One year later…

The executive offices at Hotel Brocade are always a fun place to be, but they’re even more exciting when the boys in the reservations bay are trying to kill each other.

“Bam!”

“Kazow!”

“You’re dead.”

“Not if you’re dead first.”

“Yeah, right. Because your spleen on the ground isn’t an indication I got you first, huh, crap-for-brains?”

Ahhhh. Nothing like the sounds of cybergeeks in full slay-or-be-slain mode, a special perk of working the six p.m. to four a.m. shift. When splattered spleens are invoked, I know it’s time to finish up my break and get back to work. Let nobody say the new girl didn’t learn the important lessons fast.

Thank God.

Because I really need this job.

I swore I’d cut off my right nipple if I got this position. The left one too, though thankfully things never came to that. I intend to keep my nipples and the job by being the hardest-working person in the building.

This job is what finally got me out of hell.

Okay, Orange County hasn’t always been hell. It just took a dive that direction once Dad got his massive promotion to VP at an international conglomerate with a massive campus in Irvine, thrusting our family into another income bracket—and the stratosphere of vanilla-flavored snobbery.

A.k.a. Hell.

But I’ve escaped. I’m no longer part of that world. I’ve finally begun a life filled with more than hair appointments, yoga classes, and fretting about the carb count in my morning muffin.

I intend to stay here.

This job is the key to truly beginning my life.

I arrive back at my office, a proud smile erupting as I take in my view. Twinkle lights glow in the olive and palm trees surrounding the pool area. Banks of tropical flowers flutter in the gauzy night breeze. A few people are enjoying the hot tub across the deck, quietly laughing and talking, but there’s nobody in the bigger pool, so the water is reflected as lazy aqua swirls against my office window. The scene is stunning, even at night.

God, I really love working here.

“Well, good evening, Miss Emmalina Crist.”

I smile toward the source of the greeting issued in a musical accent from my office doorway.

“Good evening to you too, Miss Neeta Jain.”

Neeta folds her arms and grins. “The warriors of Geekdom have you cutting and running for the sane side of the building again?”

I laugh, slightly nervously. Neeta is dressed nearly the same as me, in a dark skirt suit with a satin blouse beneath, but on her the look is sleek and glam, while I feel like the girl playacting at adulting. Which is ridiculous. I’m nearly twenty-four now. I landed this job on my own. Paid for this suit with my own money. It’s not dress up. It’s mine. This life is mine.

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

I intend to keep repeating it, in my heart and on my lips, until I really believe it.

For now, I push aside how her waterfall of dark hair and perfectly kohled eyes remind me of the pretty but plain world for which I still feel like the poster child.

“It’s all right,” I assure her. “Wade and Fershan deliver when it matters most. Their guest-satisfaction scores are among the highest for the Reservations Department. As long as they’re Prince Charmings for the public, I don’t care if they eviscerate each other a hundred times tonight.”

She laughs softly while walking toward the window. “Excellent point.” But her composure jolts the second she pivots toward my monitor. “And speaking of excellent points…” Her jaw goes slack. She drops into my chair. “Look at the glory of this one.”

I move behind her, curious about what’s caused her to gawk. Every staff computer is programmed to boot up into the guest room online menu, so we stay aware of any technical issues. In addition to local attractions, there’s a live feed of local news features cultivated for the maximum relevance to our guests, though the feature is often more valuable for us. Our downtown location puts us in the thick of it during major emergencies—which could be anything from a six-plus magnitude earthquake to a diva breaking a fingernail en route to an awards show—so the constantly changing feed has become an essential compass.

Right now, Neeta expands the compass with eager swiftness. I won’t be surprised if her throaty gasps and dreamy sighs develop into drooling.

“Glory?” I mean every note of my fascinated echo. I need to see what’s turned her from worldly and sleek to stuttering and adolescent.

