You can’t tar everyone with the same brush, she told herself for at least the five thousandth time. Not all men are like that.

The sense of someone breathing on her didn’t go away, and she slid to the side, bumping a tanned woman in a white dress. Too many people in here. I’m going to suffocate. Her gaze swung up, and she found the man looking at her again. A drink had appeared in front of him, and he handed the harried bartender a ten without looking. Black T-shirt, jeans, a belt with an oddly shaped silver buckle.

He was standing too close, too. It was packed three-deep here at the bar, but he was still way inside her personal space.

Like, leaning in so far they were almost rubbing noses. A breath of male scent, some musky cologne, enfolded her.

Her heart gave a nasty, nervous thumping leap. Jesus! Sophie flinched back, dropped her gin and tonic on the bar, and retreated. The glass turned over, sending a tide of watered alcohol across the polished plastic, and a flash of terrified guilt burst reflexively under her rib cage.

Stupid. You’re stupid. Mark’s voice hissed inside her head, and she made it to the dance floor, going up on her toes to look for Lucy. She pushed her glasses up, and hoped they wouldn’t get smudged. That would just cap everything.

Dammit, Lucy. Where have you gone now? But her friend was nowhere in sight. Sophie canvassed the whole dance floor, glanced at the emergency exit, and decided that was silly. Lucy wasn’t at the bar, either—and it wasn’t like her to vanish completely.

Her heart was pounding like it intended to explode, and her breath came short and fast as she checked the ladies’ room and found no Lucy.