Fender walked into the lobby of the apartment building on Fifth Avenue and almost turned around and walked back out. Marble echoed beneath his shoes and the cool air-conditioned air of the lobby fought back the thick soup that had accompanied him from the subway. Luxury in the midst of the city.

And the very thing he’d mentally battled since the news his father was back in town.

The building was elegant and understated, but the wealth was obvious. The woman who lived there wore that wealth with ease. And he was the street rat raised, for part of his life, by someone who not only coveted what others had, but would think nothing of trying to take it.

Which was why he needed to leave, not give his name to the doorman.

Like a steady drumbeat, that reality had pounded through him since Nick’s visit to his shop the day before. No matter how he looked at it, there was no way he could continue something with Harlow. It had taken Mrs. W. exactly three nanoseconds to see there was a spark between them. The rest of their table the previous Friday at the End Zone had caught on a few moments later. There would be no keeping a relationship with her under wraps.

Which meant there was no keeping it from his father.

And fuck it all, how was it he’d reached his thirties—his goddamn thirties?—and still lived in fear of his father.

The doorman waved him toward the elevators. “Twelfth floor, Mr. Blackstone. Ms. Reynolds is expecting you.”

The elevator gave a smooth ride to twelve and he stepped off into a polished lobby. A small table hugged the wall, a Tiffany lamp lit at its center. The hall had a warm, welcoming glow to it, with four apartments spaced off the central entrance. He scanned the doors saw the small plaque bearing “12D” on the last one to his right.

He knocked, and before he could even consider heading back to the elevator, the woman of his dreams stood on the opposite side of the threshold. The urge to goggle was strong, but he forced himself to stand there and not touch her. She was light and beautiful and stunning and fresh, and in that moment, he realized he hadn’t touched her because of one reason and one reason alone.

He was afraid to.

The reality of his life—the one that had haunted him since birth and couldn’t ever be erased—would ruin that light and freshness as surely as he stood there. If he tried in any way to claim her, that reality would spoil all that she was.

“Come in.”

Harlow gestured him inside, and he shoved his hands in his pockets, moving through the door and quickly taking a spot several feet away from her. The slightest dip marred the space between her brows but otherwise she showed nothing as she turned to close the door.

Don’t be a bastard, Blackstone. Tell her why you’re here. Why you can’t stay. Why you have to leave for her own good.

“You look handsome.”

He glanced down at the gray slacks and the dark button-down he’d paired with them. “I fix up every now and again.”

“I like it.” The light scent of her tickled his nose as she moved up close. Her hand pressed to his chest as she leaned in for a kiss. Ass that he was, he took it. Nearly took more before holding himself back.

Her voice was husky and warm when she spoke. “I also like the jeans and T-shirts so perhaps I’m a bit biased.”

She stepped back, the soft curls of her hair brushing against his cheek as another wave of her scent enveloped him. Immediately, his mind filled with images of tangled bodies wrapped up in each other, and he could imagine her rising up above him, sheathed in moonlight.

The image hit him so hard he felt it to his toes and nearly stumbled where he stood. It was only the fear of looking dumber than he already felt that had him shifting his stance and righting himself.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I have reservations a few blocks away, at Delano’s.”

“I haven’t been there in much too long. Excellent choice.”

Fender wasn’t so sure about that, but he was pleased his internet research had paid off. The steak house’s menu had sounded like a good choice when he’d looked up places in her neighborhood, and the pictures on the site made him think they’d have a quiet table to themselves. Which had seemed like a good idea when he’d booked it on Monday. Now he wasn’t so sure.

“Ready to go?”

“Sure.” He shrugged and gestured toward the door. “I’ll follow you out.”

Again, that slight dent dipped in her forehead, but she didn’t say anything. He wasn’t immune to the body language that had grown stiffer the longer he stood in her front hallway like a raging ass, but he knew of no other way to get through the evening and get the hell out of Dodge. It was too late to cancel now. He’d come all this way, and she’d dressed up, and he’d embarrass her with her doorman if he headed back out the way he’d came.

Right, because the doorman’s opinion is the problem here.

He hoped like hell his internal monologue wasn’t at all visible on his face. Instead, what he needed to do was cool the hell down and focus on getting through the evening. Treat it like a farewell dinner or something. Enjoy dinner with a hot woman, have a good steak, and call it a night.

End of story.

But watching the light swish of her hips as he followed her out the door, Fender realized just how foolish he’d been. He should have cut and run while he had the chance. Instead, he was going to have to buck up and take his punishment.

One savory bite at a time.