Once I step around and view the screen, a frown takes over. “A convenience store robbery?” I thought I’d be helping her ogle the hottest hunks on some movie premiere red carpet. “Okay, even the OC peasant isn’t getting the appeal.” I wonder if we need to change the feed to another station. Last time I checked, stories like this didn’t fit any of the Richards Resorts “R’s of Hospitality.” Relax. Revitalize. Renew.

“A thwarted convenience store robbery.” Neeta jabs a red-tipped fingernail in emphasis. “And look at the god who did the thwarting.”

“God?”

“God.”

I peer closer at the feed. It shows the same basic news-chopper view of the little store, like so many others in the city. Semi-busy street intersection. Palm trees. Geraniums planted in the median. Couple of parking spaces and a bike rack out front. Posters for beer and lottery tickets in the front window. Neon sign. Yes, We’re Open. There’s nothing special about the police presence, either. A pair of cruisers with lights flashing, turning the area into an ironic urban disco.

“I really…don’t see what’s so…”

But then I do see.

The screen changes, showing cell phone footage timestamped from forty-five minutes ago. Looks like amateur stuff captured from across the street from the store. The cell owner’s commentary can be heard, captured along with the images.

“Damn. What assholes would rob Santa Claus?”

Sure enough, the store’s proprietor is a sweet old guy who probably volunteers as Saint Nick around the holidays. I wouldn’t believe any less, though right now he stands behind the counter wearing a Go Dodgers T-shirt. Though the leader of the hoodlums has drawn a gun, the man reaches for them like Santa trying to reason with a pair of Jack Frosts with matching bleached Mohawks.

“That sweet man,” Neeta murmurs. “I’d be on the floor in a puddle of terror.”

“You mean like her?”

The cell phone shot pans wider to include a woman no older than us cowering on the floor. Bad guy number three, just noticing her, stomps over for the grab.

But he clutches at nothing but air because the woman has…levitated.

At least five feet. Straight into the air.

“What…the…”

“Right?” Neeta gasps as the girl starts to scream. “That’s not even the best part.”

“There’s more?”

I barely get the words out before the poor woman starts to gently float toward the back of the store as if being carried by some invisible divinity. There’s five feet of empty air between her and the floor, and a discernible black line scorching the linoleum, marking the terrified woman’s path to safety.

“How…is…that…?”

“Right?” Neeta repeats.

“No,” I blurt. “Not right. How the hell is that even possible?”

“They say he does it with massive electric fields,” Neeta responds. “Though how that works is still anyone’s guess.”

“He who?”

“He…him.” She declares it as if heralding Eros himself, just as another man appears at the left of the video. That’s barely an exaggeration. The figure to which she’s referring could double as the god in a movie. He seems to appear from nowhere, as ceiling lights burst and shower behind him, like he’s descending from freaking Mount Olympus in a fit of rage. Damn good way to describe what the guy’s mood looks like too. His strides are wide. His arms are an A, framing the air on either side of his body. His fists look like brutal coils at the end of muscled ropes. And holy shit, do I mean muscled. Having a tennis star for a sister means I actually know the name of every striation in the human arm, though rarely am I able to recall them while looking at them. His legs present the same fun game, and don’t get me started on his abdominals.

On second thought, go ahead and get me started.

All of that is encased in an outfit I can only describe as motocross meets rock god. The black leathers are so tight he should look like a pretentious jackass but weirdly doesn’t. His get-up has flexible fabric insets of some sort which cushion his glorious body in all the key places he needs to move. He even wears kick-ass boots—if that’s what they can be called—evoking Black Ops or SEALs, pieced in a crisscross up to his knees.

He’s part ninja, part ultimate fighter, part thundercloud—and a hundred percent captivating.

I can’t rip my stare off him. He seems to uncoil power like a live electrical wire—but with an insane body.

Truly insane.

“Holy…shit.” I finally summon the bandwidth in my brain to breathe.

“Nothing holy about what I’d love to do that guy.” Neeta snorts. “Whoever he is.”

