I ignored the beat in my chest and shook off the look in his eyes.

Don’t make the same mistakes. Don’t let him touch you. Don’t want him. You can’t have him.

I forgot that six years ago, but I wouldn’t this time.

The silence crawled my skin, and the sound of the light rain droned on around us.

“Why do you wear that stuff?” Kai’s voice was quiet and soft.

Stuff. My clothes?

I averted my gaze, my armor thickening. I’d taken more than enough crap about my appearance over the years.

What, you don’t like my second-hand combat boots with broken laces and scuffed toes? Do they offend you? Was there some rule that my jeans were supposed to be tight, so men I didn’t know could take pleasure at looking at my ass like I was a car on the street?

“I wear what I want,” I snipped. “I don’t dress to please anyone else.”

“On the contrary…” I felt him approach, and I looked down, seeing his shoes stop a foot away from me. “I’m wondering if you do dress like this to, indeed, please someone else.”

I met his gaze, the long, exhausting practice of showing no emotion coming easier than it did when I was a kid.

Okay. Point taken. Maybe I did start dressing like this to please Damon. I was never allotted money for clothes, and even now my pay was too miniscule to afford much. But I was happy with what my brother gave me and would’ve gladly worn anything if it meant I could stay with him.

And growing up, these clothes kept me safe. There were too many men around, and I looked younger when I was wearing this stuff. It hid my shape and helped keep me invisible.

“Those are men’s clothes,” he pointed out, his voice growing hard. “Used men’s clothes. Whose are they? Are they all Damon’s?”

“What do you care?” I shot back. “I’ll do my job. Drive you around, fix your shithole of a house, clean your dojo, and I don’t need to wear a ball gown to do it.”

He broke out in a smile. “You’re a complete mystery, and I’m curious about you. That’s all. So, let’s start simple. What’s your name?”

“Banks.”

“What’s your name, Banks?”

I almost snorted.

Almost.

He was a little faster on the pick-up than his friends, wasn’t he?

Banks was my last name. I liked it, because I thought I’d get more respect sounding less like a woman, and my father preferred it, because he hated my first name.

And none of that was Kai Mori’s business.

Kai went on, “And where are you from? Where are your parents? Were you really home-schooled?” He began walking into me, and I tripped backward, stumbling. “Where do you live? Do you have any friends? How can you work for that disgusting piece of shit, huh? How do you sleep?”

I hit the glass door, and he closed the distance between us, hovering and dropping his voice to a whisper, “Or how about an even easier question?” His heat filtered through my jacket, and every inch of me hummed. “I’m going to confession today. Want to come…Banks?”

His eyes locked on my lips, and my breathing turned shallow. Oh, Christ. The wind carried in his smell, and I inhaled, the world in front of me starting to spin.

I blinked, turning away. The memory of our first encounter—the story he fed me that got under my skin that day in the confessional—God, I’d liked the way that felt. Talking like that with him.

I balled my fists and met his eyes again, forcing my tone to stay even. “Oh, Mr. Mori, have you forgotten?” I replied, faking innocence. “You always go to confession at the end of the month.”

I fixed him with a knowing smile, watching his amused expression fall and turn dark.

Yeah. Never forget I know all about you.

His eyes remained calm, but I could hear the acceptance of my challenge in his taunting words, “See you at work.”

And stepping around me without another word, he walked out of the room, leaving me by myself.

I stayed for a moment, staring up at the dangling threads of my scarf on the balcony above me.

I prided myself on always staying one step ahead. Information was power. It was more valuable than money.

But apprehension quietly crept in, anyway.

Kai wasn’t stupid.

Eventually, he’d catch up.

Banks

Present

Delcour sat on the other side of the river from the Whitehall district. I remembered seeing the building from a distance from our apartment downtown when I was a kid and lived with my mother. Tall, black, with gold trim, it reminded me of something out of an old movie. Gangsters in pinstripe suits, cars with whitewall tires, ladies in fancy gowns…. A tad of the art deco look, a bit of old Hollywood, and entirely too ostentatious, but it always filled me with awe when I would catch a glimpse of it. I didn’t know how anything could be glamorous and haunting at the same time, but Delcour proved that there was such a thing. It sat in the middle of the city like an ornate jewel on someone wearing a potato sack.

I didn’t fit in in places like this, and my nerves were acting of their own accord.

There’d probably be young people like me, but unlike me, they’d be hyper on a completely different set of priorities: designer shoes and triple, venti, no foam, soy lattes.

The elevator stopped, and the doors opened, the vibrations from the music under my feet hitting my ears now.

My mouth dry, I forced a step and entered Michael Crist’s penthouse.

“Hello,” a man in black pants and a black shirt greeted me. “May I take your coat?”

“No.”

I passed the racks of coats in the entryway, ignoring his taken-aback expression, and rounded the corner into the rest of the residence. Music played loudly, but I could still hear the chatter of the couples I walked by. Men moved about, dressed casually, some in suits with open collars, others in jeans and T-shirts, while the women were dressed to the nines. As usual.

The dim lights shined over the black marble floors, and I walked into the living room, the hair on my arms rising at the sight of all the people.

But I forced myself to relax. Crowds made me nervous, but I could deal. A few pairs of eyes drifted over me, trailing up and down my appearance, but I just continued my scan of the room.

Where the fuck was he?

I walked, slowly surveying the party for his sharply styled black hair and usual bored stare, but it appeared to be impossible. Many of the guests looked like they were Storm players—Michael’s teammates—because even Kai’s impressive six-foot-two was going to get lost in the midst of some of the six-and-a-half and seven-foot guys here.

Cry Little Sister droned out of the speakers, and I caught sight of Erika, walking back inside through the terrace entrance. Candlelight flickered across her skin, and our eyes met. She made her way over to me.

“Hi,” she said calmly, her smile small but warm. Even though she must know I didn’t want to have anything to do with her, she didn’t show it.

“Is Kai still here?” I asked, gesturing to the envelope in my hand. “He wanted this tonight.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment but just looked into my eyes.

“This way,” she finally answered.

Falling in behind her, I followed her past the kitchen and down a hallway, looking to my left and seeing a sunken basketball court, right here, in the apartment.

Because of course there was.

Several guys in suits sans jackets raced up and down the court. I quickly searched the players’ faces but didn’t see Kai there, either.

Erika trailed farther down a dimly lit hallway, and my gaze fell on her back, kind of admiring the sleek and flowing black jumpsuit she wore with criss-crossed straps over her shoulder blades. Beautiful, simple, and the horsemen’s center.

Everything I would never be to anyone.

Still, I couldn’t see why Damon was so obsessed with her.

She veered right and opened a door, deep voices and laughter immediately drifting into the hallway. Rika turned with her back to the open door, making room for me to enter.

I stepped in and looked around. A card table with half a dozen men, including Michael and Will, sat in the center of the room, and Kai occupied a chair, his back to me. Several more men loitered at various tables around the room, and a woman leaned on the wall in the corner, a drink in her hand.