Christ. He wanted her. His blood was thrumming through his veins, burning with an excitement he hadn’t felt in… well, a long-assed time. Impatient expectation wasn’t in his nature. Or so he’d thought.

“Should I bring anything?” she asked, meeting his gaze.

“An overnight bag.”

She slid off the barstool and grabbed his wine to take it back to her table. “See you in an hour, Raze.”

He grabbed her elbow, squeezed gently. “Make it thirty minutes.”

Again, she searched his face. Again, she saw something that settled her. “Forty-five. I’ll hurry.”

“Hurry faster.”

“Are you insane?”

Kim looked at her best friend and shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

“Your dad is a cop,” Delia reminded, twisting her martini glass back and forth. “Your brother is a cop. You know better than to go home with strange men you pick up in a bar. He could be a serial killer or a sexual sadist or… anything!”

“It’s because I’ve grown up with cops that I know what I’m doing with him.” She’d watched the way he walked into the bar. The confident stride, the coolly observant eyes that took in everything, the way he carried his powerful body with limber agility. A hunter. She’d bet money he was undercover vice. Just as she’d bet money that something about his job was eating at him now and he wanted to put it away for a night, take some solace from someone who wouldn’t be around long enough to remind him he’d lost his edge for a few brief hours.

Looking back over her shoulder, she remembered watching Raze take a seat at the bar, remembered the way he’d looked into his glass as if the answer he was looking for could be found in it. Wasn’t she here for the same reason? To seek oblivion in the company of others. So they’d narrow it down to the two of them, and toss in orgasms and physical exhaustion. There were worse ways to spend the night. Like lying in bed alone, drenched in clammy sweat and shaking with fear.