“What do you—”

Eros-ninja-thunder-dude interrupts my question, stalking toward the robbers and planting his feet the same width as his fists. He lowers his head as if he’s saying something, and it earns him a triple hoodlum rush—which he answers by raising both fists and spreading his fingers until they’re strained wide. In another universe, I’d expect spider webs or fireballs to fly from his palms. In this one, there’s only a tangible but invisible shudder through the air that acts like a three-way punch striking the robbers.

It’s as impossible to comprehend as the levitation trick on the woman, but it’s the truth. Neeta’s gasp, in tandem with mine, tells me she thoroughly agrees. We’re riveted as the hero lifts his arm a little higher and flings it as if throwing trash away—which is very likely what he’s thinking too—as the hoodlums scatter into the air like a wind-tossed trio of used slushy cups, flying twenty feet before crashing into the drink coolers at the back of the store. They stick there for a few seconds, bawling in terror, before plummeting along with the glass to the floor. Whoever’s taking the cell footage provides a perfect flash of commentary.

“Yeah! Dude is takin’ care of business!”

I’m faintly aware Wade has scooped up his cyberguts long enough to wander in our direction. At the sounds of our reactions to the video, he scoots in behind us. “Fersh!” he shouts. “Get over here. It’s him.”

“Sure as hell is.” Every syllable out of Neeta is just sultry.

“Him who?” I demand as Fershan dips his head, baring a smile that’s brilliant against his dark skin.

“Dude,” he repeats, shoving Wade’s bony shoulder. “You’re right!”

“Him who?”

“Nobody knows,” Neeta supplies.

I glance back at the monitor. “Wait. Are you serious?” My scowl becomes a gape. “Is he serious? Is he really wearing a mask?”

Okay, not a big one. It’s like the Maserati of masks. Sleek and black and subtle, fitted like a tight blindfold across his upper face but with eyeholes. I can’t tell a lot from the angle of the video, but the eyeholes look like rectangles, almost making him look like a wavy-haired hipster with designer glasses. But instead of skinny jeans and a cardigan, he rocks custom leathers and weird-but-hot ninja boots.

“I think he’s pretty serious,” Wade responds as the ninja thunder god pivots, grabs a couple of extension cords off an endcap, and makes his way to the back of the store. Next to the hanging cords is a rack of mini flashlights, which all start to blink as his hand passes near.

“What on…” I whip a startled glance at the guys. “Did you see—”

“Yep,” they answer in unison.

For the next thirty seconds, we only see the storeowner glancing furtively toward the spot where weird electro man flung the bad guys, though the cell phone owner illuminates with his play-by-play. “Boss is usin’ those cords to tie those slimebags down. Yeah, man. That’s the way.”

When the video feed is filled with red and blue lights, the man in the Maserati mask snaps up. At once, hunk-god rapidly strides toward the front of the shop like a man on his way to save the world. Which, at this exact moment, doesn’t seem like an exaggeration at all.

Despite his near blur of speed, he’s mesmerizing. When he’s in the shot, my sights focus on him alone. I’m nervous but attracted, almost feeling like I’m on a first date—pretty lame, considering I haven’t exactly logged a ton of those—but the symptoms are the same.

I’m sweating.

I’m throbbing.

I’m aching.

In all the worst places.

“Holy…wow.”

The reaction tumbles out before I can stop myself.

“Aha. OC finally figures it out.” Neeta’s sarcasm saves me from having to summon a fun comeback to Wade and Fershan’s shouts.

“Is he gonna do it?”

“C’moooon. He has to do it!”

“Do what?” I ask.

“Please,” Neeta drawls. “He’s totally going to do it.”

“Do what?”

The guys bellow in victory as the hero on the screen checks on Santa Claus, spins away from the counter, drops into a stance similar to a competitive runner on the starting block…

And disappears.

“What…the…”

The store fills with flying paper, slushy straws, and condom packets—in short, anything that can easily be tossed around in a strong wind.

A revelation sets in. He didn’t disappear. He just left so fast, that was what it looked like.

Fershan and Wade launch into a leaping high five. “Gotta bolt!”

I want to join Neeta in chuckling at them but am trapped in stunned mode. I do manage to blurt, “Excuse me?”

