He stared down at her, silently offering his big hand. His eyeswere dark—and she'd never seen such intensity. She inhaled a shaky breath.

Le coup de foudre.

Bolt out of the blue. No, no.No bolts for me! Maddy was ever practical, never fanciful. She had no idea why that thought had arisen—becausele coup de foudre had a second, more profound meaning.

The urge to take his hand was overwhelming. She clutched her glass in one hand and her skirts in the other. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm not who you seek, nor am I, er, one among these other women."

"I ken that." He took her elbow—gently, but firmly—and helped her to her feet. "If you were like these other women, I would no'be seeking you at all." He had a marked Scottish accent and a voice so deep and husky that it gave her shivers.

"But I don't know you," she said, sounding breathless.

"You will soon, lass," he answered, making her frown. But before she could say anything, he took her glass and set it away, then caught her hand to pull her from the dais into the crowd.

For Maddy, two flaws warred with each other for the title of What Would Prove to Be Maddy's Downfall: an overly developed sense of curiosity and a marked pride. She imagined the traits to be in a race, like two horses in themutuels on which she occasionally gambled. Right now, curiosity took the lead, demanding that she hear what the Scot had to say—even when she realized he was taking her toward the rooms lining the back wall of the warehouse. She quirked a brow. The rooms where prostitutes more fully serviced their patrons.

He opened the first door they came upon. Inside the dimly lit area, a woman was on her knees before a young man, taking him with her mouth while he leaned down and pinched her swollen, rouged nipples.

"Out," the Scot ordered with quiet menace. "Now."