She stares at me. “My God, you definitely need to get laid.”

It’s probably true.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go to the bathroom, get you all fancy and then you can sit at the bar like the sexy biatch you are and get yourself a cock for the night.”

We head to the bathroom and shove past the drunk, squealing ladies to get mirror space. I stare at myself in the mirror, impressed that I managed to pull off a gorgeous outfit in such a small amount of time. I dug out my sexiest red dress, backless, low-cut front, short and tight. Then I dug through my mass amount of shoes to find a pair of sexy black pumps. My blonde hair was easily styled; being that I curled the waist length locks this morning and left it down for work.

Make up was fairly easy, though my eyes are looking a little bloodshot. The usually piercing green depths are dull and tired. That’s what happens when you spend all your time in front of a computer. I pull my mascara from my purse and top it up, then finish up my red lipstick. My skin doesn’t require much make up, being that my father was Italian and I inherited his flawless olive skin. I’ve only ever seen a photo of the Italian stallion when he was younger, but he was a great looking man.

My mother is a beautiful woman, and it doesn’t surprise me that at one point in her life, she gathered a lot of male attention. She has blonde hair, too, only her skin is fair and her eyes are as green as mine. She’s a tiny, petite woman and I also inherited her build. I’m not leggy, hence the abundance of shoes. I’ve been called a pixie all my life.

There are times I’d have liked to meet my father, but my mother refused to ever tell me much about it. I don’t know the story. I don’t know what happened. I don’t even know if he knows about me. All I know is his name. Pierre. That’s it.

My mother doesn’t say a lot now, not after her brain tumor. She was diagnosed five years ago and quickly had it operated on. During the operation, essential nerves were damaged and she became mostly paralyzed. She has no control of her legs, and is in a wheelchair, but she’s got control of the rest of her body, and after a lot of re-training, can speak with a slight shake to her voice. I’ve been taking care of her since; I’m the only person she has and I can’t afford to put her in full-time care.

I can only afford a carer who watches her while I’m at work.

It’s draining, but I wouldn’t stop doing it. Not ever.

“God, how does your hair stay so shiny, thick and with that sexy, loose curl?” Candy asks, shoving her fingers through her hair and tugging angrily.

“A whole lot of effort,” I say, removing her hands and going to work fixing her hair. She has gorgeous, straight hair. I don’t know what she’s complaining about.

“Damn your awesome Italian hair, damn it all to hell!”

I laugh softly and pat her back. “There, you look gorgeous.”

She checks herself out, checks me out, and then announces, “Time to get you laid.”

We get some foul looks as we pass the other girls primping and prettying themselves. Candy mutters something along the lines of “take a picture” and we swiftly exit the bathroom. We shove down the halls, me in front, and just as I round the corner to the main floor I slam into a hard, tall body. I oomph loudly, and two hands gasp the tops of my arms to steady me as I trip on my pumps.

I right myself and step back. All I can see is a white shirt, crisp and plain with a dark red tie. The shirt, I note, is stretched across an extremely muscled chest. I slowly lift my eyes and gasp as they fix on one of the most handsome men I’ve ever laid eyes on, even better than Dusty—hell, even better than Brad Pitt and Christian Grey. Okay, Christian could be pushing it . . . I shake my head and stare into the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen.

They’re basically black.

His jaw, which is tipped down to me because he too is taking me in, is covered in stubble that gives him a professional yet dangerous edge. His hair is thick, black, and sits around the base of his neck, curling just slightly near his collar. He’s got a strong, solid jaw and full, pouty lips. Don’t even get me started on his height and the muscles that I catch a glimpse of when he moves his arm. His white shirt is rolled up to the elbow, and wow, ropes of muscle travel up and disappear under the shirt. Yum.

I can see a tattoo poking out behind his hair, curling just slightly around his neck, and there’s also a shadow of darkness beneath his shirt that tells me he’s got more where that one on his neck came from. Oh boy. I watch as his eyes travel over me, taking me in the same way I just took him in. His eyes flash with appreciation but he doesn’t smile; his lips remain in a firm, hard line.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice breathy.

He can’t even hear me; the music is so loud.

“Marcus?”

This comes from Candy, who is behind me.

She knows this sex god?

“Candice,” Marcus says, and oh my God, his voice is like melted honey . . . maybe mixed with a few pieces of gravel, because honey alone is not enough to describe this man’s voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I, ah . . .” she stammers.

“She’s with me,” I say, staring up at him. “Birthday party.”

“Your birthday?” he murmurs, staring at my lips.

Jesus.

“No.” I swallow. “Our friend’s.”

He turns his gaze back to Candy. “You left your keys at work. I gave them to Jemimah.”