Chapter 1

Cain

What did every woman in Chicago have in common?

They all wanted this dick.

Literally.

I shrugged off the fruity fuckin’ bathrobe the hotel had provided me in the luxury suite upstairs and rolled my shoulders, shook out my arms, waggled my head, and ignored the resultant blur.

Too much to drink? Maybe. But, baby, it was party time, and on the other side of these doors, nirvana awaited. My paradise. My perfection. At last I’d have what I’d wanted for the past day and a half.

A dip in the sudsy hot tub.

Essential for sobering up before the charity event this evening. And even better if there just so happened to be a couple of gorgeous ladies on the other side of these doors to witness my entrance—the dick cravers.

Shit, they’d probably bore me like everything else did. But what else was there to do in this place? In this world? What else was there for a man like me?

I had everything and nothing at the same time.

Money didn’t buy happiness. Or maybe it did, just not for me.

Screw the empty throbbing hole, man. Not that one, Christ. Easy. Easy. The proverbial hole. Ah, forget it.

I shook my hips to air myself out downstairs—ah, wink, wink—then placed a hand on the wood-paneled door.

Vibrations hummed against my palm, but I didn’t hesitate. Why would I? I’d never hesitated a day, a moment, a millisecond in my entire life.

I pushed the door inward and walked into the room, squinting in the sudden glare from lights overhead. What idiot put lights this bright by the Jacuzzi? I’ll have his ass on toast. “Is this what you’ve been waiting for?” I asked, grinning at nothing.

A collective gasp dragged me to my senses.

I forced my eyes open wider, wider, wider.

And… damn.

The room, no, the hall, in front of me was filled with tables, each outfitted with a cutesy little centerpiece which did nothing to hide the shocked expressions on the faces of the people sitting everywhere.

Every. Fucking. Where.

Jaws dropped. Eyes widened. And gazes focused on me, most of them darting down between my legs. Could I blame them? No. Was this ideal? Probably not.

My brain tumbled to catch up.

Women pressed their hands to their lipsticked mouths, and one of them, a familiar face in the crowd, shook her head. Wait a second, wasn’t that what’s-her-face? The daughter of my dad’s business partner.

Margot.

The one who owned a tattoo shop.

What was she doing here?

And why’d she gone red in the face?

And where the hell was the goddamned Jacuzzi?

I had one of two options: cover my junk and retreat backward, humiliated, or own it.

Owning it came naturally to me.

I placed my hands on my hips and offered the good folks a smile. “Looks like your entertainment for the night has arrived. Unfortunately, I can’t stay long, folks. I’ve got a bachelorette party down the hall begging for attention.”

Crickets met that declaration.

Behind me, a man cleared his throat into a microphone.

I sloshed toward him, blinking behind the booze-tinted glasses—then froze.

A bucket of ice dropped in my gut.

Oh fuck.

I seldom took back jokes, but if I could, this would’ve been one of those times.

The man on the podium at the end of the hall was the head of the charity which I helped sponsor.

Mr. Begay wore his long dark hair in a ponytail and a feather around his neck, resting against the front of his suit. His dark eyebrows drew downward above a sharp nose. Eagle eyes.

Wait a second, if he was here…

And the event was…

“What time is it?” I asked. A door opened to my left, and cold wind assaulted my cock. A man and woman entered, arm-in-arm and dressed in evening wear—tux and a glitzy gown. The woman let out a shrill squeak at the sight of me.

Oh Jesus, this was the event. It had to be. The event was tonight, but tonight was now? How had I missed this? It wasn’t possible.

“Mr. Foster,” Begay growled, into the microphone.

I didn’t shift my hands off my hips. I didn’t back down. There would be a way to salvage this shitty situation, there always was. “I see I’ve made it in time, Mr. Begay,” I said. “I—ran into mist hap along the way.” Mist hap. That was the right word. Of course, it was. “A gang of crooks who stole my clothes. But, don’t worry, I kicked their lily-white asses too.”

Another gasp from the onlookers.

You’d swear this was a telenovela.

Begay’s gaze darkened further. “Mr. Foster—”

A hand grazed my forearm and sent a jolt through me. I looked left and blinked.

It was her.

The one and only stick-up-the-ass daughter of that business partner. I’d gone to school with her. I’d lusted after her. I’d never claimed her. My cock stirred, and I shifted one hand down to shield it for the first time.

Naked was totally fine. I’d always been comfortable in my birthday suit, but sporting a rager probably wouldn’t leave the best impression. Not on the men, at least.

“Margot, right?” I asked, a little too loudly, searching her face, memorizing it. Little mole above her full lips. Button nose. Heart-shaped face. Pixie ears, cartilage pierced, and blonde hair.

Fuckable in the extreme. She probably had a clit piercing.

Christ, everyone was still staring. Mr. Begay’s eyes were set to pop out of his skull.

Margot sighed. “I would be flattered you remember me, but—”

“You should be,” I replied. “I’m a very busy man.”

She gave me a once-over. She lowered her voice. “Clearly. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Mr. Begay will probably have an aneurysm if you stand here any longer. Or he’ll call the cops.”

Fuck. The cops. I definitely couldn’t afford dealing with them again. “This way,” I said, and walked toward the exit, nodding to anyone who made eye contact with me, doling out cocky smiles left and right.

