She shifts from my touch, gingerly lifting the bag to my head while on tiptoes. I wince as it touches the bump. “Sorry, but you need to ice it. Come and sit. You’re too tall for me.” She wraps her fingers around my bicep and guides me toward the red folding chair next to her dining table. It’s a foreign feeling, having someone leading me. Ordering me.

Caring for me.

I go willingly, finding myself intrigued by this role-reversal.

Pulling up the other chair, she rests on it with one knee and continues her silent tending to my lump. Luckily, that was it. I don’t want to deal with stitches. Charlie’s mouth works as if she wants to say something but is hesitant. And so she says nothing, content to half stand, half lean while I simply stare up at that perfectly proportioned face. Because I can’t help myself.

Charlie’s eyes aren’t brown. They’re a deep, mesmerizing bluish-purple. I’ve never met anyone with violet irises. I’ve heard they do exist, but they’re rare. Elizabeth Taylor apparently had violet eyes. If they looked anything like Charlie’s, then it’s not a wonder she kept landing husbands. Why the hell Charlie would want to hide those gorgeous things is beyond me.

Everything about Charlie looks different from the woman who showed up in my office two days ago. I knew those big, springy curls probably weren’t natural, but they actually change the shape of her face, making it appear rounder than it really is. And why the fuck does she wear all that makeup? She’s stunning without it. I’ve never seen natural lashes that long before. And her skin is porcelain smooth, like one of those dolls. That’s what Charlie looks like. A perfect little doll. Except with that ultrawide, sexy mouth.

A young, perfect little doll.

I’m not sure that she’s twenty-two. It’s so hard to tell with women these days. I’ve seen fourteen-year-olds look legal. It could be that Charlie’s license is fake and she’s a minor. I’ve already sent her paperwork off to my private eye and I’m expecting a call from him any minute. Short of robbing her previous employer blind or attacking other dancers, I don’t care too much about her past experience at the Vegas club. But I am a little worried about her age . . . fuck.

What if I just put a fourteen-year-old on my stage?

I push that thought out of my head with force. Now I’m just looking for excuses, reasons for why hiring her is a fucking bad idea. Reasons besides my own selfish ones.

Short of being underage or being a criminal, she can have a job at Penny’s for as long as she needs it. That, I know for sure. After distancing myself—with Rebecka’s help—I was able to see that I was overreacting. I thought about telling her she can only bartend but decided against it. The stage means a difference of a couple hundred dollars a night. It’ll be fine. I’ll just have to get used to seeing Charlie topless every day. I’m not going to send her off to suck Rick’s cock—or worse—because I want to avoid a case of blue balls.

So now here I am, with this angelic-looking violet-eyed young woman playing nursemaid to me. And all I want to do is touch her.

Fuck.

She clears her throat and then, with a slight chuckle, says, “Can you believe he shot himself in the foot?” The sound of her voice and the way her face softened are so contradictory given the words she just spoke, and what we just went through. Most women—and men, frankly—would be rattled after a bullet barely missed them in their own home. Penny would have cried. Ginger would be throwing a proper fit. Kacey, my former bartender, would have murdered the man with her bare hands. But Charlie continues to be surprisingly calm and unperturbed by the entire experience.

Is this the way she has always been? Or did something, or someone, make her like this?

“Drug addicts,” I mutter, causing her giggle to die off abruptly. Ah, Cain. If only you had a sense of humor, like Ben, she’d still be laughing.

And probably on her back in that bed.

But none of what happened today is remotely funny. “Charlie, I really don’t like the idea of you staying in an apartment next to gun-wielding neighbors. You could have been shot.”

Her unreadable eyes flash to me. “And you could have been shot.”

I sigh, not sure what else to say. I’m trying my best not to come off like the control freak that I can be. These girls don’t need a dominating boss and I don’t own their lives. They need to feel like they’re making their own decisions, even if it’s with my help. But, seriously . . . a bullet just flew past her head and she still doesn’t want to move? Does she not have any common sense?

A cool finger suddenly grazes my skin behind my ear, where my tattoo is. “She must have been someone very important to you,” Charlie murmurs, tracing the letters softly.

I don’t answer, the feel of her skin against mine—despite the reminder of my past—igniting something deep inside. I need her to not be touching me like that right now. The intensity of the day is finally merging with my testosterone, creating a pent-up ball of stress inside. She’s not wearing a bra and that shirt is cut way too low. When she hugged me earlier, I could feel her nipples through the thin fabric. I was so relieved when she pulled away, before she had a chance to feel the response in my jeans. But now she’s basically shoving them in my face, the way she has positioned herself. I wonder if that’s intentional.

“You have blood on your shirt,” she murmurs suddenly, her finger moving from my neck to tap my shoulder.

My skin begins to tingle as I turn to indeed see the dark brownish-red stain. “Fuck. That woman must have bled all over me when she was on my back. I’ve got something in my car,” I mutter, starting to rise as the first beads of sweat begin to form. I don’t have many weaknesses. Other people’s blood on me is a distracting weakness. I’ve had plenty of experience with that, but it never bothered me until the night Penny died, when I couldn’t get her blood off my hands, no matter how hard I scrubbed.

Charlie’s hand pushes down against my collarbone, instantly freezing me.

“Stay. I’ll get it. You need to sit for a while.” Removing her hand from my body, she holds it out, her brow arched expectantly.

Normally, I’d dismiss her assertiveness with a gentle shake of my head and smile. Normally, I wouldn’t be in her apartment—ten feet away from her bed—in the first place. But I’m too agitated to focus. Besides, nothing seems to be normal today.

Charlie’s eyes watch my hand as I slide it into my pocket to pull out my keys. I hope she doesn’t notice the other bulge in my pants. “Black Navigator. Golf bag on the backseat.”

I’m on my feet and yanking the soiled shirt off without a second’s consideration, tossing it on the ground. It’s garbage now. I won’t even bother to wash it. Adjusting myself as my eyes roam the space, I wonder where she hid that gun. Or more important, why she has it in the first place. Protection, likely. She’s a single woman in Miami and she lives here. I’d bet good money that the serial number is scratched off and she doesn’t have a license to carry. But she seemed to know how to use it, as steady as her hands were.

Atheist or not, I need to say a small prayer that her neighbors didn’t mention Charlie having a gun when the cops showed up. I doubt that even Storm’s fiancé, Detective Dan Ryder, would have enough pull to bury that legal issue.

My eyes land on the rumpled bed again, on the silky white sheets that Charlie sleeps in. Without thinking, I stroll over to it, picking up the edge and sliding the material through my fingers. These are expensive. People who live in the Miami ghetto don’t spend money on expensive bedding unless it’s a luxury they’ve become accustomed to, a luxury they don’t think twice about. And yet, this is not a place that someone accustomed to luxury would allow herself to be buried in. I mean . . . she knows that it’s infested. The counter is lined with Tupperware containers and there’s a fucking can of Raid next to her toaster, for Christ’s sake. And to top the contradiction off nicely, a pair of fancy heels—identical to Vicki’s—lie next to her bed. I’m a betting man and I’m betting that these aren’t knockoffs. And if Vicki’s wearing them, then they’re by one of those high-end designers.