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“I don’t know. Something else. Something that has meaning.”
He didn’t answer that. “And what do you want?” he asked me.
I shook my head. “Nothing. I told you my story. Since I was a baby, I’ve been lucky to be alive. Things have turned out better for me than they had any right to.”
“So you don’t want anything at all?”
“I want safety and security,” I said. “I want a job that fulfills me and pays the bills. I want my sister nearby and reasonably happy. I have those things. What else could I want?”
The words hung there. After a moment, Aidan nodded.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll see.”
The text came at midnight. I was alone in my condo, sitting in bed, reading. The book was One Night with the Devil, and to be completely honest it was the third time I’d read it. Especially the scene where the hero stripped the heroine naked, tied a silk rope around her wrists, put her on all fours on the bed, and—
On the nightstand, my phone buzzed. I picked it up and read the text from Aidan.
Tomorrow night, Shaker’s rooftop on Fifth Avenue. Just after nine.
My throat went dry. Underneath my sleep T-shirt, my nipples hardened. I put my book down.
Yes, I replied.
I didn’t even think of saying no.
Because damn it, Aidan Winters was right. There was something else I wanted, after all.
Twenty-Seven
Samantha
* * *
The Jacques was classy, but Shaker’s was trendy, expensive, and crowded. It was on the roof of an office building, twelve stories up. Fifth Avenue stretched away below, surrounded by skyscrapers—the view dominated by th
e Empire State Building, still Art Deco perfection after so many years.
It was a beautiful night when I arrived—just after nine, as instructed. The days were getting longer, and the sun had set just a little while ago. A warm breeze blew and the New Yorkers who were drinking up here, high above the city, were just warming up. I threaded my way through them and walked to the bar.
Aidan was there.
I had to pause for a minute, because he was sitting on a bar stool, drinking a glass of whiskey, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Jeans and a T-shirt. The jeans were worn, and the shirt was light gray, fitting him to perfection. His biceps—had I ever noticed Aidan’s biceps before? I noticed them now. They were perfectly shaped and hard as granite. The shirt fell straight over his flat stomach. The line of his shoulders was to die for.
He was gorgeous in a suit, and he was gorgeous in jeans and a tee. It wasn’t fair.
No one was looking at him, except for a couple of women who were checking him out. He was hot, but he wasn’t recognized as the Man in Black. I took a breath and got into character, preparing to play the game once again.
I was wearing a skirt, blouse, and heels. My name was Leigh, and I’d just left the office after working late. I had recently been dumped by my long-term boyfriend, who I’d thought would marry me, and I was low on confidence but determined to get back into the dating pool and meet someone. Tonight I screwed up my courage to approach the hot guy in jeans sitting alone at the bar.
A seat opened up next to him and I grabbed it. I signaled the bartender and ordered a glass of white wine spritzer.
As the bartender pushed the drink my way, Aidan turned and looked at me. He smiled appreciatively—a cocky grin. God, he was so gorgeous.
“Hi there, Spritzer Girl,” he said.
“Hi, Whiskey Guy,” I replied.
And just like that, the game was on.
