"Allison..." the redhead said in a pained whisper. "Please."

But Allison wasn't backing down. It was obvious in the way she narrowed her eyes. "You get to be a star every day. I never get to be the center of attention. Just once, I want tonight to be about me. I don't want you to steal the spotlight from my win. Call me selfish, call me vain, call me whatever you want, but I can't help it. It's the way I feel. I don't want this to be about you, I want it to be about me. Just tonight. Is that so hard to understand?"

He had to respect her honesty. He wasn't sure he could stand in front of a bunch of people and admit that he wanted to be the center of attention. He found that totally refreshing and seriously s.e.xy. He did understand, and so he found himself nodding. "I get it. I really do. So I'll leave you to your celebration as long as you give me your number."

Her jaw dropped. "What? No. Are you nuts? I've been a complete b.i.t.c.h to you."

Marco put his hands in his pockets, more at ease now, amused. "Maybe I'm tired of the d.i.c.k-sucking harem. Maybe I'm intrigued by someone who isn't afraid to say exactly what she's thinking."

The man or woman or the man becoming a woman, Marco wasn't exactly what what p.r.o.noun to use to refer to him/her, nodded emphatically. "Honey, that is most definitely Allison. This girl has no filter. None."

"Shut up, Beckwith," she said, though it was without heat or rancor. Her cheeks were pink.

"See?" he added. "Honest to a fault, this one."

Marco had shifted so that he was closer to Allison. He liked that with the heels, she was his height. She exuded confidence and a strong sense of who she was. Not to mention she had the most lush and full mouth that practically was begging for him to kiss.

"I don't think I'm your type," she said.

"How do you know?"

For the first time, she was starting to get fl.u.s.tered. She looked around the table for help but there was none forthcoming. Her friends were just staring, watching, waiting. "I..."

It seemed she was finally at a loss for words.

Her friend she had called Beckwith spoke, rattling off a phone number. "That's Allison's number. Call her, Marco, honey. But I can tell you right now I can lead the horse to water but I can't make her drink."

"Could you repeat that number?" Marco asked, pulling out his phone.

"Don't repeat that!" Allison glared at Beckwith. "You can't give my number out to strange men."

"He's not a strange man, he's Marco Lucky." Beckwith smiled at him. "Ready?"

"Yes."

He gave him the number again.

"Don't call me," Allison said. "It's not a good idea."

"Why not?" And why was he still standing there when she was making it so clear she wasn't interested in him? But it was a pattern of his, to bang his head against walls. He knew that. He should let this go. But it was just too intriguing, the concept of rejection. It might be good for his soul. Not that he was prepared to accept rejection. "Do you find me unattractive?"

She snorted. Her eyes looked everywhere but at him.

That was all he needed to know. He saved her number and gave her a smile. "I'll call you tomorrow. Enjoy your evening, Allison."

As he left, he heard one of her female friends ask, "Would you rather win the lottery or a night with a rock star?"

Allison laughed. "Please, no contest. The lottery, of course."

"Well, you're a dumba.s.s," Beckwith said, loud and clear. "Because you could have just had both."

"Anyone can f.u.c.k a rock star," she said. "It's nothing to my credit. All you have to do is show up and spread your legs. Not much of an accomplishment."

"Most people will never get the opportunity to leg-spread. You have the most a.s.s-backwards way of thinking of things."

She did. Marco liked it.

And she was right. Anyone under the right circ.u.mstances could have shared his bed not that long ago. He hadn't exactly been discerning. It was merely whichever woman was close by at the end of the night. It wasn't something he was proud of. It was one thing to say he wasn't in the market for a relationship, but still hook up with various women he found interesting and attractive. Funny. Intelligent. But he hadn't even bothered to investigate any of that. He'd just tumbled blind drunk into bed with whatever warm flesh was nearest.

He'd been working on dealing with the residual disgust with himself for how he had treated those women, and Allison seemed to have a way without intending to, of perfectly reminding him of the man he wanted to be. He wasn't there yet, but he was getting there, slow and steady. He sat back down and drank his ginger ale and wondered what he should do with the rest of his night. He had told her he would leave, but he didn't want to. He wanted to be in the background, the silent observer, the eye to the keyhole of what normal twenty-somethings did in Manhattan.

