God, please let him be okay.

There’s a knock on the door. “Sam?”

I ignore Blake. If something happened to Jonathan, it’s his fault. I wouldn’t be here in this hell if it wasn’t for him. This is all his fault.

“Sam, open the door. You need to eat.”

I grab my book and hurl it at the door. It hits with a solid thunk and flutters to the floor.

“Sam,” he tries again, and I know he has a plate, because the smell of shrimp is seeping through the door.

My stomach growls, but I ignore him.

Finally, I hear him move down the hall.

I sit and stare out the window as the sky goes dark, and little by little the city across the bay becomes brighter as it comes to life.

I follow the lights of the Bay Bridge and my eyes trace the lines of streetlights in the city to the area where I think Benny’s should be. Why did I ever let Jonathan talk me into working there? If I’d never taken that job, we’d be at his apartment right now, curled on the sofa watching Doctor Who.

I have no clue what time it is when I finally change and get ready for bed. I brush my teeth and slip into my black silk nightshirt, buttoning the middle three buttons, then crawl into bed and close my eyes, determined to sleep. But between my worry for Jonathan and my growling stomach, I can’t.

After I’ve stared at the ceiling for the better part of forever, I get up and go to my door, cracking it open and poking my head out. The living room and kitchen are dark, the only light from the full moon, shining through the picture windows. I move silently to the kitchen and flick on the stovetop light. The clock on the microwave says it’s 2:00 A.M. I blow out a sigh and pull open the fridge. There’s a plate of shrimp scampi over pasta covered with cling wrap on the shelf. It looks amazing, but I’m not going to give Blake the satisfaction of eating it. I grab a bag of baby carrots and squirt some ranch dressing into a bowl, then slide onto a bar stool at the counter.

“You set off the motion detector,” Blake drawls from the stairs. He’s in gym shorts and a T-shirt that’s bunched around the shoulders, as if he hastily threw it on . . . which makes me wonder what he sleeps in. He moves to the box for the alarm system on the wall near the elevator and punches in a code, then leans against the door frame, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and watches me eat. Finally, I can’t stand the weight of his gaze. I glare up at him and catch him mid-ogle, his eyes slipping down the front of my thin nightshirt. I realize I didn’t button it all the way up, and one or both of the girls very well may be in full view, but I don’t move to fix it.

He catches his lower lip between his teeth and pushes away from the door, moving to the window and looking out over the bay.

“I know this is hard for you, Sam. If there was any choice, I’d let you go,” he tells the window, “but we just can’t risk it. We can’t risk you.” He turns to face me, leaning his hands on the back of a kitchen chair, and his eyes lock on mine, pleading with me to understand.

I don’t. All I feel is blind rage, and all I want is revenge.

I bite the tip off my carrot more forcefully than I need to. My eyes flick to him and find him watching me, his lips parted and his eyes ravenous as they fight to stay on my face. And that’s when I see my opening.

I dip my carrot again, then slide it deep into my mouth. As I pull it back, I roll my tongue over it and my eyes flutter closed. I suck it deep again and moan.

I smile at his obvious discomfort as his fingers curl hard into the wood of the chair back, and I swear he stops breathing for a second as I bite off the tip.

“I’m going for a swim,” I tell him, slipping off the stool and skipping down the stairs.

When I emerge onto the deck, it’s a bright night, a full moon hanging high in the sky. Maybe it’s the cool night air, or maybe it’s because it really dawns on me what I’m about to do, but as I flit down the path toward the pool, I shudder. I flip the switch to the underwater light near the door of the bathhouse and the whole pool suddenly glows, sending ripples of blue light over the surrounding shrubs, the bathhouse, and me.

When I get to the pool edge, I nearly lose my nerve. I stand here, my back to the house, working to control my breathing before reaching up with shaking hands and flicking open the buttons of my sleep shirt. I let it fall open and instantly the cool air pricks my bare nipples into hard nubs and pebbles my exposed flesh with goose bumps. The shirt slides off my shoulders and flutters into a silky puddle on the pool deck at my feet, and I’m standing in nothing but the black mesh thong Blake picked out for me.

In my head my hastily conceived plan involved taking that off too, then boldly strutting down the stairs of the pool. But I can’t make myself do it. Instead, I keep my underwear on and dive in with my back still to the house.

From under the water, I see Blake on the balcony, standing back in the shadows near the French doors. When I break the surface, I float up and swim slowly to the other end, where I turn and sidestroke back to the deep end.

And the whole time, Blake watches.

The underwater lights reflect off my body in the undulating waves and leave nowhere to hide. But that’s the point. I want to torture him with what he can’t have. Half an hour later, when he’s leaning heavily on the balcony rail, his eyes still glued to me, I know I have.

Braver now, I slink up the steps and out of the water, and move to the outside shower on the side the bathhouse, in full view of the balcony and Blake. I wait until the water’s throwing off a cloud of steam, then step in. As I lather my body, I feel the caress of Blake’s gaze. When I rinse and open my eyes, he’s still watching. I shudder despite the scorching water.

I finish and dry myself off, then reach for my sleep shirt, sliding it on and fastening only one button, just below my breasts. It flutters around me as saunter up the walk to the back door of the house, and when I step through into the poolroom, Blake is at the base of the stairs.

“Did you have a nice swim?” His eyes smolder and his drawl is thick and low, and I know Plan Drive-Special-Agent-Blake-Montgomery-out-of-his-right-mind was a raging success.

My shirt slips off my shoulder as I close the door behind me, nearly exposing my breast, and I do nothing to stop it. “I did, thank you.”

He doesn’t move aside as I stride toward the stairs, and there’s no missing the war that’s waging inside him. I slow, waiting for him to decide what he’s going to do. Finally, he reaches for my shoulder, hooking a finger under the edge of the silk of my shirt. A rush skitters through me as he pulls it slowly back, exposing more skin. He’s made his decision, and now I have a split second to make mine before my body makes it for me. My plan was to tease him until he was crazy with need, but right at this second what I know is, if he takes me across the room to his bed, I’m not going to stop him.

His knuckles slide over my bare skin, creeping my robe a fraction lower. I bite back the moan that tries to claw up my throat. But just before my breast slips free of the black silk, his jaw tenses and he lifts the edge back onto my shoulder, covering me. “We need to talk.”

Without another word, he spins and strides up the stairs, two at a time, as if, despite his words, he can’t get away from me fast enough.

I button a few more buttons as I follow, and when I crest the top stair, I find him on the other side of the kitchen island, his hands braced on the granite countertop. I step up across from him and he fixes me in his fierce gaze. “This isn’t a game, Sam. You are in real danger. You have been since you set foot into Ben Arroyo’s club.”

I nod, my expression all candor. “Those boots were an accident waiting to happen.”