Excitement adds to the ruddy flush on Wade’s face. “It’s his whoop.”

“His whoop?” I echo both syllables with slow caution.

“Like his war cry,” Fershan interjects. “It distinguishes him. Puts his unique stamp on shit.”

“Because that outfit and the mask don’t do that already?”

“Easily copied,” Fershan asserts. “But the whoop is unique. Nobody can say it like the original.” His gaze twinkles. “Every self-respecting super hero has one.”

My scowl disappears—to make room for my gape.

“Okay, whoa. Are you guys telling me—”

A shrill bell cuts me short. The door to our offices, locked at night, sets off the sound when someone uses a fob to open it. The security measure isn’t all that safe, though, because most of the time we ignore the alert. The only people who have fobs are supposed to have them.

Tonight, that’s not the case.

Wade, Fershan, and Neeta snap their heads up in matching alarm. Before I can question their paranoia, they’re hustling like someone’s just yanked the fire alarms on every floor of the tower.

“Damn it,” Neeta hisses.

The guys add earthier expressions.

“Hey.” I sprint as fast as my heels will allow, catching up with them. “What’s going on? Somebody want to fill in the new kid?”

“Shit,” Wade blurts as if I haven’t spoken. He darts a frantic look at his buddy. “He never uses this entrance.”

“He who?”

Fershan swallows. “Unless he’s spying on us.”

“He who?” They’ll have to acknowledge me eventually.

Neeta rolls her eyes. “His last name is on the letterhead, guys. He’s not ‘spying.’ He’s checking up on the business.”

I stop so hard my toes turn to jammed stubs in my pumps. His last name. On the letterhead. “Holy crap.”

My stunned gasp has justifiable cause. The only person I’d never expected to meet, even if I worked days instead of nights, is the same man who approves my paycheck every two weeks. I’ve heard enough about Reece Richards to figure that much out and to use it as the springboard for my discomfort now.

Okay, yeah, I’d known about the guy before landing the job—though only through thirty-second mentions on glossy entertainment news shows and his paparazzi-favored face on every magazine in the grocery store. The Richards family’s gorgeous youngest, known as much for his unconventional business ideas as for his unrestrained sex drive, had only gotten wilder after college. At some point, he stepped into some shit pile so deep, he was banished here, ordered to run the family’s West Coast hotels from LA.

Needless to say, I don’t expect to meet a happy guy.

Honestly, I wonder if I can get out of meeting him at all. I won’t even have to lie about the stack of work I just left behind—and the fact that the news feed is still running on the monitor doesn’t hurt either.

Who the hell am I kidding?

All I can think about is watching that robbery footage again. If my rampaging libido doesn’t already dictate it, Wade and Fershan’s insane claim sure as hell does.

Super hero?

They’re joking.

They have to be.

Even if the man can toss electric pulses, levitate people, and go zero to light speed in three seconds, that doesn’t make him a freaking super hero.

Then what does it make him?

I’m forced—saved?—from contemplating that further as the air shimmers with new energy.

Okay, energy might be pushing it—but I’m not sure what other label fits this crazy surge of feeling. Is it a quickening? Full-blown anxiety? Leftover thrills from the excitement of watching Maserati Man? This feels like more. As if every ion in the air has been plugged into a cosmic supercharger.

“Mr. Richards. What a pleasant surprise!”

Higher.

Power.

Neither word does him justice. Even strung together, they barely do the job.

Reece Richards is nothing I expected.

And everything I need to fear.

It’s not just the physical stuff—though, holy wow, that’s the obvious place to start. It’s all there, just as I remember from the magazines. The gray gaze so deeply set, the irises resemble midnight. The nose so bold and masculine, it could only be paired with a lush, elegant mouth. And those plush curves are set into a jaw of such sharp angles, I wonder if it’s as alluring when clenched. That’s all before getting started on his hair. And yes, his hair is really worth the attention. I know this because no matter what, I’ve always gawked twice at the man’s photos just because of those dark auburn waves.

