His suit coat brushed her arm, and just as if a lit match touched a puddle of gasoline, a searing pain flashed in her rib cage. That familiar humiliation she'd fought to release years ago threatened to devour her. Her therapist's words flooded her brain. Visualize a stop sign whenever bad feelings arise. Stop the negative thoughts and pictures.
“Rachel, you alright?” Gabe's voice echoed distantly against the rush of blood in her ears.
Alright? Hell, no. A tickle rose inside her nose. Her breath burned hot in her throat, and her eyes pricked. She had to stop this cascade of emotion threatening to let loose.
Do not cry. Stop sign. Do not cry. Stop sign.
She sucked in a breath. That same woodsy aftershave he loved rushed in, and it was too late to stop anything. Her heart was going to split open, spill every secret wish she'd sobbed into her pillow over this man.
“Can I get you something else, sir?”
Gabe's voice likely saved her from doing the unthinkable—shedding more useless, wasted tears over Trick Masters.
“Another club soda.” Trick leaned his elbow on the bar and stared at her. “Gabe, no offense to you, but Rachel's got some interesting mixology ideas. You should put her behind the bar. She's good at dishing out fantasies.”
His words snapped a lid on her useless nostalgia, and red-hot heat flared through her limbs. Good. Anger was better than longing and sorrow over what should have been. Maybe it'd cauterize the crack that threatened to rend her heart in two. She lifted her tray and, with sheer willpower, lowered her shoulders. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her come undone.
“Rachel, I need to talk to you.” The heartless thief peered down at her with those same blue-gray eyes she'd once thought so kind—but weren't. He flashed that same charming smile—which she now knew hid a thousand lies.
“No.” She'd meant the simple word to land hard, like the punch she never got to deliver on his smug, model-perfect face three years ago.
The haughty bastard's mouth twitched up at her resolute tone.
Her feet escaped the invisible concrete that had kept her in place for far too long. She balanced the tray on her palm, lifted it high, and turned away. Two men parted for her to scoot by, one of them skimming her with his gaze. With any luck, Trick had caught the man's admiration.
Shit. Claire, another waitress, stood in front of her table of The Three Suits who had “big tippers” written all over them, from their cuff links to their Berluti handmade shoes.
After delivering her martinis to her ladies and scooting over to The Three Suits to ensure her tip wasn't in jeopardy, she dashed back to the bar. Please let Trick's presence be an illusion or a mental delusion. How could The Betrayer be here in Baltimore? She poked at her sternum as if that would force her heart back into that mental cage she’d forged to keep all the pieces inside.
Stop sign. Stop sign. Stop sign.
Gabe leaned toward her so she could hear him over the symphony of happy hour chatter and laughter. “You know that guy?” He cocked his head toward the exit as Trick slipped through the revolving doors. “He told Mr. Jergenson you should join me behind the bar.”
“Rachel.”
She jumped at the sound of Mr. Jergenson's voice behind her. Her heart was going to give out before the end of her shift. She turned to face her manager, who she did not want to deal with right now. “I'd be no good behind the bar.” Bartending tips sucked, and so did standing around all night.
“I have a better idea.” Mr. Jergenson glanced across the room. “See those two guys over there? They asked for you. I'm putting you on hostess duties. As you said, you're popular.”
“But—”
“See me when your shift ends. We'll talk details.” He turned away.
The universe was trying to kill her. She'd earn no tips hostessing, just a dead-end, minimum wage way to stand on her feet all day and night while watching all the women who hated her slip bills into their aprons.
Trick did this. She dropped her empty tray on the bar. Tears? No way. The wrath she’d suppressed for years? Bring it on.
“I’m taking a break, Gabe.” So what if breaks weren’t allowed during peak hours. She would not go without a fight this time, starting with the person who had tipped her day from bad to untenable, the two-faced bastard who’d sentenced her to three very long years of scraping change off dirty tablecloths instead of getting her degree. She’d come back from Chile to find everything gone—just gone—including him. And now he was here? At the very least, she wanted her three million back.
She pushed her way through a gaggle of women holding martinis and then the revolving door. With any luck, he’d still be in the parking lot. Bingo. He leaned against a black sedan parked across the street, casually scrolling through the latest iPhone like he hadn’t care in the world. Her last mental last stop sign melted into a puddle. She jogged across the road, and immediately, that woody cologne scent wafted between them once more. The effing nerve of the man, the unbelievable gall to smell good, to look good, to …
“Rachel.” He straightened and gave her that same smirk he'd delivered fifteen minutes ago.
She took a swing at him.
He grasped her wrist in mid-air before she could land a satisfying crack on his cheek. “What the hell?”
“How dare you be here! Where’s my money?” So much for her two years and eight months of therapy. Stop sign, meet Trick Masters, the man who’d ruined her life, who’d stolen everything from her.
2
Rachel Grant had some nerve. Trick lowered her wrist to her waist. He'd been texting his attorney with her location when that long, dark, curly hair and legs from here to infinity charged up and attacked him. She'd always been a spitfire—a beautiful one, at that.
She yanked her arm free. “What are you doing here?”
“I'd ask you the same question. Waitressing, Rachel? Really?” He glanced across the street at the front façade of the over-priced gentlemen's club.
“Yeah, waitressing.” She rubbed her wrist. “Why do you think, genius?”
Jesus, this woman had more than nerve—more like deranged arrogance, especially after all he'd gone through because of her. “Easy on the insults, sweetheart.”
“Don't call me sweetheart. Those. Days. Are. Over.” The harpy poked his chest at each word.
He grabbed her wrist again, that impossibly smooth skin under his fingers sparking memories better left alone. Never again would he allow his feelings to overrun his common sense. “Those days certainly are over.”
To think three years ago he was ready to tie himself to this woman for life after only knowing her for a few months. He’d showered her with everything she’d ever wanted—clothes, rent-free living, a two-carat, custom-designed, Tiffany rock on her hand. Now, Princess Rachel's crown was a tad banged up. If he hadn't seen her with his own eyes, scurrying around tables in that excuse for a skirt—he'd seen Ace bandages with more material—while balancing a tray of martinis over her head, he wouldn't have believed she'd demean herself by doing something as common as serving in some gentleman’s club.