To my surprise, Cain begins to chuckle. It’s such a lovely sound. “It’s fine.” I’m still probably standing too close to him but he’s not moving away. I notice for the first time the golden flecks within his dark brown eyes and a scar above his left eyebrow.

I also notice that the tattoo on his neck, behind his ear reads “Penny.” My heart throbs. She was obviously someone very important to him. He must have loved her. Where is she now?

Clearing his throat, he adds with an easy smile, “I’m used to a lot worse than a hug, Charlie. A hug is fine.”

Okay. Maybe Cain isn’t so intimidating all the time. I reach for my iced latte, which I can now enjoy with ease. Except . . .

“So, I guess my boss at The Playhouse had good things to say about me?” I try to sound as casual as possible.

“Still validating your references, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and let you start tonight,” Cain confirms quietly.

“Awesome.” So, I could still get fired. Or maybe I can impress him enough before then that he’ll let it slide. “How many nights can I work?”

“As many as you want.”

“Really? And everything I did was fine? I mean, the outfit and—”

“It was fine.”

“Are you sure?” I swallow, not wanting to offer what I’m about to offer. “I could probably lose the shorts if you want me—”

“I don’t,” he cuts me off, his tone suddenly cutting.

“Okay,” I force out between pursed lips. And we’re back to stern Cain. If the dress incident and this reaction tell me anything, he has issues with the dancers doing things for him. Or maybe just me doing things for him. That’s fine. The shorts are staying on!

Taking another glance around my apartment, his jaw muscles visibly tightening, Cain mutters, “I know of a better apartment building to live in. I could make a call—”

“It’s fine, really. You’ve done enough for me already.” The last thing I want to be is a charity case for Cain.

With a reluctant twist of his mouth, he inhales deeply through his nostrils. “Okay, well, I guess . . . I should go.” I’m sensing that he’s not pleased. His hand slides over his neck, over that tattoo. He does that a lot. I wonder if he even knows that he’s doing it.

Lifting the giant latte up in the air in a sign of cheers, I offer him a smile and begin to thank him for the coffee and the job, only the shriek of, “Get out! Get out of my life and never come back!” cuts me off, followed by a piercing scream, a loud bang, and the sound of crashing glass inside my apartment.

Before I can figure out what just happened, Cain’s strong body plows into me, pulling me to the ground, sending my drink out of my hand to splash all over the wall nearest us. His arms wrap around my body protectively, his palm cradles my head, and I can feel his breath against my cheek, he’s that close to me.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

When I don’t say anything, one hand lifts to my chin. He gently turns my face so we’re head on, and he’s a mere inch away. “Charlie. Are you okay?”

All I can manage is a nod and a swallow. I should be focusing on figuring out what the hell just happened in my apartment but instead, I’m inhaling that delicious mixture of soap and cologne, hyperaware of my body being pressed against his and each beat of his heart, its rhythm faster and harder than my own. Being this close to Cain is paralyzing. He could easily keep me like this all day long.

Unfortunately, that’s not happening. “Okay. Stay down,” he growls before leaping up and tearing out my front door, his shoes crunching over something as he passes. It takes me a moment to process that my mirror is shattered. A glance to the opposite wall shows me the small hole.

Those lunatics have a gun.

And, by the shouts I’m hearing, Cain just charged in there, unarmed.

chapter nine

■ ■ ■

CAIN

Charlie almost got shot.

Right in front of me, as I lingered there like a horny teenager—looking for an excuse to talk to her for a little bit longer, maybe persuade her to move—Charlie almost got shot.

And I’d just stood there, only seconds away from being shot myself.

The first thing I see when I step through the already open door of this shitty apartment in this shitty building in this shitty neighborhood is a scrawny white guy in a stained tank top and ripped cargo pants, with a trickle of blood running down the side of his face. His red, glossy eyes alternate between me and his hands, which are fumbling with a handgun. It’s jammed, clearly, or I’m sure the strung-out ass would be firing bullets like Yosemite Sam right about now.

This fucker could have killed Charlie.

I can feel my nostrils flaring as I stand in the doorway, like a bull about to attack. My hands automatically tense—a natural tendency, dating back to my fighting days.

I need to get that gun out of his hands.

And then I’m going to beat the scumbag to within an inch of his life.

I’m halfway to him when I suddenly hear a scream and feel a weight land on my back. Someone starts thumping my shoulders like a chimp gone rabid. It’s got to be his woman.

I don’t have patience for women who defend men trying to kill them. I twist and spin, reaching up to dislodge and throw her a few feet away. She lands on her skinny ass beside the couch, without injury. Any additional injury, that is. Based on the nasty gash across her forehead, it looks like she’s already been hit once.

In my peripheral vision, I catch Charlie standing in the doorway. I’m about to yell at her to get away when I hear a click, followed by bang and a howl of pain. I turn to find the guy crumpled to the floor, his hands wrapped around his left foot. Blood is already beginning to trickle out.

The idiot just shot himself.

I’d laugh if there weren’t a loaded gun lying on the floor beside his writhing body. I need to deal with that first. My rage has all but defused now—he got exactly what he deserved. Instead of punishing him further, I simply march over and kick the weapon under the couch.

And then I breathe a sigh of relief, thinking the situation under control.

“Cain!” Charlie screams a second before something heavy cracks me across the back of my skull. It’s not enough to knock me out, but fuck if it doesn’t hurt. Wincing and ducking, with my arm in the air to avoid further attack, I spin on my heels to find the crazy bitch back on two feet and the brass vase that she launched at me lying near my feet. She’s frozen, those hateful eyes—red and glassy like her husband’s—shifting between me and the gun pointing at her head.

Charlie’s gun.

“Calm down or I will shoot you. Do you understand?” Charlie says with an impressive degree of composure, slowly stepping into the apartment. Her hands aren’t even shaking.

The woman has enough sense to realize that Charlie isn’t bluffing. She edges back and around me—giving me a wide berth—until she reaches the moaning, writhing idiot on the floor. Dropping to her knees next to him, she starts sobbing as she presses her lips to his head, her arms loosely around his body. “I’m so sorry, babe! Are you going to be okay? I love you! I’m so sorry!”

Sirens sound in the distance. Someone has called the cops. “Charlie.” My eyes land on the gun in her hand. “You should go back to your apartment. I’ll take care of it from here.”

I don’t have to ask her twice. She tucks the piece under her shirt before she steps out, hiding it from any curious witnesses.

■ ■ ■

A few hours and a barrage of questions from the cops later, I’m facing a very quiet Charlie in her sweltering apartment once again.

“Here, take this.” She holds out a bag of ice for me. But I don’t take it. All I do is reach out and touch her delicate hand, attached to her delicate arm, attached to her delicate body, which would have crumpled to the ground had that bullet sailed only a few inches to the left.