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  And it’s somewhere Holt Silverton has no business going.

  Somewhere nobody ever will.

  I drum my fingers restlessly.

  “Maybe,” I mutter. “I can’t really think of anything like that off the top of my head.”

  “I could have another look around. See if anything jumps out at me.”

  “No!” I don’t mean to be so harsh, but my heart skips. “I mean, you promised you’d stay off my property after I let you look it over already.”

  “Right. That was business. This would be more like a courtesy call. Just trying to help, Libby.” He leans in closer.

  Oh my God.

  His voice is low, coaxing, too seductive.

  Exactly the kind of husky thunder that says he knows he’s going to get his way if he just plays a little longer.

  “Look. I don’t want to bring this up again, but your best bet really is the unthinkable—sell it to me. That way, you don’t have to worry about somebody else barging in and taking over. I only need a portion, Libby. Not sure how much yet, but—”

  “But nothing,” I spit, lifting my head and glaring dead at him.

  Forget drooling, I’m right back to wanting to tear his head off.

  I can’t believe he just said that shit.

  My lips tremble.

  I shouldn’t be this emotional.

  Blame it on thinking about my messed-up family life, on stress, on everything building up inside me until I’m ready to go off like a warhead.

  But if I’m honest, it’s more.

  It’s Holt.

  It’s me starting to believe him, to trust him, but here he goddamned is, turning on his Casanova act to try to get what he wants now that he thinks my guard’s down.

  No. Freaking. Deal.

  “You can stop right there. You’re not getting a thing out of me, Holt,” I growl. “And I don’t want crap from you. Least of all more help you’re only offering to line your own pockets.”

  He gawks at me like a fish out of water, staring like I hurt him somehow.

  Yeah, right.

  Like I’m falling for the wounded puppy act again.

  It’s my own fault for buying it the first time.

  As if he’d just gone soft and changed overnight. I should’ve known.

  A leopard doesn’t change its spots.

  A rattlesnake doesn’t change its bite.

  And a liar doesn’t suddenly start talking truth.

  The only truth here is that Holt Silverton isn’t out to help anyone but himself.

  I shove back from the bar, tumbling off the stool. We’re gonna ignore the fact I’m so mad that I forget there’s a long drop between my legs and the ground, and almost fall on my face.

  I catch my stumble real quick and turn it into another excuse to push away from him, putting more space between us while I grasp at the bar to stay upright.

  “Libby,” he growls.

  “Nope, we’re done,” I say as firmly and as coldly as I can.

  He reaches a hand out to me. “Libby—”

  “Don’t you Libby nothing!”

  God. I don’t want to barf up these feelings in front of him.

  I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how deep he got under my skin.

  So I stand there for a moment, glaring, my lips trembling, while he looks at me all helpless like he still cares.

  Hell no.

  I can’t stand that even now he’s trying to make me believe he was ever flipping genuine.

  Turning my back before he tries again, before he says another word, I move.

  It takes half a second to rummage around in my back pocket and slam down cash on the bar to cover my tab and his, because screw him and his money.

  Then I turn and march right out with my head held high.

  Refusing to look back even once.

  That man may have the eyes of the devil, but I ain’t got eyes for him.

  Not anymore.

  Not ever.

  6

  Back in the Saddle (Holt)

  Do they hand out awards for epic fuckups?

  If so, I ought to be a shoe-in.

  After tonight, I don’t think Libby ever wants to speak to me again.

  Goddammit. I should’ve checked my tongue.

  Everything came out all wrong, and I never got the chance to explain it.

  All I wanted was for her to sell me enough of her land to get her taxes paid, and I’d cover the remainder.

  I’d fucking hold it for her.

  Hold it until she can buy it back, so in the end it effectively stays hers anyway.

  Of course, I didn’t get a chance to say that, and she didn’t give me a chance to finish before that skittish tiger was spooked, taking off with her claws lashing my face.

  I’ve tried calling her a few times over the last few days. Texting her. Anything.

  Hasn’t done a damn bit of good.

  She’s just stonewalled me completely.

  I think if I tried driving out there, I’d get a load of buckshot up my ass for the trouble.

  It’s still on my mind days later when I’m looking over the fire damage repairs on a fabric shop that got blown out the back with a makeshift incendiary way back when the whole arson mess in town started last winter.

  I’m not thinking about building codes or zoning or fire statutes as I do the inspection with my crew and the owner of the building, a young woman named Carmine Andrews, trailing in my wake.

  I’m thinking about Libby, Libby, and oh yeah, Libby.

  Damn her.

  Girl’s worse than an untamed bronco.

  She’s got her feelings all hot about the mess with her ranch and her pride—and now nothing’s going to get through. Push her more, and she’ll just dig her heels in.

  Stubborn little monster.

  I just hate that she’s even more gorgeous when she’s pissed.

  Hate it even more how telling her that would just make her furious.

  I can’t help a faint smile, though, while I leaf through wiring diagrams where my boys had to put in a whole new wall and salvage what was left of the existing building wiring before patching in new shit up to code.

  I’m looking at it, but I’m not really seeing it.

