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  “Yes sir,” Randy says. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  The guard rushes away, leaving me stunned at his quick departure while Shane rests an arm on the counter and faces me. “You ran away today.”

  My eyes go wide. “That’s the way to get right to the point. And for your information, I had someplace to be.”

  “You didn’t even take your coffee with you.”

  “I didn’t have time to drink it,” I say quickly, no stranger to thinking on my feet.

  “You ran,” he repeats.

  “You’re kind of intimidating,” I counter.

  Amusement lights his gray eyes. “You aren’t intimidated by me.”

  “Are you saying you are intimidating to others?” I challenge.

  “To some I am, but not to you.”

  “You base this assessment on what, exactly?”

  “Anyone intimidated wouldn’t be brave enough to say they are.” He closes the distance between us, the scent of him, autumn leaves and spice, teasing my nostrils. “Are you intimidated now?” he asks, the heat in his eyes blisteringly hot.

  “No,” I say, suddenly warm all over, when lately, everything has made me cold. “I’m not intimated.”

  “Good news,” the guard announces, jolting me back to a reality that does not include hot strangers who could find out more than I want them to know. I quickly take a broad step backward, distancing myself from Shane, to face Randy.

  “You found my phone?” I ask, hopeful.

  “I found a phone,” he confirms. “I need you to confirm the first number in the contacts.”

  I hesitate, but having no other option, admit, “There are no numbers in my phone at all.”

  “You are correct,” the guard says, sliding the phone onto the counter. “I’ve never known anyone to have no contacts in their phone.”

  “It’s new,” I explain, picking it up and slipping it inside my purse, and realizing it’s a lame excuse, I add, “I need to sync my numbers. Thank you.” I rotate to face Shane to find him staring at me with the kind of interest and curiosity I’m not in a position to invite. “And thank you,” I add, motioning toward the door. “I should go.”

  “I was about to go grab dinner and a drink at one of the restaurants nearby. Join me.”

  “I really should get home,” I say, trying not to sound as regretful as I am. I’m flattered, but then, what woman wouldn’t be with this man?

  “I won’t keep you long.”

  “I have plans in the morning,” I counter, and it’s true. I’ll be waiting for the phone to ring and thinking about how much I wish I’d said yes to his invitation.

  He glances at the guard, who quickly takes a hint and murmurs, “Good evening,” before stepping back behind his post and busying himself.

  The instant he’s gone, Shane once again closes the space between us, this time bringing us intimately close, and I think he might touch me. I want him to touch me. “Here’s how I see us meeting again: The odds are next to zero. That means you have to have dinner with me.”

  “Have to? Is that some rule or something?”

  “Not just a rule. A hard rule I just made up.”

  “Does making up rules work often?”

  “Yes. Is it working now?”

  Yes, I think, but instead, I say, “I wish I could.”

  “You can. Just say yes, Emily.”

  Emily. I hate that name, but he has somehow not only remembered it, but made it silk and seduction. He is silk and seduction, a magnificent man who no doubt has so many woman lining up that I am a mere flicker on the screen. And actually, that isn’t a bad thing. In fact, it’s freedom. This is about tonight. Just tonight. He won’t want to know my past or my future. He’s looking for a diversion, and the truth is, if I spend one more night alone, trapped in guilt, worry, and my fast-looping replay of how I got to this point, I might go insane.

  “Emily,” he prods, using that name again, my name, and I swallow hard. “Say—”

  “Yes,” I supply. “Yes, I’ll have dinner and drinks with you.”

  Satisfaction fills his eyes and he waves the guard forward, handing the man his bag. “I’ll pick it up on my way out,” he tells him. The other man nods, and a moment later, Shane’s full attention shifts back to me, and I’m jolted by the way I feel the impact, or rather, I feel him, a warm spot forming in my chest and spreading low into my belly. He offers me his arm. “Shall we?”

  I hesitate a few beats, reminding myself that “alone” promises safety, but I can’t live that way forever. This dinner with this man is a no-harm, no-foul way to practice being the new me. I accept his arm.

