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."

Cara

It takes a second to understand what he's saying. "Hungry?" I ask him like I've never heard the word before. But I quickly get control of myself. "Sorry, uh, I'm fine." I twist away from his grip and stand up. "I was just leaving. Thanks for the drink, really, you saved my life."

He stares at me, head tilted to the side like he's reading the inside of my guts. "I'm not asking for your phone number, and I'm not interested in a date. I'm asking if you want some company and a meal."

"I'm not hungry," I say and start walking. That's true-I made sure to stuff myself before running earlier-but I don't know how long it's going to last. If Christopher is already cutting off his stash of cards, that means I won't have any money at all to get a room for the night, much less anything to eat.

I'm planning my next move as I head through the lobby, but Mr. Kazan's still at my side, keeping pace. "Pizza," he says. "Deep dish, if that's your thing."

I make a face. "I'm from Philly. Deep dish is like a mortal sin back in my neighborhood."

"Then whatever kind of pizza you want. I'm not picky."

I glance at the expensive suit and the glittering watch on his wrist. "I highly doubt that."

"How about this. There's a Greek place near here that I like. I know the owners. Best souvlaki in the city. If it doesn't change your life, I'll pay the bill and you can go on your way, no complaints from me."

I slow before I reach the exit. Outside, Chicago is a glittering, chaotic nightmare, an unfamiliar place filled with strangers.

I've been in this city for two months, and I've spent most of that time locked in the house my husband purchased, thinking about how I was going to get out.

I have no clue where I'm going. I have no clue what I'm doing.

And this guy did save my butt back there.

"What your name?" I ask, eyeing him suspiciously, trying to get a read, but the man's poker face is pro level.

"Eros. And you?"

"Cara."

"Nice to meet you, Cara. Let me feed you dinner."

I grind my jaw, brain working. I need to get out of here right now, before Christopher looks over the charges and figures out where I am, but there's something about this guy. Maybe it's the way he's looking at me, or his massive size, or the almost gentle way he talks to me, or the sheer force of his magnetism-this strange, powerful draw he's exuding, and it's like I can't look away.

He's handsome, but it's not just that-plenty of guys are handsome.

There's something else about Eros and I don't know what it is.

But I'm curious now, and curiosity's always been my weakness.

"Why are you helping me?" I finally ask out of frustration.

"You said something back at the bar. You said you need to get out of here before he finds you." Eros leans closer. "Who is he, Cara?"

I open my mouth to tell him to go to hell but shut it again. Letting my tongue get the better of me right now isn't going to help anything, but I sure as heck don't want to talk about Christopher with some stranger.

Instead, I turn to the door. "Greek sounds good."

There's a short pause before Eros takes my arm. "Right this way then."

I let him guide me outside. It's a cool, comfortable mid-summer night, and Eros walks with purpose like the city's an ocean and he's a shark parting the waters.

The restaurant is a couple blocks away, a little hole in the wall, and the staff greet Eros like he's the pope coming for a visit. We get a great table up front near the windows and the owner himself comes out, a little man with dark hair and a big, warm smile. He practically kisses Eros's ring before food arrives without us having to order.

"Are you always treated like this?" I ask in astonishment.

Eros sits back, still not smiling. "In certain places, yes, I am. Are you going to tell me who he is yet?"

"Nope." I start eating. It's absolutely delicious. Kebabs, vegetables, hummus, Greek meatballs, spanakopita so flaky it falls apart like butter in my mouth. Eros barely touches the food and watches me with that cold, curious expression, until I can't take him staring anymore. "What can I say to make you stop looking at me like I'm a zoo animal?"

"You can tell me that you have a place to sleep tonight."

"Why would you-" I stop myself and clench my jaw. I have to take a breath before I go off on him again. I don't like the way this man's seeing straight through me. "I appreciate you bailing me out back at the hotel, and I appreciate you feeding me, but you've got something wrong."

He raises an eyebrow, which is the most emotion I've seen from him so far. "What's that?"

"I am not helpless." I glare at him and feel the flame of five years of living with Christopher burning in my chest.

Five years of bowing and scraping, cooking and cleaning, explaining away bruises and laughing off black eyes.

Five years of misery.

Five nightmarish years, ever since I was an eighteen-year-old kid.

Now I'm twenty-three, still a kid. I don't know a thing about the world and I don't have any useful skills, but I will not shackle myself to another man.

Not ever again.

Eros smiles. It's a beautiful smile, and I'm taken aback. His face goes from dark and brooding to light and joyful in moments. It's like someone turned a spotlight on his features. He strokes a thumb down his stubbled chin and laughs, shaking his head, leans forward, and plucks a piece of cheese from my plate.

"No, Cara, I don't think I'd ever call you helpless."

"We only just met. You don't know a thing about me, and you're acting like I'm some homeless vagrant or something."

"I've met many people like you in my time." He waves a hand dismissively in the air which only makes me want to punch him in the teeth. "You are most certainly not the type to admit you need help. But if you can tell me where you're sleeping tonight, I'll pretend like none of this happened."

