The warm whisper of his breath near my ear makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and a rush of heat spiral down my spine to the hidden space between my legs, which is scarcely covered by this barely-there dress that Leah forced me to wear. The tiniest part of me is glad that she did, because the intense look in his eyes is something between lust and real interest, and I’m almost positive the dress has something to do with it—but most of me is fighting the urge to turn and disappear into the crowd, leaving this rich, seductive stranger behind.

“I don’t like dancing.” It’s a lie, and the first one that comes to mind once I break myself out of the spell he’s cast over me with his voice.

“You don’t?” His tone is casual, but he’s still standing so close that every word out of his mouth sounds like a heated proposition. “But you’re in a nightclub, and all your friends—” He pulls himself back to glance over at where they’re standing with his friend. “—are having the time of their lives.”

“It’s easy to have a good time when you’re buzzed. Or, in some of their cases, drunk.”

“So it’s not that you never drink. You’re not drinking tonight.”

I gather up all my courage and look him straight in the eye. In the flickering lights beaming from the DJ station, I can see that he has dazzling green eyes that turn my core molten hot. “I don’t drink at parties.”

He furrows his forehead. “That’s a strange place to refuse to drink.”

“I have my reasons.” Reasons that I’m not going to get into with a perfect stranger. Fine. Not a perfect stranger. I’ve seen his face more times than I can count on the gossip blogs, and quite a few times in the newspapers, but for the life of me—for the absolute life of me—I can’t remember his name.

He looks back at me with a steady gaze. “You really don’t like dancing?”

A flash of irritation spikes through my gut. “It’s not really any of your business if I like dancing or not. I don’t even know you.” My heart pounds against my ribs, making my words seem insincere at best. It’s true—I don’t know this man, this sexy specimen with his dark, silky, wavy hair and pressed white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his body underneath, without any doubt from the way his muscles flex when he moves, chiseled and lean.

The corners of his lips turn up into a smile. “You don’t know me yet.”

“I don’t want—” Something catches my gaze from the corner of my eye—Leah’s sash. I lock onto it like she’s the last lifeboat off the Titanic. “Leah!” I shout her name even though she’s barely four feet away from us, using the thrumming volume of the music as cover. I jerk my head to the side, begging her with a glance to come rescue me the way she used to do in college, when some frat boy or another was getting too handsy at the bar, but she shakes her head.

She bends to say something into Cassandra’s ear, and then all of them are moving back out onto the dance floor, the stranger’s friend Adam in tow.

“Leah!” I call her name again, but she only looks back over her shoulder and mouths have fun.

When I turn my attention to look back at the stranger—and God, he is handsome, in the dark kind of way that I always imagine in my private fantasies—he’s grinning at me.

“This is no laughing matter.” I keep my voice as serious as I can, but he’s not having any of it.

“You’ve been abandoned by your friends. I don’t think you have any other choice but to talk to me.”

“False. I could walk out of here right now, and—”

“And leave your best friend’s bachelorette party?” He laughs, the sound low and sensual, and it sounds so delicious that a little part of me caves right then. It’s one of my personal rules not to get involved with any men I meet in a club. And I never do anything that may come with more risk than it’s worth. The man standing in front of me right now is all coiled risk and dark energy, the kind that’s dangerous to touch but exhilarating to experience.

And it’s true. My friends are somewhere out on the dance floor, having their own fun.

The stranger gestures toward the booth behind us. “We don’t have to dance, if you don’t want to. But we could sit and talk for a while.”

I can hardly argue with that. It’s been my excuse all night that someone needs to guard the purses. Someone needs to be keeping tabs on everyone to make sure we’re still within a safe margin for alcohol consumption. So, with a nod of my head, I slide into the booth. He slides in after me, the movement stirring up his scent—something spicy and understated, something expensive. I do my best to ignore the new slickness building warm and moist between my legs.

“Let’s start over,” he says, leaning back against the cushions. “I’m Gideon Hawke, and you’re… absolutely gorgeous. What’s your name?”

That’s how it starts.

Once his name is hanging in the air between us, what I do know about him comes rushing back. All in all, it’s not much. Gideon Hawke is a reckless playboy who loves women, expensive vacations, and irresponsible stunts. He’s always being photographed in some tropical paradise or another, jumping off high cliffs and generally trying to end his life too early. I laugh when I hear him speak his name.

“It’s not a common name, but I don’t think it’s funny.” He gives me a faux pout, and then his expression slides back into a thousand-watt smile.

“I’m not laughing at your name. The pieces are coming together for me now, and you’re—” I shake my head.

“I’m what?”

“You’re not my type. Kennedy Carlisle, by the way.” I extend my hand in the dorkiest movement possible, but Gideon shakes it with a certain seriousness. When our palms touch, something electric jolts between them, so strongly that I stifle a gasp. It doesn’t faze Gideon. He drops my hand and looks me straight in the eye.

“How could I not be your type? I’m sitting in a booth with you when we could be dancing.”

“I don’t know why. Under any other circumstances, you would be dancing, with some supermodel, probably.”

“Supermodels are overrated.” He looks directly at me when he says it, and a blush creeps through my entire body. “Anyway, I’m not interested in supermodels. I’m interested in you.”

“I’m not going to dance with you.”

He waves his hand in the air between us. “Dancing aside. Why have you been standing here all night guarding the table like this place is full of purse snatchers?”

I sigh. “For one thing, maybe it is full of purse snatchers. Maybe that’s how they afford the cover.” He laughs, but he doesn’t interrupt. “For another, I’m not really concerned about the purses. I’m concerned about my friends.”

“I’m concerned, too.”

“About what?”

“I’m concerned that if you don’t dance with me, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”