I’ve just settled into the seat facing the door when Crystal enters, and there’s an instant thrum of awareness in me that I don’t expect or welcome. She spots me and comes forward, her black trench coat parting to reveal a slim-cut, fitted red dress that hugs the curves I know so intimately. Tracking her every step, that thrum becomes deeper, and unwillingly I find myself anticipating how she smells, remembering how she tastes. My reaction to her remains wholly illogical in every way. She’s blond, when I like brunettes; outspoken and quick-witted when I prefer quietly intelligent; and last night she painted a picture of obvious expectancy, whereas I crave eager and willing.

The more she closes the distance between me and her, the more certain I am that a public place isn’t where I need to be with Crystal. It’s alone with her, fucking her the right way, until she’s begging, not demanding. Washing away the memory of how out of myself I’d been when we were together, allowing myself to get my head back on straight—where it has to be when I return to San Francisco and face what awaits me there.

Standing up, I greet her coolly, a perfect gentlemen as my parents taught me to be. I’m taken off guard by the way her sweet, feminine scent stirs memories of her naked and in my arms, and it spikes an instant, ravenous hunger through me. Our eyes connect and I see heat there, and the confirmation that we both know damn well that last night happened, and it’s not going away. Now we both have to decide what, if anything, to do about it.

“Hi,” she says softly, almost timidly, and this part of her is as much who she is as the one who screamed more at me. The contrast appeals to me. She appeals to me.

“Hello, Ms. Smith,” I reply.

“Make up your mind,” she insists. “Is it Crystal or Ms. Smith?”

My lips curve. “I find I’m surprisingly willing to keep my options open where you’re concerned. Let me help you with your coat.” I step behind her, my hands settling on her shoulders, my actions making my words a command rather than a question. I do not intend to ask Crystal Smith for anything.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, shrugging out of the trench coat.

Testing the tension between us, I drag it down her arms, letting my hands caress the sheer red chiffon sleeves of her dress, and she shivers. The attraction between us is a simmering heat ready to boil over, and no matter how absolutely wrong she is for me, or me for her, we aren’t through with each other.

The waiter appears and I’m handing off Crystal’s coat when she whirls around and intercepts it. “I’ll keep it here,” she says quickly.

The way she holds it close tells me she’s preparing for a fast retreat, which means I’d been right. She ran from my hotel room.

I motion to the seat, silently suggesting we sit, but she doesn’t immediately move. Of course not. That would suggest a hint of submission, and she doesn’t intend to submit. And since I don’t intend to ever convert another woman who isn’t already living the lifestyle, we have no options. We cannot fuck again, no matter how much tension is in the air.

So we stand there, the seconds ticking by, and I arch a brow. Her sweet little pink tongue flicks over her lush, red-painted lips, and I think of how close I’d been to having that tongue and mouth on my cock. I slide into the booth, noticing how Crystal sits far from the center, where lovers might gravitate. We, though, are not lovers. We are “just a fuck.” Not even two.

The waiter returns and offers us menus. Crystal accepts hers, opening it, and glances across the table at me. “Do you have a recommendation?”

“We’re both virgins tonight,” I say.

She laughs, mischief in her eyes. “I’m pretty sure you weren’t a virgin even when you were born, Mark Compton.” The waiter chokes and Crystal flushes, as if she’d forgotten he was there.

I cut a look at the college-age waiter, who is looking like a deer in the headlights, not sure if he should go or stay. “Do you have a recommendation?”

Looking relieved, he quickly replies, “Best burger and fries in New York City.”

“Just fries for me,” Crystal says. “And a Diet Coke.” She slides her menu across the table. “The diet drink makes up for the grease.”

This somehow perfectly fits the logic I’m coming to expect from her. “I’ll take the burger with my fries,” I say, also offering my menu to the waiter. “Well done, with bacon and cheddar cheese.” My lips quirk. “And a Diet Coke to combat the grease.”

He snatches up our menus and departs. Crystal smiles at me. “I’m a good influence on your diet.”

“Had I known Diet Coke killed grease, I’d have given up my gym routine and healthy eating for burgers and fries a long time ago.”

She sighs, and the tension I’d sensed in her seems to be fading. “Truthfully, I normally force myself to order a salad, but I’m just too exhausted to care tonight.”

“I trust you had our contracted courier handle the delivery of the auction items?”

“Yes. They should arrive tomorrow.”

“And I’ll head back to San Francisco tomorrow. They hope to release my mother from the hospital on Thursday, so if all goes well I’ll be back by then.”

“Don’t worry about Riptide. I’ll take care of the auction house and let you know if I have a problem I need help with.” Her tone sobers. “You can count on me, Mark. Nothing is going to change that, and I’m very attached to your mother.”

“As she is to you.” My curiosity about why she doesn’t work for her family’s computer empire gets the best of me. “Are you close to your mother, as well?”

“I love her very much, but we’re very different. I think I bond with your mother because we’re so alike.”

“Driven and hard-headed,” I comment. “I’d have to agree. And your mother is . . . ?”

She seems to consider her choice of words before saying, “Submissive.”

“Submissive,” I repeat, reminded of a few other comments that make me wonder if she’s more familiar with the BDSM world than she’s let on. “To your father?”

“To him and to everything. It’s her personality.”

“Then you inherited the dominant gene from your father, I assume.”

