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  Alyssa had become a fifth wheel, completely unnecessary and unwanted.

  By the time Alyssa hit her teens, Bridgett had convinced her father she was a poor reflection on the Vaughn name and her father’s pristine reputation.

  Alyssa couldn’t remember the moment she realized her father despised her. The seed had simply grown until it blossomed into painful understanding. She was a constant reminder of her mother, who’d chosen to run off with a penniless mechanic rather than remain in the opulent world and stifling perfection Alyssa’s father had demanded. Transferring his rage to his daughter had been easy.

  He’d never hurt her, at least not physically. It might have been easier if he had. Then maybe someone else would have recognized her pain.

  Bridgett had gotten exactly what she wanted—almost all of her husband’s money. When he’d died four years ago he’d left everything to her. Everything except enough for Alyssa to put a nice down payment on her apartment in the Quarter. She never would have been able to afford the mortgage without it.

  The irony was that she hadn’t wanted his money. What she’d craved was a father who loved and doted on her the way he obviously cared about Mercedes. But that unfulfilled dream died right along with him.

  She could ask Bridgett for the money. Alyssa’s eyes closed on a convulsive gesture of dread. And her stepmother would give it to her just so she could hold it up as evidence of Alyssa’s failure. Her stomach rolled with loathing.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Mitch warned, his dark brown eyes flashing. “There’s no way I’m letting you do it.”

  “Do what?” she asked listlessly.

  “Going to the Stepford Witch is a last resort.”

  Mitch knew her so well. She hadn’t even had to voice the option for him to know exactly the hell her head had gone to.

  “Uh, I think we’re there, Mitch.”

  His fingers hardened, digging into the edge of the table a little too roughly for a moment before easing back. “Not yet. What about the new interactive tourism app? I know you wanted to wait another month or two, but everyone else thinks it’s ready. Deirdre has already spoken to Vance Eaton about it. They’re interested and are excited about New Orleans being the debut city. We could sell it quickly, add a package for support and design tweaks to cover any bugs. Problem solved.”

  Alyssa tried not to let the ray of hope tempt her. The warmth of it was difficult to resist, but she didn’t want to talk herself into one bad business decision simply to dodge another.

  Mitch sat quietly, familiar with her need to work through all the angles of a problem—or potential solution.

  He was right. For the most part, the app was ready. The fine-tuning just required access to the specific requirements of the debut city. With its interactive, party atmosphere, New Orleans was exactly the kind of location she’d known would best utilize the application.

  Tourist apps were a dime a dozen, but theirs married the best of social media with the latest information available. Constant updates would be provided, but as people communicated and interacted through the app there would be a continual stream of live information.

  A great band was playing at a club? Someone could post pictures, videos and information. The line to get into an attraction was unusually long? People could post and help each other avoid unnecessary waits and wasted time. A group of college students were trying to connect in the crowd of Mardi Gras? Upload a photograph of your physical location.

  It didn’t escape her notice that both of the apps she’d focused on so far, at their core, were designed to bring people together. She didn’t need a psych evaluation to figure out where that need grew from. At least something good could come from her lonely existence.

  Focusing on one product launch at a time had seemed like the intelligent choice, especially since they’d never done one before, but now they no longer had that luxury.

  With a nod, she agreed, “Make the call.”

  A sunny smile lit Mitch’s eyes. “I already did.”

  Letting out a laugh, Alyssa punched Mitch in the arm. “Bastard. Then why did you even ask me?”

  “I was laying groundwork we’d need eventually whether we pushed the timeline up or kept the release date a few months from now. You needed to come to the decision on your own.”

  “Right, with a not so subtle shove.”

  Mitch shrugged. “It’s the right move.”

  For the first time in several days, the heavy weight crushing her chest eased away.

  “I’ll get the lawyers involved. Hopefully we’ll have the details hammered out by Wednesday and a check in hand by close of business Friday.”

  Alyssa’s gaze searched Mitch’s deep chocolate eyes. She saw the same hope reflected back, which meant maybe she could actually let herself believe in it.

  “You wanna tell me what that was all about?”

  Alyssa knew instantly what he was talking about, but chose to pretend. “What do you mean?”

  Mitch just cut her a glance that silently called bullshit.

  With a sigh, she gave in. “I have no idea.”

  And that scared the crap out of her. Whatever she’d expected when Beckett Kayne walked into her conference room, it wasn’t the scorching awareness that had flared between them.

  Or the interest she’d seen glowing out of those stormy blue eyes. Especially when, the last time he’d seen her, he’d dismissed her like the inexperienced child she’d been.

  His parting words rang through her brain, sending a shudder down her spine.

  No doubt Mitch saw it. A sound rolled up from his chest, a combination of concern and disbelief. “Be careful, Lys. Beckett Kayne isn’t the kind of man who brings you candy and flowers. He’s rough and unrelenting. He won’t think twice about hurting you. Using you.”

