“You’re afraid we’re going to run out of things to talk about so you want to make sure to hoard a topic for food?”

She wagged a finger at him. “No. I simply want to eat. Now are you going to cook for me or take me out?”

“There’s this thing called takeout. Want Chinese?”

She flinched inside at the mention. The last thing in the world she wanted was Chinese food. She hated that Charlie and his games had ruined Chinese food for her. Sometimes, she just wanted a carton of cold sesame noodles, but they’d remind her of all the bullshit she still had to deal with til she was even with Charlie. If she’d ever be even with that fucker. Somedays, freedom felt a lifetime away. Charlie had her in chains, and even though she hadn’t asked for his permission to go away for the weekend, she was keenly aware that this was only a temporary leave from the jail she was in back home.

The jail no one knew about. She refused to tell a soul – it was too shameful what had happened to her made Charlie turn her into his property. But she also kept her mouth shut because she didn’t want those men to sink their claws into people she loved. She protected her sister, her friends, even her hairdresser with her silence. But she didn’t want Charlie infecting her time away. She shoved all thoughts of debts and guns and knives back into a dark corner of her mind.

“Clay,” she said, in a chiding tone. “I can get good Chinese like that –” she snapped her fingers “– in San Francisco. I want something that tastes like New York.” The lie rolled off her tongue seamlessly, but he didn’t need to know why she wasn’t taking him up on his offer for Chinese. “I want to go out. To some place filled with brooding New Yorkers rather than San Francisco hipsters. Something that makes me feel like I’m in the West Village.”

“My mistake. I assumed you getting naked meant you wanted to eat inside,” he said, eyeing her up and down as she unbuttoned the shirt.

“I’m not getting naked,” she said. “I’m changing into my clothes.”

He reached for her, gripping her wrist in his hand. “Don’t.”

“Don’t change?”

He shook his head. “Wear my shirt.”

“I don’t even have a bra on,” she pointed out as if his idea was ludicrous.

“I know,” he said, his lips curving up. “I like that.”

“You like me all free range?”

“You have beautiful breasts. I want to be tortured knowing they are just one layer away from me and covered only by something I was wearing an hour ago,” he said, trailing his fingers along the edge of the shirt, barely touching her exposed chest. A shiver ran down her spine.

“And what about my bottom half? You want me to strut around naked from the waist down?”

“I want you to put that skirt back on. Do not put on underwear. Just your heels, your skirt and my shirt,” he said in a firm voice. He held her gaze, his eyes darker than usual, waiting for her answer.

“Are you giving me an order?” She asked curiously, pushing her fingers through her hair that was still messy from sex. But she’d never minded sex hair. As far as she was concerned, it was a look that should be listed on the menu at all blow out salons. Updo, blown straight, or sex hair? I’ll take the sex hair, thank you very much.

“I’m giving you a request. One that I very much want you to fulfill,” he said, grabbing her hand and bringing her palm to his lips. He kissed her, his tongue soft and wet against her skin. She’d never expected being kissed on her palm would be so erotic, but it was, because everything about Clay was charged with his smoldering virility, like a trailing scent of lingering sexiness that surrounded him. She was familiar with the term “sex-on-stick,” but that didn’t even begin to describe this man. He was so much more than that. He was masterful, and he touched her in ways that felt unreal. As if it weren’t possible to truly feel that good. Feeling that good had to be a fantasy. But, this was no mere dream. It was an intoxicating sliver of reality.

“What if I want to wear underwear?” she said, challenging him because it was fun, because she could, and because he wasn’t going to pull a knife on her if she did. Here, she could be herself without fear of retaliation with a weapon. What a relief that was.

“Then I will take it off at the table and we’ll be right back where we started. So as far as I can see, you can leave your panties here, or I can take them from you at the restaurant. That clear?”

She nodded. “Commando it is then. And I am going to make you so crazy with wanting me that you might regret telling me to go naked.”

“Impossible. I’d never regret you naked.”

On the way out, she grabbed her clutch purse – a sleek little number from Coach that she’d snagged second hand – and her phone. The message light flashed.

“Damn,” she muttered, when she saw the text from McKenna. Are you alive??? Or are you otherwise occupied? I need to know if I should call the cops or congratulate you.

Julia grinned at the note. Clay raised his eyebrows in question.

“My sister,” she explained, tapping a quick reply. “I told her I’d text her when I landed. She worries about me.”

“So much that it brings out that naughty grin on your face?” he asked, swiping his thumb across her lips, and it was both sexy, but also skeptical.

As if he didn’t quite believe her.

But this time she was telling the truth.

The Red Line gave new meaning to the word Lilliputian. The restaurant was one long narrow hallway, as if it had been wedged in between the shops on each side. There was a long bar, and a few tables, and they sat at the far end near the restrooms. Clay had been here a few times; it was a popular neighborhood place on a cobblestoned street in the Village and typified what he loved about this eclectic neighborhood – it was thoroughly New York, but it had an individual feel to it from the black and white pictures of steam engines on the walls to the dark red counter to the hip hop playing faintly overhead, R. Kelly’s Ignition.

Julia had finished texting with her sister, and he was glad of that. He had nothing against cell phones, but the sight of one in a woman’s hands while he was with her didn’t sit well with him, and he had his ex Sabrina to thank for that. She’d kept her twitchy little fingers far too busy on the touch screen of her phone, then lied, lied and lied some more about what she’d been doing. She’d been involved in some bad shit, and had dragged him deep down into her troubles too. It had taken him longer than he wanted to untangle himself from those tall tales Sabrina had spun, and the damage she’d done to him. Since then, he’d vowed to stay away from that kind of woman since.

Julia’s phone was tucked away in her purse again, where it belonged. They’d placed their order and she was nibbling on appetizers. She plucked an olive from a small plate, bit it away from the seed sexily, then said, “Do you realize I don’t even know where you’re from?”

“Do you want to know where I’m from?”

“Obviously. I’m asking. I want to get to know you better. Much better,” she said.

“And I want you to get to know me much better. Where do you think I’m from?” he asked, taking a drink of his scotch.

“Chicago.”

He shook his head. “Try again.”

“Ooh. Is this another game? You like games, don’t you? First Mad Libs. Now I get to guess where you’re from. What do I win if I’m right?”

He leaned in close to her, swept her hair from her ear, and spoke in a low rumble. “You can pick the next position. But I know you won’t win.”

“So you’re saying you’re setting me up to fail so you can choose how to take me?”

“You think I’d choose badly? You think I’d pick a position you wouldn’t like?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said softly, and she seemed to let down her guard for a second or two. “I like everything you do.”