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  “Bad girl. Bad, bad girl, running away from me like that. You need to be punished—taught some manners.” He shouted it straight into her ear. She could only just hear him over the music.

  Caitlin’s eyes darted around wildly, searching for her Adonis, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  Satan Junior ground his…“Satan Junior” into the cleft of her ass. They probably just looked like another couple dancing provocatively. None of the other dancers would notice anything was amiss.

  Bodies pressed in around her, oblivious to her predicament. She felt smothered. Panicked. Being so short really sucked anus. She felt like a claustrophobic Danny DeVito in the land of the freaking giants. Caitlin couldn’t scream for help with the fingers that were crushing her windpipe. She was having trouble even drawing in a breath.

  Suddenly, in a moment of pure clarity, she stamped one of the fabulously functional spiky heels of her previously known fuck-me shoes—now forever to be known as fuck-you shoes—into his foot. Hard.

  He grunted and spewed a litany of filthy curses that would have had even Satan Senior reaching for the soap to do a little mouth washing. But Caitlin wasn’t going to stick around for Junior’s punishment. Instead, she put her head down again and pushed blindly through the throng and stumbled off the dance floor.

  In about one minute flat she was running toward the club exit, dragging on her coat, ignoring Trixie’s concerned questions—was she all right, did something happen, could she do anything for her?

  Caitlin charged out the door.

  And smacked straight into a solid wall.

  Mr. goddamn Man Mountain. Effing perfect.

  Caitlin pushed back away from him and scrubbed away the veil of tears clouding her vision.

  “Hey.” He bent to her eye level. “Hey, are you okay?” He spoke kindly, keeping his palms up as if he was purposefully trying not to frighten her.

  “Um, I just—I have to get out of here.” Her voice was husky with tears—and a sore windpipe.

  “Please. Let me help you. Tell me—”

  “Thank you. No. I need to go now.”

  She backed up a couple of steps and then turned and fled down the stairs, flinging herself into a taxi in front of the building. She rattled off her address to the driver and collapsed onto the seat. Fumbling in her purse, she pulled out a tissue and blew her nose, honking loudly in a most unladylike fashion.

  The driver observed her in the rear-view mirror for a while but didn’t say a word. Thank heavens. Maybe he was used to picking up women who came out of the club. Women who had been spanked, flogged, caned, whipped, shocked, humiliated and fucked—and choked—until they cried.

  God, she hated this.

  Why couldn’t she be just a plain vanilla girl? With a nice, safe vanilla boyfriend, maybe someone like Thomas? They could go out for dinner and dancing or to see a movie and then go home afterward and make sweet, tender love. And fall asleep wrapped in each other’s arms. Although somewhere in the midst of her little fantasy, Thomas had morphed into that gorgeous man on the stairs. Although her blond Adonis didn’t look as if his favorite flavor was vanilla. If he wasn’t a Dom, with a big, huge capital D, she was a monkey’s uncle.

  She wondered what kind of Dom he would be. Would he hold her and stroke her and kiss her like the Dom in the public display area who had spanked his sub? Or would he be cruel and use her and leave her?

  Caitlin yearned for the type of tenderness she’d seen, but she needed to be hurt, and the kind of guy who would hurt her like she needed probably wasn’t the kind, caring type. He would probably be like Ivan. And she didn’t want another Ivan. Sadistic rat bastard.

  So where did that leave her?

  Frustrated. Alone.

  A card-carrying member of WOBINA.

  Damn.

  * * * * *

  Paul stood on the steps outside the club, looking up and down the street, back and forth, back and forth like a fucking clown head at a carnival.

  Fuck! She was gone.

  He should have gone down to her earlier, instead of standing there for a hundred years, staring at her like a retard, giving that slimy piece of shit Randall a chance to get his greasy paws on her. What the hell did he expect? That a stunningly gorgeous girl like that, who came into Purgatory all on her little lonesome, would be left alone for more than two-point-five minutes?

  When he’d seen that motherfucker put his hands on her, he’d seen red.

  Hazy red, with loud clashing music as an accompaniment.