* * *

Harlow painted on her sweetest smile for the host as he led them to their table. She recognized the man—Delano’s had been one of her father’s favorite places—and had appreciated the sweet welcome he’d given her when she and Fender walked in.

It had been that kind face that had helped her keep it together. That and the fact that she wasn’t actually interested in making a scene in public.

What had possibly happened since the flirting and the kissing and the all-around perfect day she and Fender had shared on Sunday? Other than the unfortunate reminder in the park the day before of just how nosy her friends could be, she had looked forward to their date all week. Yet here he was, acting like a man headed to the gallows.

She wanted to ask him what was wrong. Just have it out and push it into the open, but he continued to look uncomfortable and . . . unapproachable.

For all his stoic demeanor and bad-boy appearance, in all their interactions, she hadn’t found him to be unapproachable. Aloof, maybe. Certainly reserved and protective of whatever it was that went on in his stubborn head. But not the cold, almost harsh figure he cut this evening.

He seemed so separate. So out of the moment. And so obviously wishing he were somewhere else.

She’d nearly turned on her heel and walked out. But then there’d be that whole making-a-scene thing, and she’d already spotted one of her mother’s friends on the far side of the restaurant. Millie Farrell hadn’t waved yet but it was only a matter of time before the woman saw them.

When Harlow realized they were being seated clear on the opposite side of the room, in a quiet, dark corner, she took a deep breath. Perhaps Millie wouldn’t seem them. Maybe she’d even get out of this with her pride intact.

Because she sure as hell wasn’t getting out with her heart intact. Not if the attitude freezing her out from across the small table was any indication of what was to come.

Once settled, Harlow placed her napkin in her lap and contemplated how quickly she could take the edge off. She normally drank a modest amount on dates, but the urge to blot out what was already a miserable experience hit her hard.

“What can I get you, miss?”

“A double vodka, neat,” she ordered, her gaze and smile for the waiter only. If the man sensed the tension, he said nothing, his own smile firmly in place. But he hightailed it off as soon as Fender ordered a Scotch.

Smart man, Harlow thought to herself. She picked up her menu, still determined to avoid eye contact with Fender. So it was a surprise when his deep voice whispered across the table. “What are you having?”

“Humble pie, apparently.”

“I wasn’t aware it was on the menu.”

She lifted her gaze, unwilling to let him off the hook. “Oh no?”

“No. If it was, I would have seen it already and decided to order it.”

As apologies went it wasn’t much, but it was a start. “What’s wrong with you tonight?”

“Nothing.”

She waited, hoping he’d change his answer. She even gave him a few extra moments when the waiter came back with their drinks. It was only after he left, granting her request for a bit more time with the menu, that she finally spoke. “I thought you didn’t lie.”

“I don—” He broke off, he hand stilling as he reached for his drink. “I don’t lie. But I can’t tell you what’s wrong.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t. Which is a crappy answer, but it’s the only one I have.”

She let that sink in, aware that honesty didn’t always leave one with the best feelings. Especially when she was curious to know what had him upset.

“Did I do something?”

“Not at all.” His answer came winging back at her far faster than she expected.

“Oh.”

“Look, I shouldn’t have come out in a bad mood. And I’m not trying to put you in one. Why don’t we focus on dinner? The specials look good.” He tapped the small paper that had been inserted in their menus. “No humble pie but their lobster thermidor looks good. Order it and torture me with the images of the sex I’m not going to have tonight because I’m an asshole.”

“I avoid ordering lobster on dates for all the clichéd reasons you just identified.” She kept her gaze and added a subtle layer of frost for good measure. “I also avoid dating assholes, as a rule.”

“Then why’d you come out with me?”

The comment was enough to break the tension, but it was the look in his eyes that really got her. There was fear there, even as he teased her. She recognized it—saw the way it tensed up his face, drawing his cheekbones into taut peaks—but had no idea the reason for it.

Had something happened to him?

Harlow wanted to keep probing, but held herself back. Something was wrong, but she instinctively knew that pushing on it wasn’t going to net her the answers she wanted. So instead she took a sip of her drink and did one of the things she did best.

She sparkled and shined, putting every ounce of her Upper East Side training to good use.

And did her level best to help him forget whatever had made him afraid.

* * *

“It wasn’t lobster, but it was a darn fine steak.” Harlow smoothed her napkin on her lap, her mood considerably lighter than when they walked in. A situation he was solely responsible for, but which she’d decided not to be as upset about after her delicious steak, vodka double, and two glasses of really excellent wine.

“Eminently so?” Fender asked, something heated and sexy filling his gaze, deftly replacing the darkness she’d seen earlier.