He texted the number Beckwith had given him, wondering for a brief second if it was a fake. He just wrote, This is Marco.

Feeling like a true stalker, he watched her pull her phone out of her pocket and glance at the screen. She put it away without responding, nor did she look over at him. Her self-control was f.u.c.king amazing. He respected that.

But then his phone buzzed, and despite knowing it wasn't her, because he had been staring at her the whole time, he felt a frisson of hope that somehow she had mystical texting powers and had responded. After finishing his drink, he checked his phone and found he had a text from his manager, who apparently had seen on social media that he'd been spotted in the same bar two nights in a row. Most likely Sandy the waitress had posted something and tagged him. He didn't mind, except now Harry was going to be on his a.s.s. A text from Allison definitely would have been better.

Dude, a bar? I thought we were over this s.h.i.t.

Not drinking. Don't worry about it.

He sent Harry a picture of his ginger ale.

That doesn't prove d.i.c.k.

No, it really didn't, but he didn't feel the need to apologize when he wasn't doing anything he shouldn't be. A mood was creeping up on him again, that dark, crawling anger and resentment. It was like c.o.c.kroaches-it came out at night and scattered during the day. Right then, in the dim bar, it was encroaching again, like it had the night before, making him unfit for human interaction. It was right about then that the women showed up. The same ones from the night before. They beelined straight toward him, and he immediately regretted that he had hung around. It would do exactly what Allison had complained about-make the night all about him, not her.

It made his mood worse. He just wanted to be left the f.u.c.k alone. Was that so greedy or wrong or ungrateful? Maybe it was. All he knew was that he would stick around, be the nice guy, because, despite wanting to do literally anything else, he couldn't live with himself if he was a p.r.i.c.k to the very fans who made his paycheck possible.

"Can we get a picture?" the one woman asked. She was wearing what seemed like very little clothing for October, her cleavage out on full display.

"Sure." He stood up and got in the middle of the three women, careful to put his hands in his pockets, not around their arms.

"We don't bite," the blonde said, snuggling closer. "Much." She laughed. Her b.o.o.b pressed against his chest.

Marco gave a small smile at the camera the brunette held out, but without responding. He wasn't going to be rude, but at the same time, he wasn't going to send any vibe that he wanted to continue this encounter outside of the bar so that they wouldn't get the wrong idea. That fine line was harder now that he was sober. Before, he would have just taken one or all three home. Or if he was in a bad mood, he would have been rude without any thought to their feelings.

But after five minutes of pictures and small talk, he was done. He was going to have to make an excuse and bolt.

His phone buzzed. "Excuse me," he said to the women, and pulled his phone out. He grinned, feeling instantly better. It was from Allison.

You're violating the terms of our agreement.

I can't get away from them without being rude. Rescue me.

I think you can handle yourself.

He could practically hear her disbelief and disdain. He glanced over at Allison's table, but her back was to him.

I have a hard time saying no. It's how I wound up famous.

She laughed out loud. He heard her even from ten feet away. She glanced over her shoulder at him, rolling her eyes. But her lips were curved in a smile. Then her gaze returned to her phone and she typed.

His phone buzzed.

Do you really want me to come over there and "save" you? Because I can't guarantee you'll like the way I'm going to do it. I'm not a people person, if you haven't noticed.

He was pretty sure her bark was worse than her bite.

Bring it on.

You've been warned.

Amused, he shoved his phone back into his pocket. The girls were all looking at him expectantly. "Sorry about that."

"Want to do a shot?" the blonde asked.

"I'm good, thanks." He was watching Allison take a sip of her champagne before turning around and moving toward them. Antic.i.p.ation had his muscles tensing, and he was surprised how much he was looking forward to hearing whatever was about to come out of her mouth.

Her approach was confident, strong, sensual. She walked with a sway to her hips that was natural, like the world was her runway and she was going to own it. She made eye contact with him and amused him by winking. He liked the feeling that he had a secret with her, a private joke. Like she was willing to play the game with him, when thus far she hadn't been. Allison came right up to the table and stepped so close to him that the other girls instinctively shifted out of the way.