“I’m adopted, so what I inherited are overly protective, loving parents and two brothers. If they all had their way, I’d work for the family business and I’d live in a luxury apartment I didn’t earn myself. They’d examine the resumes of any men wishing to date me and ask for a medical report on anyone I slept with, and in general my world would be those roses and chocolates I mentioned.”

Her words seem playful, but there’s something dark in her eyes, something vulnerable—and if I’m right, there’s pain. “How old were you when you were adopted?” I ask, choosing my questions cautiously.

“Fourteen, and yes, it’s an old age to get adopted.”

I know what it’s like to bury something that hurts that you don’t want to be known, and I know when I see it in someone else, as I do now with her. Suddenly there’s so much more to Crystal Smith than there was before, an explanation for why I’m drawn to her.

About to ask where she was before the adoption, I silently curse when the waiter appears and places our drinks on the table.

“So,” Crystal says the instant we’re alone, as if she’s trying to direct the conversation away from whatever I might ask next. “You mentioned wanting to talk to me about something. What is it?”

Seeing no point in waiting, I reply, “I assume you know what happened with my gallery back in San Francisco?”

“I know your sales rep Mary was arrested for trying to move counterfeit art through Riptide, and shockingly Ricco Alvarez was involved. I’m not sure what makes a famous artist worth millions do such a thing.”

Jealousy over Rebecca. “The important thing is that you’re prepared for customers who might have read about it and have questions.”

“Your mother and I discussed how to handle press inquiries and customer concerns.”

There’s one problem solved. “Do you know about Rebecca?”

“The last I heard, she was on a leave of absence.”

A band seems to tighten around my chest. “She was.”

Brow furrowing, Crystal asks, “Was? She’s back or . . .” Her eyes go wide. “Oh no. Was she involved in the counterfeit situation, too? Your mother seemed to think so much of her. That would destroy her.”

She’s right. My mother was fond of Rebecca, much like she is of Crystal. “She wasn’t involved. She’s dead.”

“What? God. No. How? Did she catch Mary and Ricco? Did they . . . did they kill her?”

Though I prefer to keep my private life private I don’t have that option with the press involved, and she has to be prepared for what might be thrown her direction. “I was seeing Rebecca. We broke up and she took a leave of absence to travel the world with a new man she’d started dating. That was months ago and she’d gone silent on us all.” I leave out the part about me asking Rebecca to return. It’s not relevant and that’s a personal boundary I plan to keep in place. I continue, “Two nights ago, Sara stopped by my house to ask me a question. Ava, the manager of the coffee bar next to the gallery, was with me at the time, and though Sara and I have nothing personal going on, Ava went nuts. She attacked Sara, and threatened to kill her as she had Rebecca.”

Crystal gasps and covers her mouth. “I . . . no. Is it true? Are you sure?”

“The police checked Rebecca’s passport and confirmed that she returned to San Francisco a few months ago, but no one ever saw or heard from her. The assumption is that Ava got to her before anyone else did. Unfortunately, Ava’s retracted her confession. I’m going to do my best to try and close the gap that a lack of evidence creates, and help the police keep her behind bars.”

“So,” she asks, sounding tentative, “there’s no body?”

“No.”

“Then there’s hope she’s alive.”

My throat thickens. “The police don’t think so.”

She studies me a moment. “You don’t, either.”

“Believe me when I say that this is one time I’d like to be wrong.” I don’t pause to let her comment, certain that unwanted sympathy will follow. “So far, the police have kept this quiet and the press hasn’t reported on it. Whatever their motivation for silence, it isn’t likely to last. This will get out, and added to the counterfeit scandal . . . it won’t be pretty. I’m going to drag Riptide along for a bumpy ride.”

“You didn’t do this. Bad people did this.”

“People I motivated to do bad things. I’m at the root of all of this and I take responsibility.”

She looks like she wants to say more, but hesitates. “Does your mother know about Rebecca?”

I shake my head. “Thankfully, neither of my parents know, and I don’t want to put this on them right now. That’s where you come in. I need you to keep it away from them until I get back. If you have problems, I’ll be on speed-dial and I’ll charter a private plane to get back here if I have to.”

She nods and I stare at her, trying to read her. Her lashes lower, shielding her eyes from mine, and I have a powerful sense of her guarding her reaction. Maybe she thinks I’m a prick who sleeps with everyone and deserves what I get. Maybe she sympathizes with me and feels sorry for me. Since those feelings could affect her loyalty, I have no choice but to push her to make her feelings and her position clear.

I open my mouth to say as much when the waiter appears, a tray of food in hand. As he sets our plates in front of us Crystal scoots out of the booth, leaving her coat and purse behind, and darts away and down a hallway.

I curse under my breath. She’d run from the awkwardness of last night; now she’s running from this. I leave tomorrow morning. So if she’s about to jump ship, I have to know now.

Pushing to my feet, I follow the hallway behind the bar, which leads downstairs to a small space with two doors: one for men, and one for women.

I knock on the women’s door. When Crystal opens the door my hands go to her waist, walking her back into the tiny room. She pushes out of my arms and hugs herself while I allow her escape long enough to turn and lock the door.

“I guess you don’t like the door that says ‘Men’?” she challenges, but while her words are confident and cool, the way she hugs herself screams nervousness.

I ignore the flippant remark. “And you seem to cut and run when things get awkward.”

“I didn’t cut and run, Compton. If I had, I wouldn’t have been on a plane the next morning to make a trip that gained Riptide a damn good purchase. And when I left the booth, it wasn’t for the reason you think.”