  He got seriously bad juju vibes off that bony Goth wannabe bastard. When that punk had touched the girl, Paul had wanted to rip the fucker’s arms off. When he came on to her, he’d wanted to rip his head off. When he didn’t take no for an answer and followed her onto the dance floor, Paul wanted to rip the son of a bitch’s lungs out through his nostrils. Bit difficult if he had previously torn the suckwad’s head from his shoulders, but Paul would’ve figured something out.

  How dare that asshole touch his girl?

  Whoa—what? His girl? When in the bleeding tarnation had she become his girl?

  Jesus, he’d have to mull that one over later, maybe with a beer or three.

  He’d tried to get to his—make that the—girl, but by the time he pushed through the crowd on the dance floor, she’d pulled an Elvis.

  And left the goddamn building.

  A sizable hand landed on Paul’s shoulder.

  Xavier.

  Jesus. Xavier, the gigantic tattooed bastard, was mad. Paul wasn’t sure how he knew that exactly, since Xavier’s face looked the same whether the man was happy, or maybe content—couldn’t imagine the taciturn bastard actually being happy—sad, angry, pissed off, pensive…constipated.

  Xavier was one strange motherfucker. He was always there when Paul got together with Dante and Chris, who were Paul’s best friends and owners of the club. Xave was one of the guys, but kind of not. He would always hang back, just listening, quietly observing and never voicing his opinions like everyone else did. If he wasn’t such a huge bastard, you probably wouldn’t even notice he was there. And if he ever did speak, it was monosyllabic. Yes. No. And if he really went to town, he might say “maybe”—a whole two syllables. It was as if the man was born with a pre-designated quota of words and he didn’t want to use them up all at once.

  And as for facial reactions, Paul had never even seen Xavier crack a smile. He didn’t even know if the big man owned any teeth.

  Paul looked up—he never usually had to look up to anybody—into Xavier’s penetrating, freakishly pale eyes to see if he could get a clue as to what was going on. Although the way Xavier was crushing his shoulder with that vise grip? Ooh yeah, the man was madder than a wet hornet.

  Paul pretended he was unaffected by something as mundane as a few crushed bones. “Who the hell put a burr under your saddle?” His voice may have sounded a little strained and a tad higher than normal.

  “What did you do to her?”

  Holy shit. A sentence. A question even.

  “Her? Her who?”

  “You know who.” Xavier fixed him with a gimlet eye.

  “The girl who ran outta here like her tail was on fire?”

  Xavier didn’t answer. Although somehow he conveyed a clear message without rearranging one muscle in his implacable face. The message was, “If you do not explain now, I will crush you and sprinkle the dust of your bones into my mega-muscle five thousand protein shake for breakfast.”

  Paul winced. “How ’bout you take your hand offa me and I’ll tell you.”

  Xavier stared into Paul’s eyes for what felt like somewhere between ten minutes and ten days and then released him.

  Thank. Christ.

  Paul tried to surreptitiously roll his shoulder. “Look, I didn’t do anything to her,” he explained. “I was watching her from upstairs and I saw that bastard Randall trying to get his claws into her. She obviously declined his advances and I tried to get to her so I could get her away from him. I
don’t trust that bastard as far as I can spit. She headed for the dance floor, he followed, she disappeared in the crush, and the next thing I knew, she ran.”

  “She was frightened.”

  “Yeah, I figured as much. I don’t know what he did to her; I lost her in the crowd. But I saw her when she was running for the door, trying to get outta there as if her life depended on it. If that bastard hurt her, I swear I’ll fucking kill him.”

  Xavier nodded once, resuming his usual don’t-fuck-with-me bouncer stance and staring off into space. The man could be thinking about ways to help kill Randall or he could be mentally compiling a grocery list or contemplating the quantum physics string theory.

  Who the hell knew?

  Chapter Five

  Paul strode down the street looking for the cleaning supplies shop where Dante had sent him to pick up some products for the club. Got to keep a BDSM club squeaky clean. Nothing worse than laying your sub down and being met with a sticky surprise left by the previous user.