"Excuse me," she said to the girls. "But Marco is in time-out. He can't talk to you."

Holy s.h.i.t, really? Marco raised an eyebrow. He had to admit that was not what he was expecting her to say.

"What?" the brunette with the heavy eye makeup asked blankly. The other two were scowling at Allison.

"He was misbehaving earlier, so he was banished to this table to think about what he said to me. But his time-out is up, so he's coming back to the other table with me."

Yeah, she was outrageous. Plain and simple. He couldn't believe she was even saying that with a straight face. Marco put his hand over his mouth and coughed, fighting the urge to laugh. "Thank you, I appreciate being let out of emotional jail."

"What does that mean?" the blonde asked. "I'm confused."

"I'm his girlfriend and he p.i.s.sed me off, that's what it means," Allison said. She reached through all the cleavage surrounding the table and picked up his ginger ale. "Come on, let's go."

Was it funny? h.e.l.l yeah. But she had put him in the most awkward position possible, and, given the unholy grin on her face, she knew it. If he followed her, he'd look like a total p.u.s.s.y. If he stayed, he was stuck talking to the women. Either way, rumors were going to fly that he suddenly had a girlfriend, unless he acted like she was insane and he didn't know her, and there was no way he could do that to her. He was the one who had texted her, so being a d.i.c.k was out.

But he could also turn it around on her. Standing up, he grabbed her arm and stopped her from walking away again. Allison turned and gave him a curious look. "Yes?"

"Let me apologize for my despicable behavior," he said, his tone low, rough. G.o.d, she was hot. The cool disapproval on her face shouldn't be that much of a turn-on, but it was. She wasn't impressed with him, and that felt so real, so honest, that he was completely determined to prove to her that he was worthy of her time and attention.

He took a step forward, and her eyes widened. She took a step back.

"That's not necessary. I forgive you." Her words rose in pitch.

He made her nervous. That was intensely satisfying. "Oh, but it is."

And he hauled her in closer to him with an iron grip on her arm, his other hand sliding along her satin hair, and kissed her.

Allison knew what Marco Lucky was planning, and she was both horrified and super curious. Not to mention hot and bothered. He was s.e.xy as h.e.l.l, with that brooding rock-star thing he had going on, and his scruffy appearance. She couldn't deny that he made her vag tingle, but he was also arrogant and a little weird. Why he wanted her number in the first place, she could not imagine. She didn't want to go out with him. It would be a paparazzi frenzy, they'd have zero privacy, she'd worry she looked fat in any pictures taken of her, all while knowing there was no way in h.e.l.l he was actually interested in her for her. He was bored, he was h.o.r.n.y, he was whatever. It had nothing to do with her.

He'd take her out, f.u.c.k her, then forget about her by the time the next morning's coffee was done perking. Coffee might even be pushing it. For all she knew, he had his one-night stands escorted out at two in the morning and put in a taxi.

She didn't object to the concept. She'd had a hookup a time or two herself. But she didn't want to be the hookup at this point in her life. She was tired of everything in her life feeling so transient and uncertain. She wanted a partner, a relationship. She wanted to be someone's Sunday afternoon, not their Sat.u.r.day night.

That didn't mean, though, that she wasn't curious what it would be like to kiss him. Or that she wasn't amazed that he wasn't totally p.i.s.sed off with her for the stunt she'd just pulled on him. Her friends always told her she was too blunt, that she didn't play the rules of the game well, but she couldn't change who she was, nor did she want to. She wasn't going to kiss someone's a.s.s just because he'd had the luck to hit it big in the music industry. She wasn't saying he didn't have talent. He clearly did. But so did a lot of people. Being the one who made it to the top took talent, but also the right connections and a little good old-fashioned luck.

Like her winning the lottery. She was flying high on the realization that her entire life had just changed-that she had freedom, the ability to pursue whatever she wanted without money being the roadblock that stopped her at every turn. It was making her more than a little giddy with power, she could admit. Sa.s.sy. It was life changing, a total game changer, and that was going to make anyone a little over the top. Tomorrow she'd be a little more in control, but right now, she was buzzed on champagne and antic.i.p.ation.

