My fingers curl around the edge of the tray. Screw it. He takes one more step toward me and he'll find one of these lukewarm edamame balls shoved so far down his throat, he won't be able to eat solid foods for a week.

"Sir, if you'd like an edamame ball-"

His mouth twitches into a lewd half-smile. "Ah, don't be like that." He presses so close, I can feel his breath against my face - sour and smelling strongly of bourbon. "Come on, sweetheart, give me a smile-"

Before he can get the words out, a body slams into his with the force of a linebacker performing a tackle. My back presses tight to the wall and my eyes widen as I watch the blur of pinstripe jostle sideways and stumble off balance. I'm almost positive the creep is about to be sent sprawling on his ass but, at the last moment, a large hand clamps onto his shoulder and steadies him with what seems like very little effort.

"Whoa, there, Sanders." An amused male voice rumbles from my left. "Watch your step."

My eyes dart to the man who's just interrupted Pinstripe's lechery, and I feel the air constrict in my lungs as I take in his features.

It's an undeniably attractive face....

And, worse, one I recognize.

Parker West.

2.

The Mission

We've never met in person, of course, but I'd know him anywhere. His picture appears several times a month in the society pages, always with some bimbo or another hanging on his arm like Spanish moss - decorative, but ultimately lacking in substance and purpose. Funnily enough, Parker doesn't seem to mind that his wafer-thin dates' weights are higher than their IQ points.

He's a notorious womanizer. Which should bother me.

I know it should bother me.

But...

Damn.

A bolt of electricity shoots straight between my legs as I take him in. He's sex and sin in a tanned, muscular package, and that's just the start of it.

He towers over me - at least six two, maybe taller. Again - damn. I've always had a thing for tall boys. His nose is straight, aristocratic, the type of feature that speaks to a long line of good genes. His light brown hair is sun-streaked with gold, as if he spends more time outside than in, and slightly tousled, as though running a comb through it for a formal dinner party was simply too much effort. I instantly want to slide my fingers into the thick waves, to messy it further.

Oh, boy.

His whole look - from his tailored Hugo Boss suit to his crisp black tie to his messy-on-purpose hair to his half-hooded bedroom eyes - works on an elemental level. Judging by the way he carries himself, he's fully aware of it, too.

Zoe, you hate pretty boys, I remind myself. Remember?

For some reason, it's hard to hold onto that thought as I look directly into his hazel-gold eyes, which are currently fixed on my face with an alarming amount of curiosity in their depths. He's staring at me like I'm a question he wants very much to answer.

I gulp.

His eyes crinkle.

Thankfully, the pinstripe groper - Sanders - chooses this moment to interrupt our little staring contest.

"Mr. West." He's breathing heavily and his face is getting red. "Watch where you're going, son, you almost plowed me over."

Parker's eyes lose a little of their heat as they slide away from me to focus on Pudgy Pinstripe.

"Yes, I'll have to be more careful," he says in a dangerously soft voice. "Just as I'm sure you'll be more careful about where you place your hands when selecting appetizers in the future. Isn't that your wife, over by the bar? I'd hate for her to hear about your..." His pause is lethal. "...appetite... for certain dishes."

The threat hangs there in the air for a moment and Sanders' face turns red as a tomato before he grumbles an excuse about needing the bathroom and storms away, no doubt to grope one of the other cater-waiters.

And then there were two.

I dare a glance at Parker and find he's staring at me again.

"What?" I ask sharply, gripping my tray tighter. "Are you waiting for a party in your honor? A cookie? A parade of some sort, complete with clowns and miniature horses?"

His grin widens. "I was hoping for a thank you. But, now that you mention it, I am a fan of miniature horses." His brow furrows. "I don't like clowns, though. Bad experience at my fifth birthday party. Never quite recovered."

"How tragic," I say dryly. "Now, if you'll excuse me-"

"I won't, actually," he says immediately, sidestepping to block me when I move to leave.

I crane my neck to glare up at him. "Won't what?

"Won't excuse you."

"It's an expression," I say incredulously. "Said while trying to be polite. It doesn't actually require the other person's permission."

"Then why say it at all?"

I scowl at him. "I know what you're doing."

"Standing here being charming and irresistible?"

"No. Playing dumb - or, rather, dumber than you look which is a feat in itself, so bravo! - to keep me here talking to you."

His lips twitch. "Has anyone ever told you that you're sassy?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you're annoying?"

"And that voice of yours." He leans in a fraction and I catch a waft of his aftershave. I feel my thighs press together of their own accord. "So husky. You should be a late-night radio host announcer. Or an audiobook narrator. Hell, you call up Apple and offer to voice the new Siri, I guarantee I'll never lose my iPhone again."

"You're sexually harassing me."

"Me? Harassing you?" He has the nerve to wink while acting outraged. "If I wanted to do that, I'd have suggested you become a sex line operator."

"So, to be clear, you saved me from sexual harassment only to sexually harass me yourself?" I lift my brows. "That's really what's happening here?"

"I'm not sexually harassing you," he insists. "In fact, you're sexually harassing me."

