Whatever age he is, Cain is hot.

Sam was twenty-five years older than my mom when she married him. He didn’t look anything like Cain does, but she certainly found something extremely appealing in him. Hopefully something aside from his money. I have only faint memories of my mother, but I do remember her smiling a lot after Sam came into our lives. I wonder if she’d still be smiling. I wonder if I’d even be in this situation, had she not died.

I’ve never been attracted to an older man before, but I think Cain is the kind of “older guy” I could be with. Dating Cain is not on the table, though. Right now, I don’t know if having Cain as my boss is even on the table.

I am certainly not on the table, given my need to stay under the radar until I can vanish in a few months.

I need to stop thinking about Cain and tables.

I can feel his stare at me from behind those sunglasses. I can only imagine what he’s thinking right now. I know I look completely different. Younger. I hope he doesn’t start questioning my identity . . .

Shit!

My eyes. I forgot to put in my contacts.

I exhale ever so slowly. It’s too late to do anything about it now. Maybe he won’t notice. He is a guy, after all.

Cain slides his sunglasses off and settles those coffee-colored eyes on me, offering a warm smile. The first one I’ve seen from him. “I hope you don’t mind me swinging by.” Lifting the Starbucks tray he’s carrying, he adds, “Cold and hot options. Ginger said you were a caffeine junkie?”

He’s certainly much less intense than he was the first night I met him. His voice is softer, too. And it’s sweet of him to ask Ginger about my preferences. I can’t help but be suspicious that this coffee buffet is his way of lessening the blow that I suck as a stripper and don’t have a job. That I’ll be heading back to Sin City or some other seedy club to perform lewd acts for management. Ginger confirmed that Rick’s not the exception in the sex trade industry. Maybe Cain would still let me bartend, at the least.

Regardless, I can’t keep him standing here while I play mute. My tongue—temporarily frozen—starts working again. “Yes. I am. Please,” I clear my throat and step back. “Come in.”

He edges past me through the door and I catch that fresh woodsy scent that I first inhaled in his office. It’s pleasant. More pleasant than mine, probably, given that I just spent the night in bed, perspiring. “I’m sorry. The air-conditioning unit broke down and the landlord hasn’t fixed it yet. It’s kind of hot in here.” “Kind of hot” isn’t the right description. It’s stifling.

Cain’s eyes roam over my space as if taking inventory. There’s not much to catalogue. I rented it furnished, which entails a simple two-person folding table, a puke-orange love seat made of a weird vinyl-like material, and a bed that’s called a double but is more like a twin. I’m not the neatest person in the world but, aside from a few shirts strewn over a chair and a hamper of washed but unfolded laundry, everything’s put away. My kitchen is spotless. Not a crumb. That’s more a necessity of survival than tidy habits. It’s me against the roaches, and one open bag of bread will secure their victory. I’ve even strategically placed a can of Raid on my counter as a warning to them.

It’s not really working.

Cain’s focus settles on my hastily made bed for a moment and a thought hits me. Is this where he gives me the “if you want the job . . .” ultimatum that the dirtbag from Sin City did? Maybe that’s his M.O.—in the privacy of my own apartment instead of his place of business? Maybe he lives by that “don’t shit where you eat” philosophy.

Could I do it?

Unable to help myself, my eyes roll over the defined ridges of Cain’s back, visible through the clingy shirt. I don’t think it’s simply his physical appearance that catches women’s attention. The way his body moves radiates a strength and control that many women would find sexy. I imagine he’s quite demanding, maybe a touch aggressive. The type to take a woman up against the wall because that’s what he felt like. I doubt much emotion ever plays into Cain’s motives.

Still . . . I have to admit, sleeping with Cain for this job wouldn’t exactly be comparable to, say, a public flaying. It would be sordid and completely physical, but just thinking about this man on top of me on my bed right now stirs a need in my belly, one I haven’t felt for months.

But . . . no!

What the hell am I going to say if that’s what he intends? Fresh beads of sweat are rolling down my back. And my superior improv skills? It’s as if they never existed. Confident, witty Charlie Rourke has left the roach-infested building, leaving a wooden pawn in her place. I need to pull myself together. If I can do it for drug dealers, then I can certainly do it for a strip club owner.

Cain turns to regard me again and I fight the urge to fidget. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he says, “A girl like you shouldn’t be living in this area.”

By his authoritative tone, I can’t help but feel like Cain is scolding me, and my cheeks heat slightly with embarrassment. I give a one-sided shrug. “It’s not so bad.”

That might have been convincing if not for the sudden screams of “skank bitch!” and “festering dick!” through the wall.

Silence hangs in the air as Cain regards me with an even stare, likely waiting for my response to that. There isn’t much that I can say, short of trying to make light of it. I give him a sheepish grin. “Ike and Tina are getting awfully creative with their pet names.”

He doesn’t return the smile. Clearly, he didn’t find that funny. I wonder if he finds much funny. I can only imagine the kind of place Cain lives. He’s so well put together, from his wavy dark hair down to his stylish but masculine shoes. If he only saw the kind of house I grew up in, maybe he wouldn’t be looking at me with such pity now. Or maybe it would be ten times worse, because he’d be wondering how I fell so far from my privileged life.

“Here.” He holds the tray of drinks toward me, his eyes locked on my face. “There’s an iced latte, a Frappuccino, and a regular coffee—cream and sugar on the side.”

“A caffeine overdose. Exactly what I need right now,” I muse, tucking my hair back behind my ear.

Finally, that one earns an amused upper lip curl. “I’m sorry I left before you finished last night. I had to . . . ,” he sighs, his eyes hooded for just a flash before returning to normal, “. . . to go.”

Busying myself with the lid of the iced latte, I wordlessly await the ruling. Will it be pole-dancing topless and bartending at the best strip club in town or . . . worse? Much, much worse.

His low voice breaks the silence. “So, how many nights could you work?”

I stop fumbling with my cup and look up to find that unnerving gaze still on me, “Do you mean . . . do I have a job?”

Cain’s head bows once, as if in assent. I catch a hint of something like conflict flash through his eyes, but when he’s facing me dead-on again, the look is gone, replaced with a completely unreadable expression. “You can dance on the stage and bartend with Ginger. Working the floor will have to wait.”

A burst of relief floods my chest as my escape moves one step toward reality. Shocking myself with a rare, uncontrolled reaction, I leap forward and throw my arms around him. “Thank you, so much! I mean, I didn’t think you would hire me! I thought I wasn’t good enough. I . . .” The overwhelming relief has taken over all instincts and suddenly I’m babbling like an idiot, all the while my arms are wrapped around my new boss’s neck and his body has gone rigid under my touch.

Oh God. Did I just break the record for quickest firing after hiring?

I rush to pull away, smoothing my shirt down. “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate. I’m . . .”