  You just know how to hide, how to lie.

  —Tony Montana

  CHAPTER THREE

  EMILY

  Arm in arm, Shane and I cross the lobby, and as crazy as it is, for the first time in a very long time, I don’t feel alone. It’s a façade, of course, but one I’m happily wallowing in. A fantasy and an indulgence: this night that can never become another night.

  “How’s Jeffrey’s Restaurant two blocks down?” he asks.

  “I’ve never heard of it,” I say, “but I’m sure it’s fine.” Because I’m not going with him for the food. It’s for him. No. It’s for me for once.

  “It has a mixed menu, a full bar, and it’s relatively quiet,” he replies, releasing my arm to open the building’s exterior door, and wave me forward.

  “Sounds perfect,” I say, and somehow our eyes collide, and I don’t know how or why, but that tiny connection has my stomach fluttering. I dart forward and outside, a cold breeze lifting my hair and sliding along the bare skin of my neck. Shivering, I hug myself, chilled on the outside but pretty darn warm in all those intimate places he continues to awaken. I start to turn to face Shane, but suddenly he is beside me, his arm draping my shoulder, dragging me closer, his big body sheltering mine from the cold, and my chest hurts with the silly idea he’s protecting me. No one protects me and suddenly, this dinner seems like a bad idea. I deal with being alone by being alone.

  “Don’t you just love Colorado in May?” he asks, angling us left and into the heart of downtown Denver and a cluster of restaurants and shops. “Random snow showers, cold at night, and warm in the day.”

  I open my mouth to tell him this is new to me, and snap it shut, frustrated at how easily I almost invited questions about where I came from, and why I’m here. “I should have brought a jacket,” I say simply instead.

  “I’m glad you didn’t. Gives me an excuse to keep you close.”

  “Somehow, I doubt you’re a man who needs an excuse for much of anything.”

  “And you make that assessment based on what?”

  “Pretty much every one of the limited, but colorful moments I’ve known you.”

  “Colorful,” he says. “There’s an interesting description.”

  “I’m just glad it was you whose coffee I stole and not some really cranky person who would have yelled at me.”

  “I have my moments, but never over something as trivial as a cup of coffee.”

  “The world would be a better place if everyone thought like you.”

  “There’s a cynical statement.”

  “You’ve obviously not worked retail or you wouldn’t call that cynical.”

  “And you have?”

  “As a college student,” I say, quickly wishing I could pull back the words that invite questions into my past.

  But I am saved as he announces, “And we’re here.” He leads me under a covered overhang toward a wooden door, where he surprises me by stopping, facing me, his hands coming down on my arms. “I’m glad it was me who found you in that coffee shop,” he says, the dim glow of overhead lights catching like fire in his gray eyes, but what steals my breath are the shadows banked behind that fire. He doesn’t want to be alone tonight either, and I find myself wanting to know why.

  I dare to reach up and press my hand to his chest. “I found you,” I say, giving him a smi
le, wanting him to smile. “And you should know that I’m on a roll of mishaps today. The chance that I will spill, dump, or break something during our dinner is high.”

  His eyes and mouth soften, any residual effect of those shadows I’d spied disappearing. “Then we’ll laugh and clean it up,” he says, motioning toward the door. “Let’s go inside.”

  “I’d like that.”

  He opens the door, allowing me to enter the dimly lit restaurant, where I pause to wait on him, glancing around at my surroundings. To my left is a padded leather wall, and directly in front of me are rows of uncomfortable looking wooden tables and chairs with flickering candles in the center of each table. Shane steps to my side, his hand intimately settling at my back as we advance toward the fifty-something dark-haired woman dressed in all black who is manning the hostess stand in the right corner.

  She offers me a friendly smile and then glances at Shane. “Good evening, Susie,” he greets.

  “Good to have you in tonight. Jeffrey will be sorry he missed you.”