But like I said…that’s only the beginning.

His beauty—there really is no other way to say it—is the thinnest nick on the surface of what it’s like to look at him. Experience him. Is the air buzzing? Are my breaths xylophoning my ribs? Have my nerve endings been punched to a higher resonance?

Presence. Aura. Mystique.

All words I’ve heard before—and thought I understood.

And never have. Not really.

And that leads back to the wanting. And the fear because of the wanting. As in, already fighting visions of what it’d be like to leap at the man, wrap my thighs around his toned hips, and fit every inch of my needy cleft along his swollen—

“Miss Jain. Good evening.”

His acknowledgement to Neeta, followed by similar greetings to the guys, is delivered in a voice as powerful but silken as an ocean wave on the shore. His voice. At once it worsens—and heightens—my fantasy. Now, as I mentally jump him, he’s rasping like that in my ear. Saying illicit, erotic things… Things I haven’t allowed myself to think of doing with a man in a very long time.

Ride me harder, Emma.

Things I can’t—I won’t—allow myself to think now.

I want to be inside you, Emma.

Not. Now.

I’m going to fuck you deep, Emma.

Not with a man like him.

But all I can focus on is him, standing there with his tall, graceful body filling out that dark navy suit and matching tie, the fit so perfect my stare can’t help but wander…

Everywhere.

Yes, even down there.

Oh…wow.

His bold, hard elegance is so not a disappointment.

Stop.

The dictate echoes through my head in Mother’s voice. Appropriate. Too damn much so. What would she think if she were here? And why does this man himself seem to read every nuance of those thoughts as they seize my mind—and be just as tense as me about them?

“Good evening yourself, boss.” Wade scoots forward and eagerly pumps Richards’s hand. Though Neeta barely masks her horror about the familiarity, the “boss” himself seems mildly amused. “Deciding to slum it with the commoners for a bit tonight?”

A ripple of confusion crosses Richards’s brow. “Of course,” he says slowly, as if reading Wade’s lips and guessing at the meaning.

Neeta, still more rattled than I’ve ever seen her, pushes out a huff. “Mr. Richards doesn’t have time for slumming it.” With a look drenched in apology, she clarifies, “He’s here to collect the weekly reports, of course. And has extended the honor of doing so in person.”

It’s difficult to interpret Richards’s new expression. Relief? Surprise? Both or neither, the angles of his face are beyond riveting. “Right. The reports.” His voice is almost a question, though the words don’t seem to match.

He pivots toward me and our eyes lock. I open my mouth, but there’s nothing. I wonder if it’ll ever be capable of sound again. Especially when he appears to lean closer, as if there’s something we should say to each other. How did a blade of lightning find its way through the concrete jungle outside to zero in on my swimming, careening senses?

The room tilts, forcing me to an inescapable conclusion.

The lightning…is him.

I suck in a breath. He does the same. He seems puzzled. Angry. Maybe neither. What’s he feeling? Why can’t I figure it out? I need to figure it out. The need is urgent, pinging harder and harder at me…

What the hell is he doing to me?

No. What isn’t he doing to me? I feel like my sex drive is jammed into a light socket, and I never want to rip it out again—even when Fershan rushes over, wrecking our moment. “It’s not yet eleven, Mr. Richards. We can’t have the weeklies ready for you until after midnight.”

Neeta backhands his shoulder before turning on the charm for Richards again. “What he means is that we’ll get to work on them right away for you, sir. We’ve tricked the system forward in the past for forecasting, and I’m sure this time—”

“No.” The man’s interruption is calm but commanding as he realigns his posture. “Midnight’s not that far away. Just have someone bring the report to the penthouse when it’s ready.”

“Of course, Mr. Richards. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr.—”

The whump of the closing elevator doors serves as her conclusion. After two more seconds to confirm the elevator is really carrying the boss away, Wade and Fershan erupt into brutal snickers.

“‘My, what a pleasant surprise, Mr. Richards.’”

“‘Your wish is my command, Mr. Richards.’”

