I hesitate. The loser has reached the end of the block, where he parked his bike, and the roar of the Harley punctuates what would otherwise be a weak exit.

“Do you think he’s steady enough to ride right now?”

Lander finally moves to face me, his expression now impassive. “On that thing he’ll end up running into a lamppost before he runs into anything he can hurt.”

“He could hurt himself.”

“Yes, he could.”

We both fall quiet. The streetlights make our shadows long across the sidewalk. “Are you dangerous, Lander?”

“Look who’s talking.”

I feel a chill run up my spine, I can sense the challenge and the threat he poses . . .

. . . and it makes me smile.

“Would you like to come home with me, Bell?”

I raise my chin and look into his light, stormy eyes.

“Yes.”

chapter three

Lander was wise enough not to take his limo into Harlem, so we’ve caught a cab. We’re sitting only a few feet away from each other, not talking, not touching, just . . . thinking.

I’m fiddling with my garnet ring, trying to lay out a plan for the evening. I’ve never had sex with a man for any reason other than the satisfaction of my own desire, but I’m ready to make the sacrifice for the sake of my cause. I’ve prepared myself for that.

So sleeping with the enemy isn’t a problem . . . but wanting to sleep with the enemy is.

That’s something I’m not prepared for at all. Over the last few days his self-possession, quiet intelligence, and savagery have been wearing on my defenses. Like the effect of waves against a cliff, the erosion isn’t immediately devastating but it’s noticeable.

He reaches over and touches my leg, his eyes still on the window. His fingers move up and down, his caress almost casual . . . almost. But there’s a soft rhythm to his movement as his fingers rise a little higher, pushing my hem up ever so slightly, then sliding down again to my knee. It’s not demanding or insistent. Just confident. Confident in what he’s allowed and what boundaries he’s able to push.

Being touched by this man, this man who represents so many things that I hate . . . it should be awful.

It isn’t.

His hand goes a little higher. He’s touching my inner thigh now, just barely, but still, I shudder. The involuntary reaction makes me blush and I quickly look away.

No, this isn’t supposed to be happening at all.

When the cab drops us off at his Upper East Side building, he greets the doorman with a word and leads me to the rear of the lobby, his hand on the small of my back.