  Mitch wasn’t telling her anything her brain didn’t already know. But her body... Apparently, it didn’t give a flying flip.

  Maybe to distract them both from that train of thought, Alyssa found herself blurting out words she hadn’t meant to ever say. “I gave a random stranger a striptease last night.”

  That bombshell rocked Mitch backward. “Come again?”

  Scrunching her nose, Alyssa sagged back into the welcome warmth of the leather chair. She stared at the pale blue wall opposite, better that than Mitch. He knew her too well and would immediately pick up on her conflicted response to the whole episode.

  “Last night. I got home late. Had to walk through the crazy crowds.”

  “Expected.”

  Yeah, that’s what she got living in the Quarter. A lot of residents lived close to Fat Tuesday, but she didn’t have the time or money right now.

  “I was so exhausted I didn’t really think about it. I just started undressing, dreaming about collapsing into bed and dealing with the mess in the morning.”

  Mitch gave an empathetic grunt. He’d been working the same long hours and no doubt had collapsed bonelessly into his own bed last night.

  “Something caught my attention. He moved maybe. I don’t know. But I looked out my window to the balcony across the alley and saw a man standing there. He was almost completely in shadow, a mask obscuring half of his face.”

  Just the memory had her words going breathy. The way, even through the distance, his hot gaze had raked over her. The anticipation and tension. Need and excitement.

  “I just...kept going.”

  “Jesus, Lys. What were you thinking? Don’t you have enough problems right now? You really don’t need to add a crazed stalker to the mix.”

  Mitch’s words vaulted her out of the haze threatening to suck her back into the memory. Now was not the time. Not when her body was still on edge from her encounter with Kayne. That was a dangerous combination just begging for a spark to detonate.

 
“You’re hilarious,” she drawled out.

  “I’m not being funny. I know you’re oblivious to it, but you’re gorgeous. Half of the single male population of New Orleans want inside your panties. And the other half just haven’t met you yet.”

  It was easy for Alyssa to ignore his words. She could count on one hand the number of men she’d slept with and have a couple of fingers of left over for fun. She wasn’t the kind of woman who got hit on in bars and never had been.

  Mitch had to say stuff like that, though. It was the equivalent of most mothers saying their daughters were pretty.

  “Seriously. And doing something that stupid during Mardi Gras...someone could have been taking pictures or taping you. You know people cross boundaries they’d never think about approaching any other time.”

  Mitch was right, but until last night she’d never been tempted to join the group of people who used Mardi Gras as an excuse to make bad behavior acceptable. She was far from a prude. Her motto tended more towards c’est la vie than repent, you sinners. It just wasn’t her thing.

  Until last night. It had been rather thrilling doing something so taboo.

  That was the attraction. Really. That was all it was. She’d been upset and surrounded by happy drunks without a care in the world.

  “I’ll never see him again,” she promised both Mitch and herself.

  “Just...be careful.”

  “Aren’t I always?”

  Mitch grunted, a sound that could mean just about anything.

  “If he shows up again you’ll let me know? Let me make sure he isn’t an escaped felon or alcoholic or—”

  “A good guy, stealing a few moments of peace during a party held on the balcony of a multimillion-dollar home in the Quarter?”

  “Just ’cause he got invited to a snooty party doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous.”

  “True.”

  As much as she wanted to reassure Mitch, there was something about her masked stranger that sent a delicious wave of foreboding prickling along her skin.

  She was afraid the man watching her last night was very dangerous. And bold. And wickedly depraved.

  The problem was that didn’t bother Alyssa, although it definitely should.

  * * *

  BECKETT STARED OUT of the one-way window that looked over the twisting, gyrating mass of bodies below. Not even the double-paned glass could block the loud, thumping music blaring through the club.

  Lights flashed, white, gold, green and blue, spinning, twirling and pulsing rhythmically.

  Arms crossed over his chest, hips spread wide, he surveyed his domain. From his vantage point he could see the bar was three deep in people yelling for another round of drinks. He’d thought about scheduling another bartender, but with three working already it would have been a tight squeeze to get another person back there.

  The customers didn’t seem to mind the wait. Not when there was a line of people outside chomping at the bit to get in. Waitresses in deep-red bustiers, black satin boyshorts and silk thigh highs circulated through the room. Tonight, in a nod to Mardi Gras, they wore black feathered masks and had ropes of beads draped around their necks.

  The three waiters working the floor all walked around naked from the waist up. That wasn’t his requirement, but the guys quickly realized they made better tips that way. Besides, between the packed bodies and the heat generated from the dance floor, they all said it was cooler.

  Beckett didn’t care, as long as it didn’t cause problems. Women were just as likely to have roaming hands as men, and sometimes when they drank they forgot their boyfriends were sitting there watching them fondle his staff.

  Satisfied that everything was working smoothly tonight, Beckett’s focus shifted from the floor to the walls and rafters. It was an old warehouse he’d converted, and there was plenty of room to handle the upgrades he wanted.