  “He’s still giving me a hard time about the Broncos losing this year anyway. Tell him he lives in Denver. He can’t root for Texas.”

  Just hearing the name of my home state, which I can’t claim, twists me in knots. I have to get over this reaction.

  “We’ve been in Denver for twenty years,” she replies, giving me the impression she might be Jeffrey’s wife. “He’s never giving up the Cowboys. You want the bar or restaurant?”

  “Is there a booth in the bar available?”

  “You’re in luck considering it’s been a busy Wednesday night,” she says, grabbing two menus. “We just had one open.”

  “Excellent,” Shane says, and with his approval given, Susie motions for us to follow her.

  Shane urges me forward, his fingers flexing where they’ve settled on my lower back, and we round the leather wall to a rectangular room with fully occupied high tables in the center, a bar to the right, and cozy booths set on high pedestals to the left.

  Susie directs us to the fourth booth of eight lining the far wall. “Can I get anything started for you?” she asks before we sit, her gaze falling on me. “Wine or a cocktail, perhaps?”

  “Wine would be great,” I say. “Can you suggest something sweet?”

  “I have an excellent German white I recommend often,” Susie replies.

  “Perfect,” I say, and she immediately eyes Shane. “Cognac?

  “You know me well,” he confirms, shrugging out of his jacket and proving his crisp white shirt is indeed hugging the spectacular chest my hand had promised was beneath. “And let’s break out the good stuff tonight,” he adds. “I’ll take the Louis XIII.”

  She holds out her hands for his jacket and he removes his cell phone, sticking it in his pants pocket before allowing her to take the jacket. “I’ll hang this up by the door as usual,” she informs him, “and I won’t ask if the expensive cognac is to celebrate a good day or drive away a bad one.”

  “That answer changed when Emily joined me.”

  “Oh,” Susie says, giving me a curious, pleased look. “Thanks indeed, Emily, because I have been witness to this man after a truly bad day and it’s not pretty.”

  Shane directs a playful scowl in her direction. “Be gone before you scare her off and you’re stuck with me alone.”

  She laughs, rushing away, and Shane refocuses on me. “Apparently you saved Susie from my foul mood,” he jokes.

  “But who’ll save me?” I tease, trying to be as ladylike as possible as I attempt to climb into the high, half-moon-shaped booth.

  “Me,” he promises, gently gripping my waist to help me into the seat.

  “Thank you,” I murmur, and when I expect him to move to the opposite side of the booth, he instead slides in beside me, forcing me to scoot around. I make it to the center before he says, “Oh no you don’t,” and the next thing I know, his fingers have closed down over my knee, my sheer pantyhose the only thing between his palm and my skin.

  He scoots closer, aligning our legs, tilting his head in my direction. “You’re still running.”

  Not from you, I think, but I say, “Not anymore, but I admit, I did judge you at first.”

  He inches back to look at me. “Did you now?”

  “I did. I mean, that cup of coffee said a lot about you,” I say, calling on the skills I’d once thought would serve me well in a career that now seems lost. “I’m very good at reading people.”

  His eyes light, the shadows nowhere to be found, and it pleases me to think I’ve made them disappear. “What did my coffee tell you about me?” he asks, resting an elbow on the table, his body still angled toward mine.

  “It was strong and no-nonsense, meant to get a job done, without any fluff about it.”

  “That still doesn’t tell me what you think it says about me.”

  “Of course it does. You’re a workaholic.”

  “A workaholic.”

  “That’s right. It was a large triple shot. That says you are running on fumes and trying to stay focused. Oh. And you don’t take no for an answer.”

  “The coffee told you I don’t take no for an answer?”

  “No. That part I gathered from you not taking no for an answer.”

  We break into mutual laughter that fades into a hint of a smile on his lips, the air shifting around us, thickening. There is a pureness to our shared desire that I decide is created by us having no past to color the way we feel about each other.

  “Let’s talk about your coffee,” he says, putting me in the assessment hot seat.

  “You didn’t drink my coffee,” I point out.

  “Actually, I did.”