"How's that, exactly?"

"You just looked at my crotch."

Completely baffled by his accusation, I involuntarily drop my gaze to said nether region - oh, boy, someone's a leftie - and find my cheeks are suddenly on fire. "I most certainly did not look at your crotch!" I hiss, trying to get the uncharacteristic blush under control.

"You're looking at it right now," he points out.

"Only because you said-" I screech in frustration and tear my eyes away. "Ugh! You're more than annoying. You're a manipulative, self-entitled chauvinist."

"Would it shock you to know that's not the worst thing I've been called on a first date?" His eyes get warm. "We're doing pretty well, by comparison."

"D-date?" I splutter, staring at him like his head is about to explode. "I'm working. You're bothering me. This is not a date. This is the exact opposite of a date."

He adopts a thoughtful look as he glances around the room. "Ambient lighting. Dark corner. Intimate conversation. Discrete examination of my anatomy." He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. "Sounds like a date to me."

"I pity the women forced to actually go out with you."

"Darling, I don't have to force them," he says, flashing a grin that makes me believe him. "Are you sure we haven't met before? You seem familiar."

We haven't met - not exactly. And he couldn't possibly remember...

Last spring, I helped his sister Phoebe out of a rather sticky situation. I called her phone once, to warn her of trouble... and her brother happened to be in the room at the time. But neither of them knows my name. He just heard my voice. And that was months ago.

"No," I say, shaking my head firmly. "We've definitely never met."

"Huh." His eyes scan my features curiously. "Strange. I feel like I know you."

"Well, you don't. Now, if you'll let me by..."

"I'm Parker, by the way." He grins again. "And you are?"

"Not interested," I return, wishing it were true as my heart pounds too fast inside my chest.

Because I'm angry, I tell myself. Outraged. Incensed.

That's the only explanation for the tightness in my stomach. The dizziness in my head. The sweatiness of my palms.

...The heat between my legs.

Damn.

"Listen, buddy," I snap, intensifying my glare for good measure. "If you're not going to take an edamame ball, you really have to let me by. I have work to do."

And, I remember alarmingly, a very narrow window of time to get my intel which, thanks to this little interlude, is now even shorter.

His eyes drop to my tray and his face screws up in a grimace. "Honestly, are those even edible?"

"Don't know, don't care. Now, move out of my way or I will make you move."

His eyes light up in anticipation, like a puppy offered a treat. "Promise?"

My only response is another withering glare.

"Fine, fine." He chuckles as he holds up his hands in surrender. "My ego has been bruised enough."

I step past him and this time he doesn't stop me. As I walk away, though, he calls out loud enough to draw the gazes of several surrounding party-goers.

"So, that's a no on the thank-you parade, then?"

I don't look back, but I can feel his eyes on me the whole way to the doors. I pretend not to notice the smile tugging at my lips and the swirl of unwanted butterflies in my stomach as I slip into the kitchens and out of sight.

"Twenty minutes, people, then you need to be back here and ready to serve the main course." Miriam sounds like the green-scaled dinosaur lady from Monster's Inc. and, actually, bears a slight resemblance to her if you look close enough. "If you're going to smoke, you'll have to take the elevator up to the roof." She glances at the clock. "Time starts now."

The group of twelve cater-waiters disperses faster than high schoolers at a cop-busted kegger.

Mara looks at me, a box of cigarettes clasped tight in her hand. "You coming?"

I shake my head. "Don't smoke."

"I'm quitting. Just... not tonight." A sheepish grin lights up her whole face. "See you in a few."

I wait until everyone's cleared out, then hustle through the side door and beeline for the small women's bathroom at the end of the hall. The event is almost entirely male businessmen, so it's blessedly deserted - marking, perhaps, the only time in my life I've ever been thankful for that pesky glass ceiling the female CEOs smacked into when hoping for an invitation to this shindig. The handful of women actually in attendance are all using the fancy ballroom bathrooms, not trekking down the hall in their Manolos to this one. I should be totally under the radar, here.

Flipping the deadbolt behind me, I pull open the cabinets beneath the sink, push aside several bottles of cleaning products, and slide out the black backpack I stashed inside earlier. In less than a minute, I've shimmied out of the god-awful uniform and into a tight-fitting black ball gown with whisper-thin straps, a lace bodice, and a flared hem which falls just far enough to conceal my flats. Without letting myself consider the ramifications of this monumentally stupid plan, I shove the uniform into the backpack along with the itchy black wig, zip it closed, and stash it out of sight in the cabinet.

I hate wasting a few precious moments on my hair, but it can't be helped. There's a lot of it, and after being stuffed beneath the wig for two hours, it's flat and frizzy. I run my fingers under the tap for a moment, then work them the through the blonde mane to give it a little life. Scraping the pile into an up-do, I fasten it with a pretty tortoiseshell clip barely wide enough to contain the riot of waves. One swipe of lipstick is all I bother with for makeup. Staring at the blonde, blue eyed girl in the mirror, I pinch my cheeks for added color and examine my disguise. Not perfect, but good enough.

It has to be - there's no more time to waste.