The Devil Wants Me

Cara

My rock bottom is a dirty martini in an upscale hotel bar.

It's drinking on my husband's dime—my ex-husband's dime—and knowing full well this money won't last much longer.

It's having no friends, no prospects, no income, alone in a strange city with nowhere else to go.

But at least I have a dirty martini and another on the way.

"Excuse me, miss?" The bartender is a young guy with an ironic mustache. He leans across the bar and, based on his body language, maybe that second drink isn't coming after all. "Your card was declined."

Panic slams into my chest.

But no, keep it together, it's okay, I was expecting this.

Maybe it's happening sooner than I thought but Christopher wasn't going to bankroll my escape forever.

I'll have to move on when this drink is finished, and hopefully I can find somewhere safe to sleep tonight.

I ended up at the Drake Hotel out of sheer desperation. It's the only place I recognized in Chicago based entirely on driving past it once or twice.

Christopher took me on a couple tours in the back of a town car in those first few hectic days after our move from Philadelphia, but those two short trips are everything I know about this city.

The Drake is entirely too fancy, way too expensive, and far out of my league—a girl in jeans, a zip-up sweatshirt, and my favorite sneakers, the only pair I could bring with me.

"I'm sorry," I say and reach into my pocket. I drop ten different credit cards down onto the bar in front of me. "One of these should work."

The bartender stares at the cards like they're made from slime.

I smile at him sweetly, batting my eyes a little bit, trying to come across as nonthreatening and cute.

Instead of completely psychotic.

It's not working. A few of the suit-wearing businessmen glare at me like I'm a walking trash pile, but I refuse to let them know how mortified I feel right now.

I used to be respectable. I had a husband, a house, a life.

Now, I'm one annoyed bartender away from getting thrown out of this hotel.

"You want me to run all of these?" The bartender's eyebrows shoot up as he raises one of the cards in the air, a pretty little black Amex. "Are you Christopher Conti?"

"I'm his wife." Which is true, technically speaking, and I don't have any clue how I'll take care of that nagging issue. But one world-ending problem at a time.

"Right," the bartender says and his expression flattens as he puts the card back down. "Sorry, miss, but I can't use this. Do you have one with your name on it? And some ID, please? Or maybe you can pay in cash."

I definitely can't pay in cash.

I left the house two hours ago with nothing but my shoes, the clothes on my back, and the stack of credit cards Christopher kept in the top drawer of his nightstand.

This was not the most well-thought-out plan ever.

But it was either leave with no warning and nothing to weigh me down, or risk him finding me and dragging me back.

I'd rather face the wrath of this hipster bartender than my ex-husband.

The bartender probably won't punch me in the face.

I nudge a metal visa at him and toss out another prize-winning smile. "Try this one. It's also in my husband's name, but—"

"I'm sorry, I just—" he says, interrupting me.

I talk louder. Confidence! Big smile! "It'll be fine, this one will work, can you just—"

"Miss, really, I can't, but maybe you can—"

"Please," I say loudly, all that confidence cracking in half, before he can interrupt me again. Half the bar's staring at me now. I sound shrill and panicky, which is pretty much dead on. "Just run the fucking card, okay?" Frustration and fear break over me like a wave. "I've had a really, really long day, basically a really long life, and I don't need your holier-than-thou bartender bullshit on top of the nightmare I've already gone through just to get here, so please, run the stupid card and settle my bill so I can leave before he finds me."

I know as soon as the words slip out from between my lips that I made a very poor decision, but I've never been good at stopping myself once I get rolling.

I'm a cannonball loosed on the world, all momentum, nothing else. Once I've opened my mouth, there's no going back, as my ex can attest.

His favorite pet name for me was "mouthy bitch."

Christopher was a real charmer.

The kind of man my mother would've called a little bit rough.

My mother? Also a real charmer.

"Sorry, miss," the bartender says and crosses his arms. He's looking at me like he's made up his mind, and it's not good. "I can't run any of these, and if you can't pay for that drink then we're going to have an issue. Should I call security, or do you have another way to pay?"

I want to scream. Bile rises in my throat. Everyone's staring, the whole damn bar, and this was a terrible mistake. I should've gone somewhere smaller, quieter, somewhere out of the way, somewhere that wouldn't give a crap where the money was coming from, but I had this image of escaping my violent bastard ex-husband in style.

But that's all crashing down around me.

I'm going to get arrested over a single martini.

"Please," I say and it's the most pathetic I've ever felt. All my anger slowly drains away, replaced by terror.

If I'm stuck here all because some mustache-twirling jerk suddenly grew a moral compass, Christopher's going to show up. He's going to appear, and he's going to kill me.

Maybe not right away. But slowly, surely, I will die if I stay with that man.

A shadow appears at my elbow. I figure it's hotel security, come to throw me out on my ass, or maybe to call the cops. I turn around, forming a million different excuses, ready to cry if that's what it takes, anything to avoid getting caught by my ex—

A man's standing there. Tall and broad, massive actually, muscular and brooding with dark hair and dark eyes.

He's handsome in a startling way and my mouth works, trying to find words, but there are none. His suit fits him perfectly, but he still looks like he'd rather be in a pair of jeans and nothing else.

My jaw drops, and for once in my lousy life, I have nothing to say.

His dark, nearly pitch-black eyes meet mine. A jolt of excitement spikes down my stomach and into my core. His lips are full and pink, and he's looking at me like he wants to peel me apart to study my insides. But in a really weird, sexy way.

"Put her drink on my tab." His voice is a rumble, practically subsonic.

"Mr. Kahzan, are you sure—" The bartender starts, but the big man interrupts him.

"Yes," he says. "Now, please."

The bartender practically melts away in fear.

I stare at the enormous man and blink for a beat, trying to come to grips with what just happened. "Thank you," I say and clear my throat as I gather up my credit cards. "I really appreciate it, but—"

His hand comes down on my shoulder. He doesn't grip, and it's not threatening, but there's a clear message.

"Stay," he says and a jolt of worry lances into my stomach.

What is this gorgeous monster going to demand in exchange for that drink?

Based on the way the bartender reacted to him, I suspect this Mr. Kahzan is known around here, and if that's the case, I doubt they'll stop him from doing whatever he wants.

I have a thousand terrible stranger-danger scenarios playing out in my head and I'm about ready to scream when the massive dark-eyed man leans forward.

His voice drops to a sultry purr.

"Are you hungry?" he asks. "Because I'm starving."