  V&D’s app was a twist on an interactive social media platform that dovetailed nicely with the theme of Exposed—sumptuous and gritty, in-your-face access.

  Watch Me would connect to cameras set up to record and broadcast live feeds directly from each of his clubs. People anywhere could not only watch the party, but also interact.

  He already had contractors ready to install huge screens that would plaster the walls and ceiling. Several of them would project other locations—the New York feed would play on screens in Chicago. Someone from Iowa or Paris could hook up the feed and play it at their own makeshift party. And then upload videos of their experience, which would play over the screens in Seattle.

  It essentially made the world one big, connected party.

  To take it a step further, there was in-app communication. A guy in Geneva could message the beautiful girl in New Orleans he just watched dance and even send her a drink from the bar.

  Global exposure and connection.

  He could see it. Technology being used to bring people together instead of separating and isolating them.

  What he couldn’t understand was how Alyssa Vaughn didn’t see the potential. Or didn’t want to see it.

  The memory of their meeting had conflicting emotions rolling through his body—frustration and urgency. His muscles tightened, his hands balled into fists.

  The way her pale eyes had flashed at him, angry and full of disdain.

  He’d thought of revealing who he was, but he didn’t think she would have appreciated that revelation in company. And by the time the meeting was finished, he’d been so irritated and aroused he’d decided to keep the secret indefinitely.

  He still had no idea what he’d done to her, but it was obvious her aversion to him went deeper than a simple business decision.

  And he couldn’t help but wonder how often she’d done something like that striptease last night. Was he a first? Or one in a long line of wanton experiences?

  From out of nowhere, a surge of jealousy had his eyes narrowing dangerously. That line of thinking would get him nowhere.

  Needing the distraction, he slipped out of his office and through the cleverly concealed door in the wall, down onto the floor. He wasn’t drunk or interested in dancing, but he had to weave through half the club to get to the bar.

  On his way through, he lost count of how many times his ass was grabbed or palms slid across his chest. Someone even managed to slip fingers beneath the waistband of his jeans.

  Clamping his hand around the offending wrist, he pulled the digits away from his skin. They were attached to a beautiful blonde, her body covered in a dark red dress that plunged in the front and stopped about four inches down her thighs. She smiled at him, blue eyes full of invitation.

  Despite the way he used his grip on her arm to hold her away, her body undulated suggestively, as if she were plastered hard against him.

  “Hi, sugar. Care to buy me a drink?” she asked, her lips smirking with promise.

  It was impossible not to compare this woman to Alyssa. Blatant sexuality against bone-deep sensuality. This woman had everything she offered on display. There was no mystery. No challenge. He could have her upstairs across his desk in three minutes flat—only because it would take that long to get back to the office.

  It had been a long time since Beckett had wanted easy.

  Alyssa was all mystery, her wild streak hidden from prying eyes just as surely as the heavyhearted ink on her ribs. Everything about her was a question and contradiction.

  If today had been their first meeting, he probably would have walked away thinking she was innocently gorgeous, but positively untouchable. No doubt, he would still have been attracted to her, but he’d have figured she wasn’t the kind of woman who could match him.

  But last night...that changed everything. He’d seen beneath the perfect veneer. And he wanted more.

  Maybe that’s why he found himself turning a
round. And instead of heading to the bar to check on his employees, was out the door.

  4

  BECKETT LOUNGED ON the street, his eyes glued to the door of Alyssa’s building. The press of people, swirl of madness and cacophony of sound surrounding him should have been distracting. But he couldn’t tear his gaze from her door.

  He shouldn’t be here. Logically, he realized this was a bad idea. But, for some reason, his feet wouldn’t obey the order to walk away.

  Standing on the sidewalk outside her building was rather stupid, especially since he had no way of knowing if she was even home. Most people weren’t. Not on a Saturday during Mardi Gras. The party raged right outside her front door and she was probably lost somewhere in the crowd, enjoying it.

  While he was staked out here staring at her apartment like he might suddenly develop X-ray vision.

  He’d wanted her last night when she’d given him a glimpse of herself. And he didn’t just mean the smooth expanse of her skin. The fever of her desire. The way she’d reveled in his eyes on her. Her teasing and tempting. Bold and sensual. Daring.

  It was the siren beneath her prim and proper exterior that held him captive. Instinct told him it was something she didn’t share with many. He craved the moment she’d surrender and give in to the need snapping hot and dangerous between them.

  Being pulled along by the frenzied atmosphere, Beckett had joined in, donning the same mask from the night before. A cup of beer clutched in his hand, he settled back against the wall. And forced his gaze to focus on the crowd instead of the apartment across the way.

  He was mentally arguing with himself, trying to convince himself that he should leave, when she was suddenly there. Pausing just outside the door that protected her building from the madness, she stared into the throng, getting her bearings.

  A small smile tugging her lips, she pushed through the crowd, heading for Canal and the Endymion parade that would roll through soon. She was too late to get close, people had been camped out for hours to save spots, but she didn’t seem to care.