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ABU DHABI

DECEMBER

NATALIA

New York to London, London to Athens, Athens to Abu Dhabi. Nineteen hours in the air, and I’m exhausted. There are very few people in the hotel lounge, but maybe that’s normal for nine p.m. on a Wednesday.

I pause in the archway, taking it all in. French pop plays too loudly over the speakers. The Sputnik-sphere lamps cast an intimate speckled glow. Bartenders glide back and forth, all agile charm. The air smells like toasted sesame and pricey booze.

I cross the room and lean against the bar, shooting another text to Phaedra.

Me: Phae! Omg why aren’t you answering??? This place is booked solid during grand prix week, so if you don’t LET ME IN I’m going to have to sleep in the lobby.

I darken my phone and stuff it into my purse before signaling the bartender. He strolls over and leans opposite me with a gleaming white smile and an unsubtle once-over.

“How can I… help you ?”

Oh my. He really put everything he could into that pause. “Bless his heart,” as Aunt Minnie would say.

I point at the ice water he’s just set down. “Thank you for this, but I might be here awhile. May I get some juice?”

He rubs a knuckle against his jaw, following the precise line of dark beard scruff. “Sure, beautiful. What kind?”

I offer a friendly shrug as my purse vibrates with a text. “Surprise me.”

Of course the message isn’t from Phae.

I can’t get a break…

It’s Josh, my (former) editor at the arts and culture magazine where I’ve been a staff writer for three years, before resigning via an email on Monday night.

Josh: Did you seriously jump ship without notice and take a job with Auto Racing Journal? Or was it the thing about Shelby? You have to believe me, doll—we are NOT back together. I just need to move in again because it’s less confusing for the kids.

My nostrils flare and I jab out a reply.

Me: ARJ is a better salary, plus free travel. And I have an “in” with F1 because my best friend works for Emerald. Shelby is welcome to have you—I don’t need another married liar. Have a nice life, Josh.

A glass of magenta sludge is set before me. The bartender’s lips curl in a flirty smirk as he drags a wrapped drinking straw suggestively between two fingers.

“Beetroot,” he informs me. “You said to surprise you.”

I flash jazz hands. “Surprise!”

“Beetroot is good for stamina. I drink it every day… so I can go all night.”

I’m now apparently being seduced by the Dwight Schrute of the United Arab Emirates. What’s next, karate moves?

Mercifully, someone at the other end of the bar catches his attention and he walks away.

Me: RESCUE ME, Phae. It’s like a tank of piranhas down here.

Seconds later, he’s back.

I’m about to snap at the Drakkar Noir–soaked Romeo mixologist when he sets a tumbler of fragrant bourbon down and tips a grudging nod toward the end of the bar.

“From the gentleman.” He walks off without awaiting my response.

“Good lord,” I mutter, prepared to send a crisp No, thank you to some lonely businessman who’ll surely look like the Rich Uncle Pennybags Monopoly mascot.

Mercy.

At the far corner sits a complete smokeshow in a charcoal suit.

Tall as heck. Hair mostly pepper with just enough salt; wavy, with a widow’s peak that makes him look like a classic film star.

Maybe midforties? I think. Probably has a decade on me…

His bone structure is angular, complexion outdoor-tan, and he has firm-but-tender lips that seem to say, I’ll tell you what to do, then reward you for doing it .

He also isn’t looking at me.

Huh.

I pick up the bourbon and bring it to my nose.

I like to say I know my bourbon because I grew up in Kentucky. But Auntie Min is a strict nondrinker, and I left for North Carolina at eighteen, so there goes that theory.

Glass near my lips, I look up. Gray Suit Smokeshow moves his aloof gaze in my direction. He raises his own glass—eyes smiling, mouth impassive—then looks away.

Who does he think is in charge here? What a smug jerk.

I set the glass down, ignoring him.

A minute later, charcoal gray drifts in like a storm cloud on my periphery. I can smell him, and if that isn’t Neroli Portofino cologne, I’ll eat my hat.

Please let his voice sound like it does in my head…

His right hand—oh God, what a gorgeous pair of hands—opens toward the liquor. “Would you prefer something else?”

His voice is heavenly—a deep, smoothly accented incantation. I feel it down to my toes.

“Bourbon served neat,” I reply, not looking at him. “Good choice. Not chardonnay or something silly with an umbrella.”

He gives a rumbly chuckle, and I peek to see his smile. Boyishly asymmetric, single dimple on the left.

“What are you drinking?” I ask, picking up his glass and tipping it toward my face. The scent blooms into my nostrils, warm. “Ooh, cognac?”

“Mmm-hmm. Courvoisier—help yourself.”

“Ah, we’re sharing?”

