Chapter One
Sarah
Four Years Ago . . .
What is that old saying I’ve heard people always said?
Out of the frying pan and into the fire?
Well, it should be that.
Only it’s a supernova sun fire.
Because the man who sits at the dark end of the bar is simply that hot. Mind-blowing. Either oil on flame or elixir for a wound. I’m not sure which and I sure shouldn’t be interested. Who can blame me for being anything but interested?
He’s looking at me, long and slow, the kind of look that moves over the skin, like a soft touch and one that promises sex.
I should look away, go to the other end of the bar, and drown my sorrows.
I don’t move.
He’s still looking and so am I.
He keeps his eyes on me as he stands and moves in my direction.
“Are you going to stare at me all night long?” he asks, stopping just at my side. “Like you want to eat me. Or are you going to join me?”
His voice is smooth, rich, and low. Coffee on high octane heavily laced with cream. It makes me shiver.
“Maybe I don’t want to join you.” I try for casual indifference which is hard when my mouth is dry and my fingers tingle. Hard when there’s an invitation, unspoken, in the air, that even I can see and feel.
I don’t want to be me tonight. I want to be bold. Try on the air of an older, sophisticated man. Be someone else. At least for one single night, I want to have what I know I shouldn’t.
“Really?” There’s a challenge there, in that one word.
I look at him. “Maybe I’m just deciding on slow roast or stir fry.”
For a beat, he doesn’t answer me. It’s not any normal beat. It throbs and vibrates in the air with promises I can’t quite read.
This is a man who’s confident, sexual, and he’s looking at me like I’m interesting.
I’m young, but I recognize an offer when I see it.
“Did you just make a joke about you wanting to eat me?” he asks, cocking a brow.
“Who said anything about a joke? I take meals seriously.” I’m looking at him like he could be dessert with a twist. “I’m not sure you cut it. I like a full meal.”
Did . . . oh, Lord, I just told the hottest man—and I do mean man, he’s not anywhere near the early twenties like me, probably close to thirties, maybe just over thirty—that he’s no better than a carrot stick.
He starts laughing and, oh boy, does that laugh do something to me. “If that’s a pick-up line, it needs work.” Then his gaze slides slowly over me, and I shiver. “Or maybe not.”
The look ignites fires that flare into life all over me, and I’m not sure what to say, so I slide a little closer, interested in where this is going.
It’s been so long since someone’s looked at me as he is now, like this, like I’m fair game, like I’m fascinating.
For the past six months, I’ve kept away from guys. After Billy . . . I swallow. After being shackled at the too-young age of eighteen to a much older man, and I mean older, I’m free. It’s a freedom I made myself and fought for.
And tonight, I don’t want to be Billy King’s child bride. The one who put up with chains that had vampire teeth, to which sucked life force.
It’s why I came out, the divorce he said he’d give me. Not to pick up but . . . I suck in a breath. There’s nothing wrong with drinks and getting my flirt on.
This is a man in front of me, older, but nothing at all like Billy. Not splashy like him. Not . . . not him. And he’s looking at me like I intrigue him. Like I’m something he might want to touch.
A little thrill of excitement races through my veins.
“Or maybe you’re thirsty.” He nods to the stools. “Have a seat, I’ll buy you a drink and you can tell me all about these pick-up lines you have.”
“Maybe I’m meeting someone.”
His smile is slow. “No. You’re not.”
It’s a kind of two-step we’re doing. All nice and friendly with the possibility of it sliding into a tango.
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“Because there’s no way you’d be standing here talking to me if you were with someone. You’d be with them.”
“Are you always so confident?”
“Fuck yes,” he says, his rich coffee voice a whisper along my skin. “Are you going to stand there all night?”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. Breathing out, I move closer and perch on the padded stool next to him.
He half smiles as he lifts those beautiful eyes that might be dark amber from me to the bartender. “Whatever the lady’s having, put it on my tab.”
“Gin and tonic, please.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind that isn’t cognac, what Billy likes.
“You are of age, right? You look it, but I’m not taking chances.”
“I don’t look that young.”
He shrugs easily. “Pretty ladies who grab my interest and come into a bar looking like the best kind of trouble might be jailbait. It’s hard to tell.”
“You want my ID?”
“The bartender didn’t ask for it, and he has with other women, which means he takes his job seriously but he might know you or you’ve been here before. So . . . drinking age,” he says, clarifying as he takes a sip of his beer. “Not actual jailbait. If I thought for a second you were underage on that level, this conversation wouldn’t be happening.”
I put my hands on the table. “I’m twenty-three.”
“Good. And your order? You gotta learn to drink better than that.”
“And what do you consider a good drink?” I narrow my eyes at the beer and then him. “Black Frost?”
He laughs, leaning back. “I’m normally a bourbon man. Though when I’m out of town, like I am now, I’m partial to trying different. So, what brings you to this fine city?”
“I live here.”
Part of me wants to lie. He’s from out of town, so he won’t know I’m boring Sarah King who got married way too young to a controlling older man because she was an idiot. He won’t know that I work in a hotel because my dreams of college were shelved with being the young trophy wife. He won’t see I’m not some fabulous single woman out on the town.
He faces me, and there’s a hint of a smile with dark nights and filthy sex there. And inside, I start to throb down low in a way I haven’t experienced in a long time. “I’m Leland.”
“Sadie.” The name slides out, an old nickname given by my first boyfriend.
Leland looks at me like I’m innocence and sex rolled up in one, and suddenly, I wish I was whatever Sadie is in his head.
I’m betting she’s more interesting than me.
My drink arrives along with a lowball of amber liquid for him. Bourbon I’m betting and it suits him more than the beer and it says he’s definitely done with his day and wanting to start his night.
Maybe with me.
I take in a shaking breath as he touches my hair, tucking a strand of the shaggy pixie behind one ear. “What’s your natural color?”
“My hair? I like the black.”