  Paul checked the address on the paper Dante had given him. Number 207 wasn’t a fucking cleaning supplies shop. Paul swore under his breath. What the fuck was he doing all the way across town picking up cleaning supplies anyway?

  Helping Chris, the ungrateful bastard, that’s what he was doing.

  It had been two months since Paul had seen that girl at Purgatory. Two months of going to the club every single night, waiting to see if she would come back. Which she hadn’t. If she had, Paul wouldn’t be in such a shit-awful mood.

  He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and swore another blue streak.

  He’d also be in a decidedly better mood if his so-called friend Chris would let him delve into the club records and find out who the girl was. Just a name, that’s all Paul was asking.

  He’d fought with Chris on an almost daily basis trying to get the information. But Mr. Fucking Holier Than Thou kept preaching about privacy laws and a whole lot of other bull scratch. And then the fucker had the audacity to ask him to help Dante run the club, while Chris took some time off to get a job done for his other business venture. Chris, a carpenter by trade, also had a business specializing in outfitting private playrooms and producing made-to-order fetish equipment.

  As if Paul didn’t have enough to do running his own landscape design business. He had helped his friends out in the past and he’d been happy to do so, but right now he’d rather tell Chris to stick it. The only thing stopping him was the thought of letting Dante down.

  Paul wondered about the client who incited Chris’ sudden urge to spend so much time on this other project. He usually spent his days behind the scenes at the club, managing and dealing with the paperwork and bookkeeping. He had a couple of tradesmen he trusted to make the equipment for his other business. But when one of the guys got sick, Chris had gone to a client’s home to quote a job and then promptly decided he wanted to take up his tools again. Chris hadn’t picked up a hammer for years, and to go out of town and disappear from his beloved club for weeks wasn’t his modus operandi.

  Paul looked in the window of the shop at number 207, wondering if someone in there would know where the infernal cleaning supply joint was hiding. There was a girl teetering on top of a ladder, hanging garlands of flowers from the ceiling.

  Paul’s whole body went rigid.

  Fuck.

  It was her.

  Paul’s heart rate sped up. He couldn’t breathe. His hands started shaking.

  He couldn’t believe he’d found her. Thank you, God. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Dante, you gorgeous son of a bitch. He was going to kiss that man next time he saw him.

  Right now, he could walk in there, haul that girl off the ladder and kiss her. Senseless.

  Do not fuck this up.

  Caitlin heard the bell ring, signifying someone had entered her store.

  “Good afternoon, I’ll be down in just a second,” she called out. She smiled at her customer—and froze.

  Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

  Her blond Adonis was standing at the foot of her ladder, staring right up at her.

  She stared back, her heart beating a frantic tattoo in her chest. For a moment everything went silent and all she could hear was the rushing of blood in her ears.

  After she’d spent an eternity gazing down into the piercing blue depths of his eyes, he stepped forward and wrapped two strong hands around the rails of the ladder.

  “How ’bout you come down here, so you and me can be eye to eye for once? What do ya say?” he asked in a slow, velvety Texan drawl.

  Yes, yes, yes. Oh yes.

  Caitlin couldn’t move.

  Her legs had turned to jelly. She held the smooth old timber of the ladder in a death grip with her suddenly clammy palms.

  Her brain was trying to command her legs, Down, damn you, down. But apparently her internal communication channels had closed shop for the day.

  Adonis got a crease in his brow. “Are you all right there, darlin’?”

  Caitlin’s heart did a little gymnastic twirl. “Darling”, he’d called her. Actually it was “darlin’” in Texan speak.

  Caitlin was used to men calling her terms of endearment. Total strangers called her “sweetheart” or “love” in a condescending way all the time and it usually made her grit her teeth. But coming from her Adonis, it was in no way condescending—he actually sounded concerned. And sexy. He could call her “darlin’” anytime in that deep, sultry voice. Maybe when they were in bed together. Naked.

  “Um, my legs don’t seem to be working right,” Caitlin admitted reluctantly, feeling the blush spread across her cheeks.

  “Hey, that happens sometimes. I bet you been standin’ up there for a while and your legs kinda seized up huh?”

