He told himself he wouldn’t follow her.
But when her car turned left out of the parking lot, and he started to turn right, all he could imagine was her breaking down on the side of the road somewhere, getting found by someone less scrupulous than him. He thought about some faceless man towering over her, how scared she would be and how that would spoil her pretty, delicate features and her pretty, delicate scent, and he just couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let something that beautiful get ruined.
So he followed her. Just to see. Just to be sure.
She pulled into a lot only a couple of miles away. The Silk Stocking, said the neon sign above the club entrance.
He followed her into the parking lot and pulled in right next to her, because in all honesty, he probably would have wound up here even if he hadn’t been following her. He would have stumbled into this place, drunk an entire bottle of Jack, and found himself a petite mahogany-haired girl to take back to his hotel.
He stepped out of the Mustang, locked it, and strode over to her car with a quirked eyebrow. “Fancy seein’ you here,” he drawled as she stepped out of her own car.
She whirled, caught sight of him, and her features . . . crumbled . . . into something mournful, something so tragically gorgeous that he literally felt his heart twist, as all the air left his lungs in a rush. There was just something about her. Something instinctive, so primitive that even he couldn’t fully understand it.
He had no idea what it was, but he responded to her. She moved him, somehow, made him feel things. “What are you doing?” he wondered, and he wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by the question.
“I’m—I’m—it’s amateur night,” she admitted softly. “Thought I might . . . it’s cash money, s-so I can get my room back for the night. Not that I—I don’t do this very often,” she added hastily. “I’ve only ever—just a couple of times. I’m not a—I don’t do it often.”
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