She jerks an eyebrow Wade’s way. “‘Slumming it down here, Mr. Richards?’”

“Hey.” He ticks the air with a forefinger. “He laughed!”

Fershan snorted. “As much as a guy like that can laugh.”

“A guy like that?” I can’t help the accusing edge in my echo.

Wade chuffs. “C’mon, Emma. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Not sure I do.” I’m able to replace the indictment with confusion—and mean it.

“Of course you do,” he counters. “Dude probably bought an airline and banged three flight attendants before breakfast this morning. When that far on top of the world, who needs humor? Laughing is a time burner, you know?”

Neeta smirks. “Perhaps he just knows the value of a good smolder.”

“A good smolder?” Wade grunts. “Or a bad brood?”

Their round of laughter isn’t the reaction I expected. When I step back, flustered, Neeta gently grabs my shoulder. “It’s all right, Emma. You don’t have to pretend for us. That you didn’t feel it?” she supplies when my frown deepens.

“Seriously?” Wade volleys. “Even a corpse would feel it.”

I jerk out of Neeta’s hold. “Feel what? Honestly, what are you guys talking about?”

They fall into silence and exchange glances, as if concurring I’ve just sprouted a second head. And then Wade breaks it to me gently. “The guy’s weird, Emma.”

Yeah. In all the most incredible ways.

But that isn’t how Wade means it. One glance at the color staining up to his light ginger hairline and I know it.

“The last time I checked, ‘weird’ wasn’t a crime.”

Fershan smacks a hard facepalm. Neeta exhales with meaning.

“You’re saying that right now because he’s got you by the hormones.” Wade’s astoundingly gentle about that one. “And that’s all right. He’s made of money, manners, and damn good genetics. But once all that wears off, you’ll start agreeing with us.”

“He’s got me by the—” I interrupt myself with a grunting laugh. Is he serious right now? Holy shit. He’s serious. They all are. “I may be from the boonies, Wade, but I’m not fourteen. My ‘hormones’ aren’t your business—or anyone else’s.”

Fershan steps in. “Of course,” he mutters. “We weren’t implying they were. We’ve just been here longer, and know the situation better, and ask you to consider all that.”

“As you trash-talk your own boss?” I retort.

“As we speak the truth as we know it.” He exhales roughly. “You’ve been here less than a month. We were waiting for you to get more settled in before speaking to you about Mr. Richards’s…situation. He’s not the person you think he is, Emma.”

I flash a sardonic look. “No kidding.”

“You must listen to me.” He grabs both my shoulders. “He’s…not right, Emma. The man the media has glorified isn’t the one running this hotel. He’s…”

“What?” I’m tired of feeling like the one kid on the science team who hasn’t seen the dissected frog. “What the heck is he? Spit it out, Fershan.”

He compresses his lips. “He’s just…strange, all right?”

“Arrgghh.” I toss up both hands and whirl away from all of them. “No,” I finally snap. “It’s not all right.”

An hour later, I don’t feel any differently. If anything, my feet are planted deeper into that mental sand, mostly because of confusion. How have I perceived things so differently than Neeta, Wade, and Fershan? I’ve only known them for a couple of weeks, but they’ve seemed sensible and smart—at least until tonight, with all their talk about a super hero on the streets and a wackadoodle boss in the penthouse. That being said, there’s no way to disremember the surreal experience of coming face-to-face with Reece Richards. The charged air and the electric presence, sucking out my breaths and telescoping my vision.

Who’s really going nuts here?

And do I want to pass up a chance to find out?

My psyche fires off the question as the printer in the next room starts spewing the weekly reports.

And my whole body answers with three sweeps of decisive action.

One kick. Pump number one is off.

Second kick. Pump number two meets the same fate.

Motion three—a ninja-quiet sprint over to the printer and a surreptitious swipe of the contents in the tray.

Before another minute is up, I’m in the back-of-house elevator, jamming my shoes back on and stabbing the button marked P.

Preparing myself for weird.

No. Hoping for it.