  “What?” I ask in disbelief. “Wait. You drank my coffee after I left?”

  “That’s right.”

  “On purpose?”

  “On purpose,” he confirms.

  “Why?”

  “Because I was left curious about the woman who ordered it and your drink, like mine, says things about you.”

  I can’t believe he drank my drink after I left or that I’m about to invite him to look deeper into who I am. “And what exactly did it say about me?”

  “It said—”

  “I have a Cognac and a wine,” a waitress announces, leaving me hanging on his words.

  “Wine for the lady,” Shane instructs and we both lean back to allow her to deposit our drinks in front of us, giving me the opportunity to discover our waitress is a gorgeous redhead, with deep cleavage exposing DD breasts, which make my D cup feel like an A.

  “Are you ready to order?” she asks.

  “I haven’t looked at the menu,” I say, reaching for it, and glancing at Shane. “You probably know what you want.”

  “Indeed,” he says, the look in his eyes sizzling, as he adds, “Very decisively.”

  I flush, quite certain, that yes, he has noted my brief walk down insecurity lane, and while I’m embarrassed, I am quite charmed at the way he’s made sure I know my concern was without merit. I shut the menu again. “What do you recommend?”

  “They’re well known for their brown butter ravioli,” he replies, “which I have every time I visit.”

  “It’s amazing,” the waitress interjects. “Melt-in-your-mouth good.”

  “You had me at brown butter,” I say. “And anything with pasta and cheese, makes my favorite foods list.”

  “Three check marks on the list,” Shane says, gathers our menus and offers them to the waitress. “Two of the house raviolis it is then.”

  “Got it,” the waitress confirms. “Any drinks, aside from what you have, with your meal?”

  I shake my head but Shane motions to my wine. “Try it and make sure you like it.”

  It’s an order, which seems to come naturally to him, but it’s also him actually caring that I’m satisfied. I take a quick sip, and the fruity sweet liquid is pure perfection. “It’s great,” I tell him, and eye the waitress. “I love it.”

  “Well th
en,” she says. “I’ll put the order into the kitchen.” She departs and Shane reaches for the glass I’m still holding, covering my hand with his. “May I?”

  Heat rushes through me, the idea of his mouth where mine had been more than a little sexy. “Of course,” I say, sounding and feeling breathless. And when I would offer it to him, he covers my hand over the glass, his eyes capturing mine as he tilts it to drink, then savors it a moment. “Sweet, like your coffee.”

  “And you think that means what?” I ask.

  He considers me a moment, before releasing my hand and reaches for his glass. “I drink my coffee the way I see the world. Harsh and brutal. And I drink my booze with a smooth kick, the way I try and face my adversaries.”

  This is a silly game that has suddenly made my world feel upside down and I laugh without humor. “I don’t see the world as sweet, if that’s where you’re going with this.”

  “No. No, you don’t. But you do compartmentalize the bad stuff, while I force myself to stay in the thick of things no matter how bad they are. I’m not sure which is worse.”

  I’m not sure if I’m more stunned that he’s nailed me so well, or that he’s actually shared something I find quite personal about himself. “And I make this assessment not from your drink, but the way you handle yourself and the look in your eyes.”

  The look in his eyes, I think. I was right. We’re drawn together because we’re both dealing with a demon or two that won’t let us go.

  “Am I wrong?” he asks.

  “No. You pretty much nailed it. If I don’t compartmentalize, I worry and obsess. It’s just who I am. It started young. My mom said I could fret over my Barbie losing a shoe for hours.”

  “That fits the profile of someone who compartmentalizes to survive.”

  “And you stand in the fire and let it burn you.”

  A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I stand in the fire,” he says, lifting his glass and taking a drink. “I don’t let it burn me.”

  “Because you’re good at whatever you do.” It’s not even a question.

  “Yes,” he says. “I’m good at whatever I do.” It’s confident, maybe arrogant as well, but it works for him. “What about you?” he asks. “Are you good at what you do?”