He offers that whisper-light Mona Lisa smile. “I will certainly order you an untouched glass… if you’re shy.”

His eyes are dark as puddles of ink, and oh the things he’s writing with them…

“Are you shy, kleine Hexe?”

I know only a smattering of German but am pretty sure this deliciously bad man just called me a little witch.

Without breaking our gaze, I take a sip of his cognac.

“Nope. Not shy.”

As we take the elevator to his room, I’m surprised he doesn’t try to kiss me. He leans in the corner, fingertips resting on the handle of my suitcase, eyeing me speculatively.

He looks vaguely familiar. Have I seen him before? Maybe just in my fantasies. Because he is exactly… my… type. Wow.

“Thank you for inviting me up for a drink,” I tell him, my gaze angling away. I’m both excited and unnerved by his coy smile, and the challenge flashing in those dark eyes. “That loud music in the lounge was too much. I’m sure my friend’ll text soon.”

“Thank you ,” he counters, “for treating me to your company.”

The accent is lovely—clipped and neat, with a soft, cool texture like a layer of fresh snow.

“You’re German?” I ask.

The elevator eases to a stop and chimes.

“Austrian.” He opens a hand to invite me to precede him into the hallway.

“What line of work are you in?”

We haven’t exchanged names; the window closed on that halfway through a flirty glass of bourbon. It’s clearly a game at this point.

“Management. And you?”

We walk to the end of the hall—double doors leading to the floor’s biggest suite. He takes his phone out and taps it to unlock the door, then slides a finger along the screen to bring the lights up before ushering me in.

“Oh, I’m a writer,” I say, keeping it as vague as he is.

He pauses in the doorway and gives me a guarded look. “What do you write?”

Ah. So he’s cautious about journalists? Best to go with a little truth-stretching…

“I’m researching a novel.” My mind scrambles to think of what I might be doing in the city if not attending the grand prix. “It’s… about an archaeologist. There’ve been cool Bronze Age archaeology discoveries here.” My cheeks heat with the lie.

He studies my face, his eyes smiling. “Interesting. You must tell me more.”

Yikes. Hopefully not too much more.

The corner suite is stunning. My steps halt as I’m greeted by a wall of windows overlooking the marina, across an opulent living room with a bar. An archway leads to a bedroom with a kingly barge of a bed, mounded with gold pillows.

“Hell of a view,” I breathe.

“Make yourself comfortable. Bourbon again?”

“I’d take a half pour.”

I watch while he assembles my drink, then casually wander away—making him chase me a bit—after he hands it to me. Peeking around the bedroom doorway, I spot a huge en suite behind a frosted glass wall. The luxurious shower is open concept: multiple heads, fancy tile, big bench.

He appears beside me and raises his glass to mine. He has such leonine grace, every movement elegant and spare, like a dance. I can smell him again, and it’s making me nuts—a combination of sleep deprivation, rebelliousness, and hormones.

Taking a sip, I nod at the en suite. “I hope the one in my friend’s room is as nice. I’m looking forward to a shower.”

His dark-as-sin eyes shine down at me. My focus moves from his eyes to his mouth in a blatant signal I’m willing to be kissed.

Would it be so terrible to spend a few hours as the bold, uninhibited girl I’ve never been, rather than a Good Girl suckered by the promises of cads like Josh?

The only promise I see in Charcoal Suit’s eyes is a good time.

His gaze lingers on my lips too. A shimmer of heat goes through me.

“You’re welcome to use my shower,” he offers in that silky baritone. “And if you don’t hear from your friend, this suite has a guest room.”

I don’t quite rise on my toes in anticipation of a kiss, but my feet are tensed and ready. He takes a step back and saunters to the bar, his posture easy, unhurried.

Oh, just look at this lovely creature—butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He’s going to make me work for it.

I’ll admit… having been genetically blessed by my beautiful (though absent) parents, I rarely have to do the heavy lifting where seduction is concerned. I’m kinda loving that this is different.

I go to my suitcase and unzip it, fishing around for loungey satin trousers and a spaghetti-strap cami.

“Invitation accepted.”

The hot water is divine. I want to use the massage function on my tired shoulders but can’t figure it out. I twist the showerhead, then search the walls for some kind of button.

Throwing a glance toward the parallelogram of light leading to the living room, I call out, “Um… excuse me?”

I open a towel in front of myself, stepping out of the spray.

He appears to the left of the doorway, on the other side of the frosted glass.

Shirtless.

“Can I help you, kleine Hexe?”

What am I getting myself into? We both know neither the offer nor the acceptance of a shower is innocent…

“Th-the, uh, the shower massage,” I stammer. “Is it controlled by an app or something?”

There’s a pause. I wonder if we’re both thinking the same thing.

“Would you like company?” His voice is a rich rumble.