“Eminently.”

The vague notion that they’d found their way back on track—and what could come of that after they arrived back at her apartment—did battle with her lingering upset over his earlier attitude. She wasn’t one to hold a grudge, and she’d grant him his privacy, but she didn’t deserve the cold shoulder.

Or the hot and cold routine.

Their waiter had dropped off dessert menus, and Harlow eyed them warily. “I’m not sure dessert is a good idea.”

“You disappoint me, woman who managed three chili dogs all by herself.”

“You had a third too,” she shot back in a lame attempt to justify the fact that she really wanted the chocolate lava cake.

“I’ll share it with you.”

“Share what with me?”

“The lava cake you keep circling around.”

“How’d you—” She stopped when she glanced down and realized her finger lay on top of the words. “You win. Lava cake it is.”

“Done.”

They both ordered coffees with the dessert, and Harlow marveled at the change in him. There was still a distance in him—the wariness hadn’t fully left his gaze—but he had relaxed a bit. And as the meal went on, she’d seen definite glimpses of the easy camaraderie and sexual tension they’d shared. In fact, things had shaped up so well, she’d almost convinced herself she wasn’t at all curious about what had put him in a mood.

Yeah, right, Reynolds.

The waiter arrived with their dessert and coffee, the scent of warm, gooey chocolate doing a number on her resistance. Fender Blackstone already did things to her libido, and now here she was sharing a decadent dessert with him.

“I’m sorry about before. You deserve better.”

“Better than what?” Harlow asked.

“Better than a guy who doesn’t have the balls to break things off with you by doing it to your face.”

“Oh.” She set her fork down, the thought of eating anything else souring what was already there. “Oh, I see.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“No, I think I see fine. I’m not sure why you waited until now to tell me, but I see fine.”

Of all the things she’d been expecting, a letdown at the end of the meal wasn’t it. Despite the rocky start, they’d had a nice evening. And here he was, dumping her? She reached for her purse, lifting the small strap from the back of her chair, when Fender stopped her, stilling her movements with a gentle hand to her forearm. “I’m trying to explain things. Would you give me a minute?”

Embarrassed heat still flooded her face, and all she really wanted to do was get out of there, but she waited. And as she looked at him, she saw that look of fear flash once more in his eyes.

With startling clarity, she realized nothing that was happening had anything to do with her beyond being collateral damage.

“Something happened this week,” she said.

“Look, I said I can’t talk about it.”

“But it’s big enough to walk away from whatever this is between us?”

“Yes.”

The desire to run was still strong, but the bigger desire to understand what was going on won out. “Let’s get out of here and you can tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m not—”

“Let’s get out of here.”

Seemingly resigned, Fender reached for the check the waiter had laid down and set out his credit card. Whether on purpose from observing their tense evening all night, or just because the place had great service, their waiter had the bill cleared and the check back in a matter of minutes, a carryout bag in his hand.

“An extra lava cake to go.” The waiter winked at her, leaving no doubt he understood the tension at the table. “On the house.”

The walk back to her apartment was only about six blocks, and Harlow gave Fender two of them before she spoke. “What has you so upset?”

“My father’s back.”

She’d already expected him to stall and push off telling her what had him so upset, so the simple answer stopped her, even before the Don’t Walk sign flashed at the crosswalk.

“When?”

“Yesterday.” He shifted from foot to foot, that nervous energy back in spades. “Nick told me my father was back in town.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Not yet.”

“But this is the reason you didn’t want to come tonight?”

“I don’t want you anywhere near him.”

Harlow took in his words, bumping them up against the reality of the fear she’d seen. Fear that now had a name since he’d told her what was bothering him.

“But he’s not here. He can’t find us here.”

“Maybe not, but he will. Park Heights is small, and it won’t take long for him to figure out we’re dating.”

She tried to process what he was telling her but found it difficult to reconcile the panicked picture he outlined. “You’ve had problems in the past?”

“Not with anyone I’ve dated, but he did make trouble for Nick when he was first drafted into the NFL.”

“Trouble how?”

“He saw dollar signs and tried to get some out of Nick. Made a bunch of threats about how he’d rough him up. When that didn’t work, he added how he’d rough up our mom if Nick didn’t pay up.”

“Did he hurt her?”

“Nick fixed the problem. My brother’s a big guy, and few people are dumb enough to mess with him. But my father underestimated how well-liked Nick was by his cronies, too.”

“What happened then?”

“Nick had him run out of town.”

Although she knew Fender had a past, “cronies” and “run out of town” suggested a far rougher life than she’d realized. Whatever fantasies she’d spun about Fender Blackstone the bad boy had a darker edge than she’d imagined.