Mr. Begay’s voice growled behind us. “Apologies for the interruption, ladies and gentlemen. We will commence in approximately ten minutes.”

“Looks like you’re in trouble,” Margot whispered, out of the corner of her plump-lipped mouth as we sailed toward the same doors I’d used to bust the roof off this event.

“In trouble?” I chuckled, and stepped out into the hall, definitely cooler and darker out here, thank god.

“That’s right.”

I dragged a finger down Margot’s cheek and to her chin. “Baby, I am trouble.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” she replied, and stepped out of reach. “I’m not interested in trouble, Cain.”

She never had been. What a pity.

“You should try it sometime,” I said. “You might be surprised. In fact, trouble might be what you’re missing. Trouble might be exactly what you need, gorgeous.”

Margot folded her arms across her chest—not ample, just two handfuls of perfection captured beneath an inky blue evening gown. “You haven’t changed one bit,” she whispered. “How long has it been? Twelve years since high school?”

“You’ve been thinking about me,” I said, and cocked my head to the side. “Listen, I know you’re probably concerned about all the drama in there.” I gestured toward the doors again, and the fast-approaching Mr. Begay. “But I’m much more interested in why you’re still standing here. Looking at me like that. You’re obviously captivated, sweetheart, and I hate to break it to you, but I don’t do relationships.”

She clicked her tongue, rolled her eyes. “Because if I don’t hang around, you’ll probably wander off and mentally scar another room full of do-gooders.”

“I sponsor the National Fund for Animal Rescue, darlin’. Does that make me a do-gooder? That’s derogatory.”

Her gaze drifted down to my cock, and it twitched again. She shifted it back up, tracing the lines of tattoos covering my arms and my chest, all the way up my neck. Margot gulped audibly, her cheeks heated. “No one could call you that,” she whispered. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to the event. Hopefully, it won’t be interrupted again.”

Margot walked a few steps, clicked to a halt in the doorway, and looked back over her shoulder at me. “I’m only saying this because you’re an old friend, Cain.”

“Friends? Is that what we were?”

“Fuck, forget it,” she hissed.

“No, no, I’m all ears.” I waved my hand, still consciously aware of how close I was to giving this woman a standing ovation.

“You need to clean up your act, Cain. If this is an example of how you’re behaving in public, I can’t even imagine—never mind,” she said, and shook her head, threw in a laugh. “I don’t know why I care.”

“Because you always did,” I replied.

She stiffened, her blue eyes hardened to steel. Her lips parted again, but she didn’t let out a sound. Margot Reed, tattoo artist—one of my many hobbies, but her entire lifestyle—and the only woman who’d ever walked away, did it again.

She left.

Her heels clicked on the parquet flooring. She disappeared into the crowd, and another shape took her place.

Mr. Begay.

Here we go. This should be fun.

“Mr. Foster,” the hawk of a man said, and tucked his arms behind his back.

“I’m sorry,” I replied, immediately. Apologies grated at my fucking being, but in this case, I was happy to give one, drunk or not. I did care about this charity. I cared about feeling something, and giving to others, to animals, to people, was the only thing that made me feel anymore.

The partying was only a time-filler. And even that hadn’t worked out well.

All the thrills in the world couldn’t plug the broken gap I’d found inside myself. The one I couldn’t explain or fill.

Mr. Begay gripped his forehead, the veins on the back of his hand cording. “This is—Mr. Foster, you’re one of our primary sponsors. Your mother was a founder of our charity, and heaven knows we miss her guidance more every passing day.”

My heart dropped hard.

Mr. Begay continued, “You’ve helped us more than most, but we can’t turn a blind eye to this behavior for much longer.”

I bristled. “I’m helping you.”

“Not when you do this, you aren’t,” Mr. Begay said, and dropped his hand, gesturing to my nakedness. “We’re not small anymore, Mr. Foster, and while we truly appreciate your donations, we simply cannot associate with this type of behavior, particularly from one of our primary sponsors. And the child of a founder.”

“You’re giving me an ultimatum.” I didn’t do well with ultimatums. Usually, I’d do exactly the opposite of what was required.

“Yes,” Mr. Begay replied. “Either you clean up your act or we will have to kindly decline your help from now on.”

That was a kick to the gut.

Doing this was the only thing that kept me remotely sane. Between the adrenaline rushes and crazy days, charity work was my rock. And the fact that this was my mother’s charity? It was the only piece of her I had left.

Shut up. Shut the fuck up.

“The decision is yours, Mr. Foster,” the man said, and ran a finger down that sharp nose. “I have to get back to the event.” He walked off, and I remained silent, staring at the spot he’d been seconds ago.

Anger mixed in with the alcohol in my blood. The cocky good cheer I’d cultivated over the years faded away.

Lose the charity like I’d lost my senses. Like I’d lost my will to do anything but seek the next rush since, what, high school? Since it had happened.

Fuck.

I walked down the hall, away from the door, away from the event, cold air slapping me sober.

The image of Margot Reed still haunted me, halted in the doorway, her head turned as she considered me, judged me, even in that she was fucking edible. You need to clean up your act, Cain.

If life had a meaning, Margot would know it.

Perhaps, I could take it from her.