  I’m seeing Libby when she basically told me to fuck off a cliff and die, seeing how those witchfire blue eyes just lit up.

  If she’s a witch, then she’s sure as hell cast a spell on m—

  “—erton? Mr. Silverton, are you listening?”

  “Huh?” I lift my head, blinking.

  The owner—it was Carol, right?

  No, Carmine. She stands in front of me, looking up with a smile and a little toss of her head. She’s clearly expecting an answer.

  Aw, shit.

  I didn’t even realize she’d been talking.

  I offer an apologetic smile. “Sorry, ma’am, a lot on the mind. What was that?”

  She falters but then starts over. “I just said I wanted to thank you for the personal attention and detail you put into this job. You live up to your reputation for a man who likes working with his hands.”

  I flash her another quick smile and look back down at the wiring diagrams, checking one last thing. “Is that my reputation around these parts now? I’ll take it. Just glad you’re happy with the job, ma’am.”

  She doesn’t answer, which gets my attention more than anything.

  I look up again, and she’s staring at me with her brows knit together and a bit of a pout.

  Then, with a sniff, she turns and walks away, pretending to be too interested in arranging one of the display dummies just fresh out of its box of packing peanuts.

  I glance over at my crew foreman, Alaska Charter.

  “What’d I do now?” I mutter from the corner of my mouth.

  “It’s what you didn’t do.” He snorts, a chuckle that makes his burly chest shake. He’s a big man, the kind of cement slab of a human you want to have on your crew. Leaning toward me,
he mock-whispers in my ear. “Girl was trying to hook up with your clueless ass, boss.”

  “Oh.”

  Oh, shit.

  I take a second look—really looking at her this time.

  She’s tall, a little over average height, shapely with thick, lush hips. Today she’s dressed to accent all her best assets. I can’t help but wonder if she’s always got her blouse unbuttoned enough to see the scalloped lace edges of her bra.

  Or if that’s my invitation, and I missed it.

  I hadn’t even noticed.

  Think I’ve missed a lot of things, honestly, like the glossy shine of her lips or the deliberate toss of her hair. I replay the highlights reel of the walk-through and only then do I realize the number of times this woman must’ve looked up at me through her lashes, waiting for me to notice and live up to my other reputation.

  It just hadn’t sunk in.

  Now, there she is, ripe for the plucking.

  Here I am, cataloging details instead of salivating to take her home.

  “Oh,” I repeat, and Alaska snickers.

  I smack his arm and give him a dirty look.

  “Stop that. She’ll realize we’re talking about her, and you’re going to hurt her feelings.”

  “Oh, so you’re caring about their feelings now and not their cup size?” He smirks, giving me a once-over like he’s never seen me before. “I thought you’d be after her number in a heartbeat. Or maybe these small-town pickings aren’t good enough after you left your supermodel harem behind in the city?”

  I roll my eyes and thwack his arm again.

  “You know I didn’t have any sort of harem,” I mutter. “And you know damn well my name’s like mud here.”

  “Only because you broke a few too many hearts a long time ago, from what I hear.” He grins wickedly. “No woman hates you quite the same as a woman who used to love you.”

  “Then you haven’t seen the way Miss Liberty Potter hates me,” I snap—then shut my mouth firmly when Alaska raises a thick, bushy eyebrow.

  “Liberty Potter, you say?” His grin peeks past his dense mountain man beard.

  Ah, fuck.

  I think I just gave myself away.

  Grunting, I turn away from the rather annoyed-looking Carmine and bump Alaska’s thick arm again. “C’mon. We’ve still got four more rooms to inspect.”

  But he’s not about to drop it.

  He’s the type that seems big, dumb, and loyal, but underneath it he’s sharp as a tack and far too shrewd.

  “So that’s what happened,” he says, stroking his beard with a thoughtful rumble as he falls into step with me. “You went and got yourself collared by a girl who can’t stand you, and now you can’t stand to look at anyone else.”

  “Cut the shit,” I growl. “There’s no point.”

  Not when Libby won’t trust me in this lifetime and maybe several more.

  Not when my name’s clearly so vile she has every reason to believe I’m just trying to swindle her, jumping to conclusions without giving me any hint of a chance.

  It’s almost like she knew me back in New York.

  Back when I was that guy.

  A man I’m not proud of.

  A man who had to lose everything he had to learn that, deep down, he had nothing worth keeping to start with.

  Two Years Ago

  When Calypso told me to meet her at Le Bernardin, I thought we were just having a celebratory dinner.

  I’m about to close on a big development deal that’ll value close to eight figures for the contract, with seven figures in profits.

  A whole fuck-wad of zeroes that’ll look mighty pretty in my bank account.

  Just as pretty as the ring I bought will look on her finger.

  It’s the perfect setup.

  Meeting my girl at one of the most exclusive, upscale restaurants in NYC, and it was her idea, so she has no clue I’m about to propose.

  I’m finally ready.

  Ready to settle down and let go of my hundred-woman ways.

  Ready to stop playing games and find something stable.

  Ready to make a life.

  A real life with permanence.

  It’s all going according to plan, too.

  Until I check in for our reservation and I’m escorted to the table.

  Calypso’s already waiting.

