Alan’s eyes lock on me, blazing. “Stop laughing. This isn’t the least bit funny. It would have been better for us both if you hadn’t done this.”

My head buzzes. Nothing I do has anything to do with him. He has no right to stomp about like a caveman and then yell at me. I want to tell him to go to hell. I’ve obsessed over him for five days, and now he has the nerve to pop up out of nowhere, create that horrifying scene, then behave as though I’ve behaved badly. What I do is none of his business.

“I really wish you’d stop telling me what would be better for me,” I exclaim in frustration. “How would you know what’s better for me? I don’t even know.”

He arches a brow. “Exactly. If you did, you wouldn’t be stupid enough to be out partying with Vince Carroll and Jimmy Stallworth.”

I hear it in his voice, concern, something I understand. My combativeness fades. My limbs relax all on their own and it’s as if I’m melting, my flesh is melting, until I am deep in the leather seat, against him, my cheek resting on his shoulder. It feels so wonderful to be touching him, to be close. I tilt my face. I stop when he fills my eyes.

“Why are you angry with me?” I ask and those captivating black eyes flash at me.

“The Blue Light was awful enough, you stumbling and drunk and making a fool of yourself. But I didn’t expect to see you tonight wired on stage singing with Vince Carroll.”

The interior of the limo has calmed, less full of angry Alan. I take in more details of him. He definitely looks rock star New York chic tonight: Leather pants, open shirt and all. The same clothes from his television interview earlier today.

“I hate how you’re dressed,” I whisper.

“I don’t particularly care for your attire. That top must belong to Rene.”

I crinkle my nose. “Attire? My we are British again. I guess this does make me look a little slutty. And you are right. It is Rene’s.”

Those black eyes lock on me. I begin to burn. “No, Chrissie. You don’t look slutty. You look like a girl out looking for trouble. That’s how you look tonight. Incredibly hot and looking for trouble.”

His thumb runs along my jaw line. I can feel a jolt shoot down, all throughout my body. He turns my chin until I’m looking straight at him.

“You are a very beautiful girl.” He kisses the underside of my chin. My organs tighten. I pull in a sharp breath. “And unfortunately,” he whispers, “you are very, very fucked up.”

He sets me back against my seat. My body screams. I can’t tell if he’s mocking me, toying with me or angry with me. “Behave yourself,” he commands.

I jerk away from him and sink into my side of the seat. “And I was about to take my top off because you are right—I would never buy this for me.”

“You can take your top off if you want. I don’t fuck fucked up little girls and I’m sure the tabloid photographers would enjoy it.”

OK, he’s mocking me, and through my deadened senses I feel my anger surge. “Yeah right, Alan. I’m yellow carding you. That’s bullshit. Do you mean to sit there and tell me you don’t go to bed with drunk women? You’d be the first rock star in history…”

Those black eyes swivel. I shiver. “No, what I’m saying is you are too much shit to deal with for a fuck. I fuck drunk women all the time. I don’t do bullshit, Chrissie. If you ask me a question, I will tell you the truth. You need to decide how far and in what direction you want to go before you start something.”

OK, this is a little frightening and a little bit of a turn-on. And damn, if he doesn’t know it. I stare out the window.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask quietly.

“Back to your apartment. Where did you think I was taking you?”

“Shopping with Nia. You said you didn’t like my top.”

The car rolls to a slow stop. He did take me home. I don’t understand anything that’s happened tonight. And I definitely don’t know what to do now. Do I invite him up, Mr. I don’t fuck fucked up little girls? Do I thank him for seeing me home? Do I kiss him goodnight? Christ, why is this all so hard to figure out? It’s just goodnight. What’s wrong with me that I can’t figure this out?

The car door opens. A blast of cool air rushes in and it makes me feel not at all good. I begin to feel faint and I am definitely aware of my dizziness as I climb awkwardly from the car with the assistance of my blond Nordic driver.

My shifting vision fixes on Alan. God, why does he have to look so good? No, don’t think about that. You’ve got to send him away. Tell Alan goodnight and send him on his way.

“I’d invite you up but you don’t want to fuck.”

Oh shit, those weren’t the words in my head. The world shifts. Alan grabs me before I fall, and some moments later the world refocuses, I’m in his arms, tucked against his chest, being held close against him. He is firing off rapid words to the driver and I can’t catch any of them. Maybe I could figure out what was happening if the building would stop spinning. Why is he yelling at David?

The doorman pulls back the door, proceeds to the elevator, but Alan waves him off before he enters with us.

“What did you do with your elevator key?” he asks me.

“Key? Oh, it’s in my pocket. Back. Left cheek.”

The metal doors of the elevator slam shut behind us. I can feel every motion in the elevator, the long ride up floor by floor, the feeling of his pulse beneath my cheek, the slow, deep breathing. I curl more closely into him. I can feel the heat of his body as I tuck my cheek against his shoulder and watch the pulse move in his neck. I want to kiss that spot.

“Don’t start anything,” he castigates me.

My face burns. I am kissing him on the neck. I stop and his features are very tense. We are in the apartment foyer. “Are you staying the night?”

“Of course.” He says it stiffly. “I don’t want you vomiting in your sleep. You can die that way.”

I squirm in his arms, wanting now to be put down, but he ignores me and goes into the hallway.

“Where is your bedroom?”

“I’m not letting you to take me to bed.”

“I thought we covered this. I’m not taking you to bed. I’m putting you in it.”

“Oh.” I shrug. I point at a door at the end of the hallway.

His arms fall away and I’m sitting on my bed. I am as close to going to bed with a guy as I have ever been. And I want to. I really, really want to. Being near him is like some voodoo aphrodisiac. My blood is on fire. There is a wild pulse in me. I never feel this way, not ever. It is such a delicious feeling. The agitation in my flesh, the pulsing, the want, the anticipation.

“Where are your t-shirts?” he murmurs as he carefully unties my halter top.

Oh my…Alan Manzone is undressing me. Fantasies do come true. Cold air touches my skin and I am quaking like a leaf. I am topless. The first guy ever to see my unclothed breasts is Alan Manzone. How freaking unbelievable is that? He is so beautiful.

“Where are your shirts,” he repeats quickly.

This is it. I’m finally going to do it. I can’t find my words. I can’t take my eyes off him. My body is raging and he’s unbuttoning my jeans.

He slips them off. He goes to a chest of drawers and removes a white tank top. He pulls it over my head. No, no, no. This is wrong.

He jerks back the blankets and points at the pillow. He eases me into the bed until I feel the coolness of the sheets behind me. I want him to cover me with his body. He moves back from me, pulling the blankets up around me.

He grabs my hip and turns me onto my side. “Don’t sleep on your back,” he says softly and he switches off the light.

Fully dressed, he lies on the bed behind me, curled into my back. His arm casually snakes over my body. His long fingers rest carelessly against my stomach. I can hear him breathing. I can feel the warmth of him. How am I supposed to sleep with him behind me?