Excerpt . . .

He finished off his fourth drink and had just reached for his fifth from the first six-pack sitting on the balcony’s black iron table when the whir of the loft’s private elevator signaled Annabel’s arrival. His gut clenched hard in response.

Using his knife, the same knife he’d used on Annabel’s panties, he pried off the bottle top and tried not to choke on the memory of what they’d done earlier in her office.

The disk clattered against the patio in time with the opening of the elevator grate in the dark room behind him. He lifted the bottle, drank deeply, waited for the buzz that was way too long in coming.

Annabel was already stepping out onto the balcony and he’d yet to feel a thing.

“What are you doing here?”

He raised the bottle. “Toasting my fine taste in women.”

She waited a moment, then reached for the last bottle in the six-pack and tilted it his way. He removed the top and, as she drank their gazes met, stinging him with a keenly sharp buzz that he sure as hell wasn’t getting from the alcohol.

He let the sizzle settle, watching her keep the table between them and move to sit in one of the balcony set’s matching chairs. She shivered lightly, he noticed, when the cold metal bit into the backs of her bare legs.

Served her right for wearing the pantyhose.

She drank again before glancing his direction a second time and getting back to business. “You know me well enough by now to understand that I mean what I say.”

“Yes, but here’s to all the things you don’t say.” He tilted his bottle toward her in, what? His tenth toast of the night?

Bringing the lip of the glass to his mouth, he swallowed a quarter of the contents, feeling . . . nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing but the same determination, the same wariness that that had brought him here earlier. He wouldn’t be leaving tonight until she was aware of . . . hell. He wouldn’t be leaving tonight period. Her awareness of anything wasn’t a factor in the equation.

“What sort of things am I not saying?” she finally asked. “What do I need to say to make myself clear?”

“Give me a reason. Why can’t you, or won’t you, see me anymore?” He hated that his request came out sounding so candy-assed, but he was no good at conversation, and conversation was the only way to get from here to there.

“Having you here is inconvenient.”

He sputtered at that. “Inconvenient? I’d say I’ve been about as convenient as you’re ever going to get in a roommate.”

“I don’t want a roommate, and I’m not talking about the sex.”

She wouldn’t be. She never wanted to talk about the sex, simply engage.

Annabel was one of only two women he’d known who approached life—and sex—like a man. Then again, his experience with the opposite sex consisted of no more than a short list of adventurous co-eds before graduation, and two older women intent on wearing him out since.

The thought brought him back to why he was here. Why he couldn’t go. Until he put his dealings with Russell Dega to bed, Patrick would be as big a part of Annabel’s scenery as downtown Houston’s skyline.

Leaving her alone would seem to be her best protection. But if Dega were indeed here, the bastard would’ve picked up on Annabel being Patrick’s Achilles heel. He couldn’t chance having her used as a pawn in a game that might end badly.

What little common sense he still listened to insisted that his purpose would be best served if she were the one to suggest he stick around. Which meant she needed him here for a reason that had nothing to do with what he gave her in bed.

He thought a moment while drinking. Then, fingers laced around the bottle, he leaned back against the railing and braced the glass against the top button of his fly.

Giving a little shrug, he said, “Guess I’m just surprised you’d give up such a good thing.”

"And I’m surprised you didn’t hear me say I wasn’t going to talk about sex."