Or given him credit for.

“Is your father a criminal?”

“Small-time. He’s crafty and hasn’t ever been convicted of anything—” He stopped on a harsh laugh. “At least as far as I know. But if he’s stayed true to form, he knows how to lay low. How to hang under the radar. He’s small-time petty stuff, but that doesn’t make him any less dangerous.”

“Do you think he leveled up? While he’s been gone?”

The question was an odd one, but in her world, people progressed in jobs. In life. If you were good at something, you got promoted.

Had Fender’s father done the same once he got out of New York?

“Leveling up, even in crime, takes ambition and hard work. My father’s not particularly good at either.”

She took it in, careful to observe him as they walked. His shoulders had hunched slightly, and she could see him physically closing in.

Closing off.

And going to a place far, far away from her.

“Let’s take this from a different angle. He’s been gone a long time. Why do you assume he’s going to cause problems? It’s not like Nick wouldn’t make good on his promise. And you’re no slouch, Fender. I’m sure you’re more than able to take care of yourself.”

“I’m fine. He can’t hurt me, and if he tries, I will take care of myself. But I can’t do the same for you. Especially if he figures out we’re dating and goes off on his own to find you.”

“This is crazy talk. How is he even going to find me?”

He whirled on her again, a block from her apartment. The other high-rises that made up her stretch of Fifth Avenue rose up behind them, sentinels of wealth and privilege and prosperity.

They were her life. Her past, present, and what she’d always believed was her future. And in a matter of days, they’d become a liability to what she increasingly believed she needed in her life to be happy.

“You’re a beautiful, wealthy woman. All it takes is one look at you to see it. Hell, my entire apartment would fit inside your living room.”

“He’s not going to know that.”

“He’ll find out. And when he does, you won’t be safe.”

* * *

Fender followed Harlow into her building, the doorman greeting them once again. “Ms. Reynolds. Mr. Blackstone.”

“Evening, Patrick,” she said. “Good night?”

“They’re all good nights.” Patrick winked. “But it helps that it’s a quiet Wednesday.”

“I hope it stays that way.”

There was a genuineness in her greeting and the exchange, and again, Fender was struck by her kindness. Her warmth. And the even kinder gesture in handing over her dessert. “Our waiter decided to gift us with an extra dessert. While lovely, I was far too decadent over dinner. I hope you’ll enjoy it. It’s still warm and there’s a fork already in there.”

Patrick’s indulgent smile grew warm. “You should save it for yourself.”

She patted his hand and offered up a wry smile. “I’m not up for extra miles around the reservoir this week.”

“I’d hate to put you to any extra effort, then.” Patrick grinned before he peeked into the bag. “No extra effort at all.”

The elevator opened as soon as she pressed the button, and Fender stepped in behind her. “That was nice of you. Especially since our waiter gave it to you as a consolation for a shitty evening with me.”

“I wouldn’t call it shitty.”

“Monumentally shitty?”

Her eyebrows rose but she said nothing, just walked out of the elevator when the doors slid smoothly open.

Fender followed, his gaze hungry as he took in the picture she made. Her hair hung in long waves down her back, full of wide, looping curls. They were soft—he already knew that—and he wanted to touch them. Wanted to touch all of her.

But he held himself back.

He had no right to touch her. No right to spoil her life with what terrible things lay in his.

Harlow unlocked the door, then turned toward him. “Come in, Fender.”

“I shouldn’t. Really—” She stilled his words with only a glance, her eyes a wild blue in the midst of that tempting face.

God, she was gorgeous. It clawed at him, both her beauty and the amazing person he knew lived inside her skin. What was on the surface was only a small portion of her true beauty.

How she treated others. How she spoke to them. How she respected them. That was the real truth in her beauty, and it made her so very much more than a pretty face.

She was amazing.

“Come inside, Fender.” She said it again, added her hands on his to pull him close. “We can talk about everything else in the morning.”

“I have to leave.”

“In the morning. You can go then. But you’re giving both of us this right now.” Her words were the lilting, tempting song of a siren.

He knew he needed to fight them—needed to avoid crashing on the rocks that surely awaited him—but there was no way he could walk away.

No way he could leave her.

Not when she looked at him like that. Or when her lips pressed against his throat, heat over the pulse that throbbed there. And certainly not when her hands slipped over the buttons of his shirt, slipping them free one by one.

He pressed the heavy wood door closed with the palm of his hand, then pulled her against him, his back against the door. As soon as the lock clicked into place and he was assured of their privacy, he plundered.