright, buried his shoulder in her friend’s belly, and tossed him over his shoulder. Her lips pressed together to keep the amusement in check.

“I’ll be back in a jiffy, miss. Don’t worry. You’ll be safely locked inside.” Ricky tipped his hat.

“Take your time. I’ll be fine,” she reassured.

“Thank you, miss, for all your help.” He closed the door before she could say anything and headed up the stairs, holding tightly to the black iron railing.

Larkin gawked at the building’s ornate shield and vines carved into the entrance’s concrete exterior. These pre-war works of art told the most stunning stories with their mixture of art deco and classic colonial inspirations. Of all the architecture in the city, she loved these the most, which was why she’d bought a home three blocks from here. She never stayed in it because it was too far from her work and too close to conformity for her tastes.

A movement outside the car window caught her attention. People called NYC the city that never sleeps. Oh, it sleeps, and hard. From the hours of three a.m. to five a.m., it wasn’t unusual to go without seeing another soul on the sidewalk. If you saw anyone, they were probably passed out or being lugged around like her friend.

The massive figure emerged from the shadows two buildings away on the same side of the block Ricky had just hauled Bronson from. On her side of the car. Something about the way he moved drew her gaze. His sheer size dwarfed the wide sidewalk, yet he prowled with the grace of a tiger on a scent.

Larkin’s pulse revved. Everything about him screamed danger as her fingers flew to the lock. Even though the driver said he’d locked the doors, she slapped at it, ensuring its locked position. The sound echoed in the quiet confines, competing with only the roaring of her heartbeat.

He stopped even with the car. His head canted slightly toward the car and the noise she’d made.

Her tongue swelled, blocking oxygen from entering her body.

When his face turned oh-so slowly, it paralyzed her. As if she looked into the face of certain death. She should look away, but the near black of his hair, the scruff covering his thick chin, and his mere presence hypnotized her mind.

Their eyes met.

No.

It wasn’t possible. A layer of thick and heavily tinted glass stood between them, but it was as if there was nothing. No steel. No shield. No mercy. His gaze bore into hers.

His shoulders shifted. The light from the apartment caught his face and the scar that ran the left side from cheekbone to jaw.

Larkin cried out. Oxygen flooded her system. Synapses fired left, right, and center.

It was HIM.

HIM who didn’t toss her off the top of her building. HIM who had a chance to pawn her mother’s ring yet returned it safely. HIM who’d haunted her dream, sleeping and awake, for the past five days and nights.

She slapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late. He turned away from the light, away from her.

Larkin’s fingers grappled with the handle. She pulled and tugged and finally managed to shove the door open. Her tired feet clamored for stability on the unforgiving concrete. His footsteps quickened.

“Excuse me?” She hauled herself upright.

His stride didn’t break. He hustled down the side of the building.

Gathering two handfuls of tulle, Larkin hurried after him. Cold slipped between her legs and fanned the dress high behind her. It slapped her cheeks and forced tears from her eyes, but she forged ahead.

The faster she walked, the farther he stretched the gap between them. Soon, she lost sight of him for moments at a time as though the shadows shrouded him at will.

“Please, sir?” Larkin’s feet pounded the sidewalk until she ran at full tilt toward him. Icy wind burned her lungs.

He turned left down an alley.

Every New York instinct inside her screamed for her to stop and return to the car. Alleys equated to disease at the least and death at the most, but she carried on. The closer she came to the alley, the harder she ran. Her legs churned so quickly, she almost ran past it. She skidded to a stop, clinging to the far alley walk for stability. Her lungs heaved. Her eyes scanned.

This wasn’t the alley of her nightmares. Each trash receptacle was neatly stowed at the edge. Bright streetlights illuminated every nook, revealing no cat-size rats, no drug deals in progress, no homeless scrounging for a meal, and no hint of the man she’d been chasing after … like a crazy woman.

“How?” She walked hesitantly into the mouth of the brick walkway. Several doors lined the back of the building to the right. Bronson’s building boasted a myriad of windows but no door that she could see. At the end of the alley stood a ten-foot fence she couldn’t vault over with a pole and a week’s worth of lessons.

Feet protesting, Larkin walked to the first door with her fingers outstretched. Her heart beat against her chest. Whether from the run or the prospect of finding HIM, she didn’t know. She wrapped her fingers tightly around the knob and twisted. The worn silver knob didn’t budge.

“Miss Ashford?” The driver’s panicked voice ricocheted off the bricks. She looked toward the main road and then down the empty alley. There was nothing to catch here but a cold. Defeated, she headed slowly back to the car.