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That hadn’t stopped him.
He’d flown into the city in early morning, met with an investment banker who’d needed reassurance his billions would be well-spent, thought about what to do next…
And had ended up here.
No particular reason for it, he told himself as he pulled the towel from around his neck and wiped the sweat from his face without ever breaking stride. It was just that he was in the States for the first time in a couple of months. No particular reason for that, either. He just hadn’t had any cause to visit the U.S.A.
Now there was. He’d come over on business and, after a long meeting, a workout at the quiet, exclusive club seemed a good idea.
Lucas’s jaw tightened.
Who was he trying to kid? He’d sent his second-in-command to the States three times instead of flying over himself. The pressure of work, he’d told himself, but that was just bull.
So was lifting weights and running laps when it was ninety degrees outside and probably more than that inside, unless a man had the inclination to end up in an emergency room, but it was the only way he could think of to clear his head and keep from thinking about what had happened the last time he was in the States.
Alyssa.
Why did he waste time on such nonsense? She’d left him two months ago and, except for his admittedly wounded pride, he’d forgotten all about her.
He never thought of her anymore.
Never. Never. Nev—
“Mierda,” Lucas growled and swung off the track, to the locker room.
An hour later, showered, dressed in mocs, chinos and a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the collar open, he sat in the mercifully dark, mercifully chilly confines of a local bar, an icy bottle of ale in front of him.
He felt much, much better.
Why hadn’t he done this in the first place? Not only headed here but phoned Nicolo and Damian to see if, by some minor miracle, they were in the city, too.
They were. And—
“Reyes, what in hell are you doing in the outer reaches of hell in mid-August?”
Lucas rose to his feet, grinned and held his hand out to Nicolo. Prince Nicolo Barbieri, to be exact, one of the two best friends a man could ever have.
“Nicolo.”
The men grinned at each other, then embraced.
“Still ugly as ever,” Lucas said.
“That’s just what I was thinking about you,” Nicolo countered. “Man, it’s great to see you. What’s it been? Six months?”
“Eight,” another male voice said, “but who’s counting?”
Damian Aristedes—Prince Damian Aristedes—flashed a grin and grabbed his two oldest friends in a bear-hug.
“Nicolo. Lucas. How the hell are you guys?”
“Good,” both men said with one voice.
The three old pals settled into the wooden booth. The bartender, who’d known them for a long time, appeared almost instantly with two more bottles of cold ale. Lucas nodded his thanks, then turned to his buddies.
“Amazing,” he said, “that the three of us should be in New York at the same time.”
