Reid Wolfe was an attentive date. He didn’t know me from Eve, but he never left my side as we celebrated the weddings of his brother and sister. I’d seen my share of Las Vegas chapel weddings, but very few included a toast with Dom Perignon.

I wasn’t a champagne connoisseur by any means, but Dom Perignon was in a class by itself.

It tickled my tongue and tasted like crisp apples and—believe it or not—toasted bread. Sounded terrible, I knew, but it worked. It glided down my throat effortlessly, so when Reid brought me another flute, I took it.

I didn’t drink, normally. I never did anything that might take away my faculties. I was on high alert at all times.

All times.

This would be my last glass of bubbles. Riley and her brothers all wanted me to tell my story. To go public. Although I understood why they needed me to, I couldn’t. Which was why this would be my last glass of champagne. I couldn’t risk getting too talkative.

Not that getting talkative was really a risk with me. I didn’t talk. To anyone. Especially not about my past. I could fly under the radar in Las Vegas. No one in the dressing room questioned me about my scars, because most of them had their own. Beatrice always had new bruises on her thighs and back from her abusive boyfriend. Marie had special pancake makeup for her nearly omnipresent black eyes. And Frannie? She had the worst of all. She danced almost every night in constant pain from the five pins holding her right tibia together. Her ex shattered it five years ago, and though you’d never know watching her dance with that toothy smile pasted on her face, she was in agony.

But bills had to be paid, so you do what you must. Frannie danced. Beatrice and Marie danced.

And I danced.

I was the only one with scars like mine. Two perfectly straight cuts above each breast. Over the years they’d faded, but still they stood out like bright red lines to me.

I didn’t let myself think about them much anymore.

Until recently, when two private investigators accosted me in the dressing area after one of last week’s shows.

“Hanging in there?”

I jerked out of my thoughts. Reid Wolfe stood next to me.

He was crazy handsome. Tall and muscular and gorgeous with dark brown—nearly black—hair. But even so…

He looked too much like him.

Like his father. Derek Wolfe. Reid’s eyes were different, though. They were a blue so bright and sparkling it almost seemed too beautiful to be real.

All the Wolfes were gorgeous, and the three significant others weren’t anything to sneeze at either. I felt so out of place. Sure, I had the body of a Vegas dancer, but the rest of me was a huge mess.