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CHAPTER 1

Right Place, Wrong Time

"Stop right there." The deep, take-no-crap voice came from behind her.

She sped up her fast walk down the corridor, her fingers tightening on the silver-plated tray wobbling on her shoulder.

"I said stop."

Stopping for a voice like his would be like strolling into the middle of Times Square against the light. She moved faster.

"I know you can hear me."

The irritated, male growl was pitched low; probably so guests who ventured out of the main ballroom wouldn't be disturbed.

Shaking off the sensation of being stalked by an ornery bear, she picked up her fast-clip pace. A highly publicized wedding at the venerated Pierre Hotel was no place for a confrontation — actually, in her case, another confrontation — between a service employee and ... Who exactly was this guy snarling in that dark voice for her to stop? Nah, she didn't want to know. She moved faster, the swinging doors leading to the kitchen and prep areas straight ahead of her.

A hand closed over her arm, and the tray of empties pitched sideways like the deckchairs on the Titanic. She heaved out a frustrated breath and stopped. The empties slid to a halt on the tray.

Honey was in no mood, especially not today, to be manhandled by a guy just because he was bigger and she stood only five-two in her sneakers.

"Get ... your ... hand ... off ... me. Right now. I don't know who you think you are ..." She pushed out the words low and slow. She could do this. She could get rid of him and squash her temper. This horrendous day was moments away from exploding into utter disaster.

But no, he wasn't letting go of her arm, and it was either let the whole tray of wine glasses tumble to the floor, or let the bully have his say. Mother Nature had a nasty sense of humor, making Honey the size of a hummingbird and giving her the temper of a hippo.

"Who I am is your worst nightmare. Now plant your feet and give me your name."

"Get lost." Her words came out in a hiss. "Let go of my arm, and I'll forget this happened."

"Oh, really?" A sarcastic black brow lifted. "Give me your name now, and maybe" — his sneer said right, if you believe that, I have some bitcoin to sell you — "I won't write you up."

Honey stood her ground, lifted her chin, and stared him down in a way her brothers would've recognized as dangerous.

"First, let go of my arm."

The volume of her voice inched up a couple of notches. Loud enough so any passing guests would wonder just what was going on in the midst of this glamorous wedding reception.

He released her arm but stayed so far inside her personal space she caught a hint of the lemon and leather of his aftershave. The heady scent fit the vibe of that TV commercial she loved, the one where the amber Italian sun cast shadows on a gorgeous guy on a motorcycle speeding down some scenic Roman side street at sunset.

Honey suddenly realized if she could breathe him in, he could do the same. Crap! Yep, that's what she smelled like, and nobody wanted to buy a scent called "fifteen hours of waitressing and dumpster diving without a shower." Not that she could do anything about it now.

She poked her chin out in a who-cares-what-you-think jab and straightened to her full non-threatening height. "My name's right there." She arrowed her thumb to the nametag on her shirt with her free hand, the one that wasn't clenched in a death grip over the edge of the silver- plated tray on her shoulder. It was a dry-erase, magnetic tag they gave to the add-on staff, embossed with Pierre Hotel in the corner and her name, H. Hill hand-printed across the middle in dry erase marker.

"There's no H. Hill on this staff."

Honey took a good hard look at the seriously serious guy who was taunting her temper to full boil. A square was what her artist's eye saw. Square jaw, square shoulders, and square hands with square fingernails. And yeah, no doubt square personality. Glossy too. Glossy teeth, hair, and shoes.

His black tuxedo matched his ruthlessly tamed hair and hugged the defined muscles of his shoulders and thighs in a way that sent a sharp flare of heat to her belly. She crushed the stab of awareness. She could appreciate, as an artist, his exceptional body — he had to be a swimmer with those massive shoulders and lean hips — without feeling. What was she feeling anyway? C'mon, girl, you can't be attracted. This guy had threat written all over him, and she was not going there. She'd turned out to be the world's worst at judging a guy's intentions or character ...

Besides, any random guy would look decent in clothes tailored just for him. And this guy's close-fitting tuxedo had as much in common with the off-the-rack black suits some of the staff was wearing as the caviar towers inside the ballroom did to canned tuna on crackers.

Honey shut down her wayward thoughts. So what if his perfectly molded lips, currently curled into a sneer, bore an uncanny resemblance to those of Michelangelo's David? It was no big deal; he could be Mark Consuelos' cranky baby brother.

The question was — who was he? The supervisor? Lizzie should've warned her, but right, Lizzie hadn't worked here before either. She wouldn't know if tall, ripped, and annoying in a tuxedo might be the boss.

