“And you say you aren’t a gentleman.” She let out a sarcastic breath as she stepped out of the car. “Though, just a tip for the next unlucky woman you screw, I would have preferred a box of chocolates over your shitty Plan B pill.” She slammed the door behind her.

HAVING SEX WITH YOUR MORTAL enemy was exhausting. Weight pulled on my muscles as I walked down the hall toward my apartment. I unlocked the door and kicked off my heels, though just as I reached for the light switch, a cold awareness touched my skin, and I froze.

“Well, well, well . . . you show up at the party in one man’s jacket and come home in another’s?”

My gaze drifted to Richard II, proud manager of The Playhouse, which featured the sleaziest strippers in New York. It was the only reliable place to get a fifty-dollar blowie in town.

He was one stepson I would never have to worry about falling into bed with, and it wasn’t because he was twenty years older than me. He was merely off-putting in every way.

“Yes, well, us women can’t make ourselves too available, now, can we?”

The curtains were open, filling the room with natural light, yet he’d managed to find the darkest corner, where he leaned against the wall. I imagined he’d skittered there like a roach. The bugs were odious little bottom-feeders, but always easy to squish.

“Did you suck Allister’s cock?”

I sighed. “And here comes the vulgarity, right on cue. Can’t you mix it up for once, Dick?”

I headed toward the kitchen, tensing as I felt him walk up behind me. He grabbed my arm and spun me around.

He was always finely dressed—today, in a pinstripe dress shirt and black pants—but the smell of cheap cologne, cigarette smoke, and stripper sweat clung to him, just like the greasy hair gel barely holding his combover in place.

His fingers dug into my skin. “I followed you out of the club earlier. How long have you been fucking him?”

Always, always, plead the fifth.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“You have a hickey on your neck, you little slut.”

Dammit. That asshole . . .

His meaty finger traced the bodice of my dress. “If you wanted to fuck an icicle, I could have helped you out.”

“Honestly, Dick, it’s the Lord’s day. Let’s keep the penetration talk to a minimum.”

“If you make it up to me, I might forget about all this.” His thumb rubbed the hickey on my neck, and my skin crawled.

“Fortunately, I don’t sleep with my stepsons anymore.” I patted his chest. “Drink?”

“You think I’m going to let him make a fool of my father?” he asked, as I headed to the cupboard.

“What about me? Don’t tell me I’ve grounded myself for a week for nothing?”

He examined a stain on his tie. “Whores will be whores. But Allister crossed a fucking line. I won’t let my father die a laughingstock.”

Translation: he loved a good whore and couldn’t find the will to punish her for being easy. It would be a little counterproductive, considering his career choice and all.

I filled my glass from the faucet. “Well, I doubt Allister will be in for confession anytime soon. Better go make him pay, Dicky.”

Hesitation flickered across his face, and amusement rose in me.

“Aww,” I cooed. “Does the dirty fed scare you?”

He scoffed.

“I don’t blame you. The man is too comfortable around a gun.” I leaned against the counter. “I’m assuming you snuck out of that meeting like the little cockroach you are and nobody else saw this afternoon’s, ah . . . tête-à-tête?”

His eyes narrowed—he didn’t like bugs—but he nodded.

“Well, then, there’s no need to avenge anyone’s honor, is there?”

He rubbed his cheek in thought. “It’s the principle, though.”

“Principles are stupid. Not to mention, I don’t remember you piping up today when that Abelli talked crap about me and your papà.”

“Harmless locker-room talk. Nobody jammed their dick in my father’s wife.” He glared.

“Oh, please. You’re assuming—nothing more. I’d bet you didn’t stick around long enough to see a thing.”

He sniffed, proving that theory correct.

Never thought I could appreciate the fact the dirty fed was a cold-hearted, terrifying bastard until now.

“So, are you going to tell me why you were following me around earlier?” I asked.

“Yeah. You need to get your shit out of this apartment, that’s why.”

I frowned.

“You probably haven’t noticed your husband’s dying, being Allister’s whore and all. The doctor says he’s got a week, tops. So, all this shit?” He made a circle in the air with his forefinger. “Needs to be gone by yesterday.”

“Well, Dicky, that isn’t very hospitable.”

“This place is in my father’s name, which will make it mine very shortly. Stay if you want, but I’ll expect payment.” His beady eyes dropped to my breasts.

“Tempting, but I’ll pass. The maintenance here sucks; my washer’s been broken for a week.”

“Don’t expect a dime from his will.”

I pursed my lips. “I don’t want any of Richard’s money. I have plenty of Antonio’s left.”

He let out a sarcastic noise. “Right. Call me if you change your mind about staying here. I’d give it to you easier than I bet Allister does.” He shut the door behind him.

I looked around my apartment, at the shelf crammed with books and knickknacks, the paintings—from a cheap Marilyn Monroe portrait to an authentic Picasso—my Singer sewing machine and bags of fabric and thread, the haphazard stacks of magazines with circled fashion ideas in ballpoint bell, and way too many decorative pillows. If I was being conservative, I’d say it was cluttered. If I were Allister, I’d say it was a nightmare.

Regardless of that issue, I hated moving with a passion as fiery as the cover of any of my old bodice rippers.

I banged my head against the cupboard.

I didn’t make dinner that night. I ate a bowl of Cap’n Crunch while watching one of my cheesy TV shows in Spanish. Magdalena changed the language a while ago, and I hadn’t yet figured out how to change it back.

My washer really was broken, and all my dirty laundry could rival the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I walked past the pile in a dreamy, restless state. My body was exhausted, but my mind kept finding things about this afternoon to obsess over. It’d been so long since I’d slept with anyone, and my skin was still charged with an excited, breathless electricity.

The faucet let out a squeak when I turned it off with my toes. The bathwater was hot—almost too hot—but I needed something strong to soothe the ache. I was sore, and more than just between my legs. The asshole had left little marks all over me, including that stupid hickey on my neck.

Minus the whole he’s-a-giant-prick thing, there had been something undeniably perfect about sleeping with him. The rough and greedy way he’d touched me. The sound of his voice in my ear. The feeling of him inside me.