  Settled into a booth and snuggled in close...

  ...next to another man.

  And not just any other man.

  Barry Hensworth.

  If there was a Who’s Who of New York Construction, Barry would be on the first page, and every other page. His family’s been a bastion of New York real estate for nearly a century—and just like mob families, they’re all about power, control, and who sets the rules.

  They like the cushy contracts going to their guys.

  You’ve got to play smart, play fast, to get around them and find your own niche. Make your own way.

  I thought I’d played smart and fast.

  Thought I’d found investors who’d take a chance on a hungry small-town boy gunning to upset the Hensworth iron fist in this city.

  But the fact that my girl—my fucking girl—is hanging on Barry’s arm?

  It tells me without even saying a word that I didn’t play fast or smart enough.

  There are three place settings. Two in front of them, one in front of the empty side of the booth.

  They want to play this nice. Congenial. Mafia-style.

  Fine.

  I’ll play along.

  At least give them the satisfaction of letting me down easy.

  So I plaster on my most charming, easygoing smile and offer my hand, wishing I had my gun.

  “Barry,” I say, as if we’re friends and not bitter rivals. As if we could even be called rivals, when he’s got enough of a stranglehold to crush me at any moment. “Calypso didn’t tell me you were coming to dinner.”

  Barry looks up.

  He smiles his greasy goddamn smile like he isn’t about to stab me in the back.

  Like my girlfriend isn’t on his arm and watching me with a smirk that says she knew this was coming.

  She maybe even knew when she was in my bed last week.

  “Holt,” Barry says ever so warmly, taking my hand in a firm shake before gesturing to the empty chair. “Have a seat. They’ve already served the wine. It’s a 1990 Chateau Margaux. I’ve heard it’s quite pleasing to the palate.”

  Please, sit, he tells me.

  Like this is his fucking rodeo.

  Making sure I know who’s in control here, rubbing his dick in my face.

  Starting with a $1200 bottle of wine.

  But I sit and play nice.

  Though I’m already eager to throw that glimmering thin-stemmed glass of wine right in Barry’s jowly, red, smug-fuck face.

  “How lovely,” I say, keeping up the illusion, even though everything in my body is sinking like a stone, because I know.

  I know I’m about to lose everything.

  And it leaves my gut as heavy as the rock in my pocket, fixed to a ring that costs more than most people’s mortgages.

  “So,” I continue, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Glad you asked...”

  Barry picks up his wine glass by its delicate stem, swirling it before taking a deep, obnoxious whiff, his nostrils flaring.

  I can’t miss his possessive, meaty arm around Calypso’s shoulders or the way she leans into it.

  Like she’s trying to get me riled.

  Like she expected me to be angry and throw a storming tantrum, walking in to see her on another man’s arm when she’d been in my bed just a few nights ago.

  Fuck it.

  I won’t give either of them the satisfaction.

  I’ll just play the fool, and then I’ll walk out forever.

  “This isn’t an easy conversation. I don’t like to pussyfoot around things,” Barry says.

  “So don’t.” I’m trying to stay calm, but I
can’t help how clipped it comes out. “There’s only one reason you’re here, Barry, so let’s get on with it. Then everyone can enjoy their dinner with the horseshit out of the way.”

  “I’m relieved you won’t be difficult about this. You’re a smart man, Holt. You truly are.” Barry smirks. “Just not quite smart enough, I’m afraid. There could be a place for you at Hensworth Holdings, you know.”

  “I wouldn’t need a place if my contract with the city was intact.” I lean back in my chair, folding my arms over my chest. “But it’s not anymore, is it?”

  “No. Your investors, you see—”

  “What about them?”

  “Well, they decided to go with someone more battle-tested.” He curls his lip, almost self-deprecating, as if it’s just such a shame, not really his fault. “You know how these money people are. They like to bet on a sure winner, not take risks on a shiny new toy. And an unknown newcomer, well, that’s a sizable risk.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Somehow, I’m grinning, but it feels more like baring my teeth. “And it has nothing to do with the fact that half my investors are your lifelong golf pals? No handshakes at the country club, that sort of thing.”

  He lifts both brows mildly. Ever so shocked at the insinuation, of course.

  Of course.

  “With Hensworth Holdings’ long-standing reputation in the community and our presence here, it’s inevitable we’d know people,” he says with a scoffing laugh. “You truly can’t fault people for having friends, Holt.”

  My gaze darts between him and Calypso. She’s pouty, lithe, and sensual in a silk sheath dress in pure white, clinging to her translucently and highlighting her long, leggy, perfect-ten body.

  “And are you two friends, Barry?” I linger on her. “Is Barry your new friend, Calypso? Perhaps because her father’s one of my investors, and you just happened to drop by the house for a visit?”

  I guess that’s the reaction she wants.

  She finally smirks, rubbing her cheek on Barry’s shoulder, nasty and catlike.

  I take a little satisfaction in the fact that although Barry’s wool suit probably has a higher thread count than my Egyptian cotton sheets, her foundation is currently ruining it, leaving colored, chalky smears on his expensive fabric.

  “Don’t be like that, Holt,” she says. “You know how it goes.”