Apparently I’d been wrong.

Apparently I’d just have to fix that.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure how.

Cole reached over the table and put his hand atop mine. “I’m going to go take care of that liquor delivery, and then I’m going to drive you home. We can talk on the way.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m waiting here for Evan, and I don’t particularly feel like talking.”

“Fine. I’m still going to go take care of that delivery. And you may want to wait here, but last I checked, I owned the place and you didn’t. So I’ll be driving you home and you can just bitch about it.”

“Cole—”

“Don’t Cole me. As for the scintillating conversation, we can talk about music. We can talk about movies. Hell, we can talk about that damned Da Vinci notebook. But I’m making sure you get home safe, so you wait for me here, okay?”

I nodded, too defeated to argue. Evan hadn’t yet arrived, and I could hardly dig my heels in if Cole was determined to get me out of there.

In other words, I was screwed. And at the moment, I had no plan B.

He headed toward the back where a guy, presumably Frankie, was holding up a clipboard and some paper.

I sat and stewed and looked around. Some of the nearby men turned to look at me, but no one approached, and I assumed that was because I’d been sitting with Cole. That was fine; I had no interest in these men. No real interest in what was going on in this room. There was lust, true. Lust and heat and attraction. Not sparks, though. Not electricity. This room was about sex and titillation, and while I didn’t have a problem with that, it wasn’t what I wanted.

What I wanted was Evan. The power. The explosion.

I wanted to experience what I’d felt in his arms, and I wanted him to take me where he’d promised we’d go.

And damn it all, it was pissing me off that I wasn’t able to get what I wanted.

And then—like a dream—there he was. Evan.

I actually blinked twice, in fact, afraid that I was only imagining him. Because how on earth could my fervent wishes have conjured him?

But it was true. He was real and solid and despite the dim light, I could see the hard angles of his face and the dark fire of his eyes. He was staring right at me—and he didn’t look happy.

Well, shit.

I started to stand—then sat down again when he turned away and moved toward one of the darkened corners, crooking his finger at a petite redhead who followed him with the kind of sexual confidence I was trying desperately to conjure.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help myself. I stood up and moved across the room, then settled down at a table closer to that corner.

I was looking at him from an angle, unable to see the expression on his face, but not really needing to. I could see the redhead just fine. The sultry expression as she slowly moved to straddle him. The way she bit her lip when he put his hands on her hips. She dipped down, teasing his crotch, brushing against him with the tiny bit of material that covered her sex. Then she rose and leaned forward, her breasts brushing his chest, her face rapturous.

I watched, and I seethed.

At the same time, though, I was strangely fascinated. I wanted to be that woman. I wanted to writhe upon him, to turn him on, to feel him grow hard beneath me. I wanted to be the one making him crazy. Me, and no one else.

Certainly not that little twit of a redhead.

I stood, not certain what I intended to do, but knowing damn well that I had nothing to lose. I tugged a fifty dollar bill from my wallet, then marched toward them. Evan didn’t even look up when the girl turned to look at me.

I handed her the bill. “Go.”

She glanced at Evan, who nodded just once.

The girl scurried away, and I reveled in my tiny victory.

I circled the chair until I was standing right in front of him. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, but I only leaned forward and pressed a finger to his lips.

“Don’t,” I said.

“Don’t what?”

But I just shook my head, said a silent thank-you that my circle skirt had enough material to hide a multitude of sins, and settled myself on his lap. Or, more accurately, over his lap, because while my knees were pressed into the soft leather of the overstuffed armchair, there was no actual contact going on except for the slight brushing of my knees against the outside of his thighs.

It didn’t matter. I was already wet, my sex hot, my panties clinging to me. The bit of cool air that sneaked in under the loose folds of material did little to quell the fire inside me.

I leaned forward, using my hand on the back of the chair over his shoulder to balance myself. My eyes were locked on his, and he was looking straight at me, too.

“Don’t what?” he repeated. His voice was low, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Don’t put on a show trying to make me think you don’t want me.”

He didn’t flinch; he didn’t move. “Maybe I don’t.”

I leaned closer. Slowly. Seductively. “Bullshit.”

His face stayed exactly the same. And yet I could see the smile growing inside of him.

And as my own smile bloomed, I lowered myself until there was nothing separating us but the satin of my panties and the cotton of his slacks. I held on to the chair, moving my hips forward and back, letting the friction drive me a little crazy. “Did you think I’d run?” I asked, keeping my voice low. “Did you think I’d be shocked watching that woman do these things to you?” I leaned forward and ran my tongue over the curve of his ear. “I wasn’t. I didn’t even see her. Do you know why?”

“Why?” he asked, the single syllable more of a growl than a word.

“Because as far as I was concerned there was no other woman. It was me on your lap,” I said as I rocked my hips. “Me touching you. Me making you hard.”

I slid my hand down between our bodies and pressed my hand over his erection.

And as I watched the heat flare in his eyes, I reveled in a sense of smug satisfaction. Because I knew that, no matter what, I’d won this round.

thirteen

“This isn’t happening, Angie,” he said, blowing away my sense of victory like so much dandelion fluff.

“You’re wrong,” I said.

“I’m very rarely wrong.”

“You’re smug, too. I like that in a man.” I shifted forward so that my lips brushed his ear as I spoke. “I just want to fuck,” I said, and felt my lips curve into a smile as his cock stiffened in response to my raw—but very honest—words. “I’m not asking for a wedding ring. I’m not asking for forever. I’m not asking for any commitment at all. Hell, I’m not even asking for a date. I only want this,” I said as I stroked him. “I only want to finish what we started.”

“It’s not a good idea,” he said, and I heard the tight note of control in his voice.

“I think it’s one of the best ideas I’ve ever had,” I murmured. “What was it you said when you ran out of the condo? About how you made a promise to my uncle? You’re so damn worried about keeping your promises. Well, you know what, Evan? You made one to me, too. Maybe not in words, but …” I trailed off, letting my body language finish that sentence as I shifted on his lap, feeling wild. Feeling reckless. He was right—we shouldn’t. And yet how could I stop when this was what I’d wanted for so damn long? When I needed it so desperately?

I brushed my lips over his. I felt powerful, certain victory was near, and I didn’t intend to relinquish an inch.

I pulled back, my eyes locked on his. “I want what you promised me.”

“Dammit, Angie …”

“You say you’re a bad bet?” I pressed, determined to cut off all protests. “I don’t care. Not everyone goes to Vegas to win. Some just go to have fun.”

“I like to win.” His rough voice sent shivers over me.

“Then I’m your prize. No,” I said, pressing my finger to his lips before he could say another word. “I want to go wild with you, Evan. I want to fly with you. One time. Can’t we both take the risk one time?”