Their entire conversation about tonight had taken three minutes, the decision made in thirty seconds. Lizzie was from the same small upstate town as Honey. She'd ventured to the city five years earlier chasing a, so far, unsuccessful acting career. She'd been the first person Honey thought to call when her life took a sharp turn into crazy — was it only this morning?

Lizzie's bad luck had been Honey's one stroke of good luck. Poor Lizzie was down with the flu, and Honey was strapped for cash. Lizzie offered Honey her spot on the Pierre's coveted contract service staff for tonight's wedding reception. Totally not done and Lizzie would get into a boatload of trouble if anyone found out. But hey, who would find out?

"You know how to wait tables, pour drinks?" said Lizzie.

"Of course, yeah," Honey said.

"Okay, fill in for me tonight, a ton of extra staff's been hired, this is a big event, you'll pool tips, and I'll pay you for the night when they cut my check next week. It's a good gig. You won't be run off your feet, and you won't be noticed."

Famous last words because in spite of her size, somehow Honey always got noticed.

Damn, why hadn't she put Lizzie's name on the tag? Now she had no choice but to BS her way out.

"Well that's not possible, is it, since I'm H. Hill," she said in a creamy I-know-you're-the-boss-and-I-couldn't-care-less tone.

She glanced up at him and widened her eyes a fraction as she fluttered her thick, and given her hair color, surprisingly dark lashes once.

Couldn't hurt. Desperate times and all that.

His upper lip curled.

Didn't work.

And why would you ever think it would, Honey? Most guys in Caryville never gave you a second look, and the one you thought you had a future with cheated on you for years. It was weird and it was dangerous, this sudden need to be seen as a woman, as an appealing woman by this guy.

"You may be H. Hill, but you were never on the staff list for tonight. I want to know what you're doing here."

His clipped words emerged from between perfect white teeth like he was holding onto his temper by a thread.

You and me both, buddy.

Honey averted her gaze from the laser focus of his.

"I'm working here." She jerked her chin at the tray, which was fast becoming as heavy as a boulder on her shoulder.

"Yeah, right. Full name, H. Hill."

"You want my full name?" Now she was playing for time in part because she noticed the tiny device in his ear. Was he a cop? Security? So what if he was? There was no law against taking a waitress gig for a sick friend.

"That's what I said," came the irritating rejoinder.

Cocky. Obnoxious. And definitely the boss.

"Honey. It's Honey Hill." She braced for the inevitable.

"Honey Hill. You're telling me your name is Honey Hill?" His gaze slid over her body in a way she was ashamed to admit didn't bother her nearly enough. "I don't want your exotic star alias. Give me the one that's on your driver's license."

And there it was. Nope, he didn't disappoint. And she hadn't even given him her full name. Her blood boiled just the same as it had the first time that joke was made. The way it boiled every time.

"In your dreams. Here's what I'll give you."

She let go and sent the tray crashing onto his shoes.

"Oops," she said.

* * *

Jake had been alerted to an altercation between two wait staff, about to come to blows.

That was not happening tonight. Not on his watch. He'd added extra security from his own firm along with the additional service staff he hired from an outside company for this evening to supplement the Pierre's already ample and well-trained staff.

His company had seen to Vlad Grigory's security needs for five years now, and money was no object. The object was to make sure every invited guest, including the politicians and celebrities at the Grigory wedding and most especially the newly married couple, had a smooth, safe, and enjoyable evening.

His mouth twisted. As enjoyable as a wedding could be anyway.

One of the perpetrators in the almost-brawl was cooling his heels in a room off the kitchen. The other, who'd just deliberately toppled a tray full of empty wineglasses on his shoes, was in the adjoining room.

After he quickly buffed his shoes, navy style, back to their previous brilliant level of patent-leather luster, he quizzed the male waiter first, which gave him a few minutes to cool off. He'd never been so infuriated so fast as he was five minutes ago. Jake sucked up his annoyance because, damn, he was disciplined if nothing else. Nothing and no one was going to screw up this event — especially not a belligerent employee. That went double for an aggravating, firecracker of a female.

The male server spouted a BS story that the female, H. Hill, had barged into his section of the ballroom and gotten in his face when he pointed out his territory to her. The male had argued back, and she raised her fists. The story rang false, but Jake didn't bother to challenge him — yet. Everybody working tonight would be amply compensated, even before tips. Territorial fights seldom happened when everybody was happy with the end game. But the yelling part, yeah, he definitely believed that. Less than a minute with her and he was ready to spit nails.

Irritated, he lifted a hand to his hair before he fisted both hands in the pockets of his immaculate pants instead. He would look as sharp now as he had at eight this morning. His professional image was vital, because he was it, the face of his security company.