  No. I could stand here ’til Christmas, but you come along and I lose my ability to function properly. “Ah, yeah,” she answered feebly.

  Paul walked around to the other side of the ladder. And looked up.

  Sweet mother of god.

  She was wearing a pair of tailored slacks that fit her gorgeous derriere to perfection. He couldn’t see a panty line and he should have been able to, the way those suckers clung so lovingly to her body. She probably had on a thong. Man, he was jealous. Of a pair of pants!

  He cleared his throat. Not much point since his voice came out rough anyway. “Okay, I’m gonna come right up there and help you down.”

  She murmured something that sounded like “God help me,” but he must have misheard.

  Paul climbed up and looped an arm around her waist. She smelled delicious, edible even, like cherries and coconut. His mouth watered, wanting to taste her. He struggled against his instinct to lick the smooth skin of her shoulder bared by the sleeveless white shirt she wore. Struggled not to pull her flush against his body and bury his face in her thick, long, silky hair. He wanted to find out exactly where she smelled like cherry, exactly where she smelled like coconut—and exactly where she smelled like woman.

  Get a grip, cowboy.

  Wouldn’t that be just dandy if she leaned back against him and found out he was sporting a chubby? A substantial one. Right now, the way it was straining his pants, it felt bigger than Dallas. He didn’t want her to be afraid of him. Didn’t want her to think he was some depraved pervert and run away. He couldn’t let her run.

  Do. Not. Fuck. This. Up.

  “Okay, darlin’, we’re gonna go nice and slow, one step at a time. I gotcha. You got nuthin’ to worry ’bout. Just come with me.”

  Just come with me! What the fuck was he saying? If he didn’t watch it he’d be coming in his goddamn pants all by his own self.

  When Caitlin finally got her feet back on terra firma she sucked in a deep breath. It had taken longer than it should have to get down that ladder, and all the while her Adonis had one of his nicely muscled arms wrapped tight around her waist. She had felt the heat radiating off his body, could smell the delicious scent of cologne and man, and she thought her interna
l receptors were probably detecting dangerous levels of pheromones too. That was why she had no control over her body right now. She was vibrating and had this overwhelming, primal urge to just launch herself at him—right back into his arms.

  She let go of the ladder and slowly turned to face him. He was looking down at her with so much heat in his eyes, she thought her panties might just spontaneously combust.

  “Um, thank you for…helping me w-with the ladder,” she stuttered stupidly.

  One side of his mouth turned up in a devilish grin, his eyes glinting mischievously, which Caitlin’s body immediately responded to. Thereby solving the problem of spontaneously combusting panties. Because damp things couldn’t catch fire. Right?

  “It was my pleasure, sweetheart,” he drawled. “You okay now?”

  No, and I never will be unless you hold me again, you gorgeous, gorgeous man. “Ah, yes. Thank you.”

  Caitlin realized Tall, Blond and Sexy had probably not come into her store with the express purpose of saving her from a potentially disastrous ladder incident. Nor did he come in for her to just stand there gaping at him and drooling out of the side of her mouth. Oh god, was she drooling? Probably. Geez.

  He must have come in to buy something. It was a shop, after all. Oh god, please don’t let him be here to pick out invitations for his wedding to an equally tall, blonde and sexy supermodel. Please. Pleeease.

  She should probably ask him what he wanted.

  “Um, can I help you with anything, sir?”

  He blinked slowly a few times. And then he stared at her in a way that made her feel all hot and achy. And as if she were wearing way too many clothes. She could tell from the look on his face that he was thinking lascivious thoughts. But what, she wondered? What was he doing to her in his mind? Caitlin tried to breathe evenly and not start panting.

  He coughed and shook his head as if to clear it. He glanced around the shop then, as if he were just discovering where he was. His eyes settled on the handmade cards on the shelf next to him. He reached out and touched a couple of the cards—Congratulations on your new pet and Let’s just be friends. He tapped the shelf. “I need one of these special occasion cards.” He turned and looked into her eyes. “Will you be my lover?”