So she'd rescued him, per his request, or possibly instructions, if you wanted to call it that, and he hadn't gotten mad. But he had turned the tables around on her.

Because now he was about to kiss her and she was pretty sure it was going to be a quality face suck.

The minute his mouth brushed over hers, she knew she was right.

d.a.m.n, the man had skill. For a brief second she thought about how many women he had probably kissed in the last ten years, then decided she wasn't going to worry about it, because holy h.e.l.l, that felt good. His kiss was soft, teasing, a perfect pressure, in sharp contrast to the firm grip he had on her hair and her arm. There his fingers tugged, controlled, while his mouth worshipped, stroking and brushing like an Italian painter. She was drunk, she realized, to be thinking in art metaphors.

But at the same time, it felt good to be swept away, and she was. She opened her lips readily for him, giving in to desire and touching that rocker head of hair he had, expecting it to feel dirty, like he hadn't showered in a week. It didn't. It was soft and clean and free of product. She explored his jaw line with her fingers, rubbing against the rough stubble, her eyes closed, the bar, everyone else irrelevant. His tongue stroked her bottom lip, before invading her mouth with its sweetness. He tasted tangy, not like alcohol, but like sugar and toothpaste.

She broke off the kiss, needing air. She opened her eyes and a.s.sessed him, intrigued. His dark eyes were filled with l.u.s.t and something else she couldn't quite define. Curiosity? She wasn't sure. She reached up and wiped his damp lip with her index finger, dragging it slowly across his warm flesh.

"Well. Apology accepted," she murmured.

The corner of his mouth turned up. "I guess I got off easy, then. No flowers required? No jewelry?"

So he had a sense of humor. She could appreciate that. "Do I look materialistic? Because I am. I'm just feeling generous tonight."

He laughed. "As you should be. Lady Luck, that's who you are."

She liked the sound of that. "I may need a sterling silver bracelet made that says that." She also needed s.p.a.ce. The air between her and Marco was thick with s.e.xual tension, and she didn't want to find herself notch number ten thousand on his bedpost. Despite the fact that he kissed with the promise she didn't want to regret going home with him. That would taint the victory of her lottery win.

Allison stepped back, leaving Marco's personal s.p.a.ce. The women who had been talking to him had wandered a few feet away, and two of them were on their phones. Why did she suddenly have the feeling she was about to end up on Twitter? That was an uncomfortable thought. In her early twenties, she would have welcomed the attention, and had auditioned for a couple of reality shows, to her current shame. She'd also done a stint on a radio show, which had paid less than nothing, but these days, she wanted to be taken seriously, though admittedly had done nothing to accomplish that lofty goal.

Maybe showing up for work on time would do a lot to achieve respect. Ugh. She hated that the thought popped into her head without warning. She didn't want to be introspective. She wanted to celebrate. With her friends. Not with Marco Lucky, though he most likely knew a h.e.l.l of a lot about having a good time. But she wanted to leave it at a kiss, and not become swirled in a social media frenzy.

When she looked at Marco, she saw he was thinking the same thing she was. They'd been filmed. He eradicated the s.p.a.ce she had just created between them and tucked her hair behind her ear. Leaning in, he murmured to her, "Sorry. I didn't think about it. I'm usually more savvy than that, but you are very distracting."

So what if her heart kicked up a notch or twelve? He was a star, and that was a line. She looked up at him from under her eyelashes. "And you're as smooth as peanut b.u.t.ter, but I'm not falling for it. Not that easily."

"I wouldn't expect you to. Nor would I be interested in you if you would. But go to dinner with me tomorrow night."

That wasn't going to happen. She just couldn't stomach the thought of being his curiosity for the night. Her self-esteem had taken a nose dive lately, and she wanted to set herself on a better path, where she had a positive impact on the world, made her mark. This wouldn't accomplish that. Well, it would definitely make a statement, just not the one she wanted. Yet she did want to see if Marco was all surface flirt, or if he could actually hold a conversation like a normal human being. "No. But I will take you over to my table and introduce you to my friends, and you can tell me why a guy like you is in a joint like this."

The man wasn't the only one who could toss off a line with a straight face.

"This isn't a joint."

"No, but I can't say I've ever seen anyone famous here before either."