His security company had grown and was still growing by leaps and bounds, in large part due to his attention to detail. Since he'd left the service five years ago, Jake poured his sweat, knowledge, and heart into his now thriving business. Haven Security was well respected by people like Vlad Grigory. Vlad might be one of his best friends now, but when he'd hired him all those years ago, Jake needed to prove himself to the up and coming tycoon.

And Jake didn't give a damn his mother considered his security business a defiant detour on the road to his ultimate destiny. Let her remain where she wanted to be, across the ocean, gilding her bygone pedigree and chasing status. He'd made a life for himself here in New York and he'd live it. While he could.

Jake ignored the guilt-ridden voice in his head that reminded him the pull of his promise could no longer be put off. In the new year, his time would be up.

Shrugging away those dark thoughts, he checked his watch. It was almost one a.m. The reception was winding down, and it would finish as the most uneventful security event of its kind if he had anything to do with it, and he did. Jake gave himself no more than five minutes to resolve this employee dustup, mete justice, and move on.

His hand hovered over the doorknob as he watched her through the porthole-style window of the door. Pacing back and forth across the small room, ignoring the folding chair against the wall, with arms crossed under her chest, she was a compact bundle of kinetic energy in spite of the hour. She came to a standstill when he closed the door, and her dark eyes flashed.

For a moment, he zeroed in on the dark chocolate, thickly lashed eyes that seethed with emotion. He read annoyance there, even antagonism, but didn't see a trace of fear. He continued to examine her silently, always his first tactic to keep an adversary or an underling off balance. A pulse throbbed in her throat, and her fists dropped to her sides to clench and unclench like she was gearing up to attack.

Something in her combative stance struck him as vulnerable, but as he watched, she rolled her shoulders much like he might do before a fight. Or when he was exhausted. Damn. He didn't want to notice anything else about her. This was business. So he looked over her head, easy to do since he was at least a foot taller.

"Ms. Hill ... or whatever your real name is."

Her jaw clamped shut, and her chin lifted as she struggled to leash her temper.

Join the club, sweetheart.

"Enough of the drama. What happened with the other server? I was alerted to the beginning of a loud argument, told it was about to get physical."

"I handled it." She flicked a small, capable-looking hand with short, unpainted fingernails. "It was all over before you came along."

Jake nodded. Folded his arms across his chest. "Maybe. But what happened? And how did you get in here tonight?"

She shrugged. "There's no way I'm telling you any of that."

He almost admired the way she stonewalled him. It took guts because she had to know she was done working for him.

"All right, moving on. This is a high security event, and you weren't hired for it."

"How do you know?" Her lush, cupid's bow lips pressed together, and a jolt of heat hit him low in the belly. Then she mimicked him, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Because I'm running this gig. I vetted everyone — name, photo, background check." Why the fuck was he even telling her this? "And you already know there was no Honey Hill on the list."

He put his hand out, palm up. "I'll take that nametag. You'll be escorted from the premises. And, Ms. Hill, something to remember for your next job — purple hair gets you noticed in a bad way almost as much as dumping a tray of glasses on the chief of security does."

Jake ignored her irritated gasp and the way her hand flew to the spiky hair on the top of her head. He closed his fingers over the nameplate she dropped into his palm and slipped it into his pocket.

For some reason, he didn't want to watch her leave, so he turned his back when his assistant showed up moments later to escort her out. Then Jake went into the adjacent room where the other server lounged in a folding chair at a small table.

"So you were hitting on that server. What happened? She wasn't having it, is that right, dude?"

"She told you?" He raised a combative chin toward Jake, then shook his head in disbelief. "Snotty little bitch thinks she's too good for me," he muttered.

"She didn't give you up, asshole, but you just did. You should know better. Anybody employed by me keeps it strictly business at work. You're fired." He took the second perpetrator out himself.

All in a day's work.

* * *

Honey paced around the corner of 61st Street then back again — and again, for long minutes deep in the struggle to cool her temper. Finally, she perched on a fireplug, unfolded and refolded the overlong cuffs of her shirtsleeves as she considered her options. Did she even have any?

Today was a train wreck, and it wasn't over.

Last night, Trey, the guy whose online ad for a roommate she answered, had been upset. Somehow, Trey figured sharing rent in a Brooklyn walkup with her entitled him to a good bit more than just a roommate who paid the other portion of the rent. Yesterday, their second night as apartment sharers, a Saturday, he came back to the apartment well after midnight, full of beer and bluster.

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Excerpted from "Their No-Strings Affair"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Evelyn P. McCabe.
Excerpted by permission of The Wild Rose Press, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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