Cara

"I already said thank you." I glare at him, arms crossed, no longer hungry. Mostly because I already stuffed my face, but still. He's pissing me off, and I don't know where I'm sleeping, but that's my problem to solve, not his.

"And you haven't told me who he is yet."

I grind my jaw. This big bastard's not letting it go. I could get up and walk away right now-I don't think he'd stop me, not in such a crowded place-but where would I go? It's dark and I'm on an unfamiliar street, and I don't know if I can afford an Uber or a cab. Worse, I have no clue where I'd go if I could.

This is basically the most poorly planned escape ever.

But I didn't have time. I saw my chance, and I took it without hesitating, because hesitating would've meant getting caught.

I lean back, studying him. "How about this? I graciously let you pay for this lovely meal, and you promise not to ask me about him again. Do we have a deal?"

Eros's eyes sparkle with amusement. "Let me get you a room at the Drake and we have a deal."

I blink at him rapidly. Did this man just proposition me? But he didn't say come back to my room, he said, let me get you a room, like he's offering to pay for a hotel for me, and only me.

"No, thank you. I thought you said you didn't want a date? I'd rather just-"

"Keep running?" He pitched his voice lower, forcing me to lean in to hear him. "And where does that end? You still haven't told me where you're sleeping tonight. I suspect you have no plan beyond the next five minutes. And I wasn't lying, I'm not interested in a date."

"I'll be fine." I push my chair back and stand. "Thank you for your help, Eros, but I need to go."

He takes a roll of cash from his pocket-all twenties and hundreds, and I stare at it with wide eyes-and drops an absurd amount on the table. I turn and walk out of the restaurant, but he keeps pace.

This time, when he takes my arm, there's a promise in the way he grips me. I turn to face him in the dark overhang of an insurance office and tilt my chin up, gathering all my strength to tell him off, but I stop mid-sentence.

He steps forward until my back bumps into the brick of the building, trapping me there.

We're alone on the street. Eros is enormous. I should be afraid-I should start kicking and screaming-but it's the look he gives me that makes my mouth stay shut for once in my life.

It's total desire, pure and simple lust, like he wants to take me right here in public.

It's a look I haven't seen in a very long time, if ever.

Christopher used to be nice. When we first met, he bought me flowers and chocolates and took me to dinner and movies and all that cliché relationship stuff. I was totally smitten-because I was eighteen and he was twenty-four and had more money than I ever dreamed of in my life. He worshipped the ground I walked on, and I thought I was the luckiest girl alive.

For a while, anyway.

But that changed after the wedding. He turned sour, and got drunk, and slowly the violence crept in. At first, just a slap here, a shove there. Always he apologized afterward and begged forgiveness. I gave it to him, because what else could I do? There was no such thing as divorce in my world.

It got worse and worse and worse from there, until I found myself sneaking birth control just to make sure I never got pregnant-not that we were sleeping together. Christopher was too drunk most nights to get it up, but I had to be sure.

I couldn't risk getting myself trapped with that man.

The way Eros's looking at me right now, that's something I've never experienced before. To Christopher, I was a maid he occasionally slapped around and tried to fuck with his pathetic limp dick.

To Eros, it's like I'm the only person in the world.

"I'm offering you a room, no strings attached," he says softly, still staring at me intently. "No date. Nothing owed. Simply a place for you to sleep."

"Why?" I manage to croak. "I don't understand why you're trying to help me."

His lips purse together. "Would you believe me if I said that I have sins I need to atone for?"

"Yes, but no thanks. I'm not interested in being your charity case." Besides, based on the look in his eye, I don't think this is pure altruism.

His soul might be stained, but this man has more sin in his future.

"You can tell me no," he says quietly, his big body pinning mine, practically crushing me. "You can walk away and disappear. You can take your chances and see if any of those credit cards you tried to use back at the bar will work. Maybe they do, and you have a warm bed tonight. Maybe they don't, and you are lost. Or you can come back to the Drake. I'll book you the suite, it's very nice. Let me spoil you for an evening. Let me give you something you can use to forget whoever you're running from. That's all I offer, nothing more complicated."

It's so tempting.

Sinfully, absurdly tempting.

This man reeks of money and power, and he's so stupidly beautiful, like a massive Greek statue carved from pure muscle and hunger.

I want to feel his stubble on my neck and hear his massive grunts in my ear.

But I've never done this before. Christopher was my first and only, and even if I hate my ex-husband and wouldn't mind going to his funeral tomorrow-that's my only experience with men.

Eros's something different. When he makes a promise, I believe him, and I don't understand why. I don't know him at all and here I am, head dizzy, desperation in my stomach, knowing full well that if I turn him down, I might end up sleeping on the street or in a park somewhere, and this could be my last chance at real pleasure for a very long time.

After tonight, I'm on my own, and things are going to be hard.

But right now, I can feel good. For once in my short and stupid and pathetic life, I can feel good.

"Okay," I whisper.

His lips hang inches from mine. His head cocks slightly. I feel his warm breath on my cheeks and mouth, and I want him to lean forward. I want him to kiss me so badly it's like an ache between my legs. He's warmth and power, protection and sin. I want to find out where this can go.

Instead, he pulls away. "Follow me then."