It's too hot. I'm too hot. More immediate though is the warm, tight clenching that's begun low down in my belly—or lower. Yes, definitely lower. Nearer to my thighs and in between them. Instinctively, I move toward the desk for something solid to lean on as he comes to a stop not far from me. I swallow as I take in the full sight of him, slowly savoring the image, tasting it on my tongue.

Absent of blood, he's dressed in a perfectly tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled up to show off an expensive watch, and immaculately cut gray trousers. He looks exactly like the dangerous, fierce, edgy male model I remember.

It's comforting to know my memory didn't exaggerate his face or his body or the deep intensity of his eyes. It's his mouth I can't stop staring at though. Full lips curled up into a sexy, knowing smile as his eyes glitter deliciously in the dim light.

I'm aware my mouth is open too wide, so I close it. I can't do anything about the unbelievable heat flooding my body. I'll just need to deal with it.

As we continue to stare at one another, it occurs to me that he looks as though he's enjoying himself; enjoying watching me disintegrate in front of him. Oh, god, is that what I'm doing—disintegrating? Oh, please let me look more in control than I feel. I could try speaking, saying something—anything.

Before I get the chance to think, he speaks.

"Doctor." He grins playfully. His voice is low and sexy like I remember it. Do I remember it being sexy? Am I admitting that now? I mean, he's still not my type. He's still the sort of man I'm sure I've been warned to stay away from.

"You?" I manage. Christ, it's pathetic. My parents paid a lot of money for an expensive education, and that's all I have. Three whole letters.

His mouth twitches mischievously. "Me," he says.

I nod once, unable still to find words. I really want to act like the Cambridge Medical School-educated woman I am, but he's having a strange effect on my head . . . and my ability to form sentences and breathe.

"I don't . . . understand. How are you here?" I ask. What I really mean is, how am I here with him, but that's a more complicated thought than my mouth is able to verbalize.

He smiles a full smile before flicking his tongue over his lower lip. I feel a quiver over my entire body. Christ, what a smile. I knew it would be special. With a mouth like that, it had to be. It's gorgeous, sexy, and a little wicked. His teeth are a straight white line with two sharp pointed canines at each side. They make me wonder if he bites. I feel a tingling on my neck as the image gains momentum.

"I own this place," he says, sounding faintly embarrassed.

I frown, confused. "You're not the dizzy barman?"

He looks marginally confused before smiling again. "Nah. Sorry to disappoint you."

Finally, my brain gets it. Finally.

"Wait—you sent the invites? To my surgery? It was you?"

He nods, watching me closely.

"Why?"

When he speaks again, his voice is lower, less playful. "I wanted to see you," he tells me. "To thank you for what you did."

His manner is a strange mix of forced politeness, as though he isn't used to it, as if the words and even the tone are unnatural to him. I like it though. It's rough around the edges, and it tickles my ears and skin.

I glance at his neck. His shirt, open at the collar, reveals the flash of a white bandage covering the knife wound I stitched together exactly eleven days ago. He shifts slightly on his feet, and his scent washes over me: that same heady mix of manliness I can almost taste on my tongue. It's more intense than I remember. Everything about this feels intense. Jesus Christ, what even is this? This isn't me. I don't have pathetic, girly reactions to good-looking men, no matter how good-looking. It doesn't happen. It has never happened.

"You did thank me," I say in what I hope is a casual tone. "You were bleeding. I just did my job." I shrug, finally managing to glance away from him. I look past him, over his shoulder, and then down at the floor before bringing my eyes back up.

So, I managed not to look at him for all of five seconds. Great work, Alex.

"No," he says with a shake of his head. "The way I see it, you didn't have to open the door." His eyes narrow as though he's trying to work me out. Figure out why I opened the door, perhaps?

"Of course I did." I frown. "You were bleeding, and I'm a doctor."

He bites his lip thoughtfully. Those lips. That mouth. It's so kissable. I lick my lips involuntarily.

"Well, you were kind about it. You didn't have to be. We weren't exactly gentlemen."

He sounds guilty. I think about that for a moment and decide maybe he's being unfair to himself. He was gentlemanly. Polite and grateful. His creep of a friend wasn't. Instead of mentioning this, I simply press my lips together and shrug again.

"It's not really kindness. It's more like . . . bedside manner. It's part of the training," I say.

His mouth quirks, and he draws his eyes slowly down my body, a hungry look creeping into them again. I think he's going to say something about my dress that might make my insides explode, so I decide to speak instead.

"So, this is really yours?" I ask, turning away from him. I look back through the large one-way window toward Robyn and Leigh. Like an anchor, seeing them there reminds me that this in fact reality and not a sex dream. "I'm impressed."

He chuckles, and it's a soft, sexy sound. "Well, that means a lot. Coming from you."

From me? When I turn back around, I find him still looking at me, his eyes narrowed as he runs his teeth along his bottom lip. I wonder—and not for the first time—what those lips would feel like; whether they'd be hard and demanding or soft and tempting.

I swallow. "Well, we're having a great night. Thank you."

He doesn't respond but looks pleased by my comment, his chest puffing out a fraction. He's staring into my eyes, but I feel the heat of them everywhere on my body. They're deep and intense, and the closest color I can think of to describe them is a light emerald turquoise that seems to be aflame.

"You look really beautiful tonight, by the way," he says after a moment, stealing the breath out of me. And as he draws his hungry gaze down my body once more, I'm pretty sure I want to be eaten by him. I want him to devour me whole. I've never wanted anything as much as I want that. He seems to shake himself out of a partial trance and locks onto my eyes again. "I'm really glad you came. I wasn't sure if you would. If it would be your kind of thing. But I'm really glad you did."

I take a moment to enjoy the warm vibration still lingering from his compliment. He's glad I came, and he thinks I look beautiful. The knowledge does things to me. Hot, dangerous things.

"Thank you for inviting us. It's been a great night so far." I realize I've already said this, but as I sound remarkably calm despite feeling anything but, I'm going to ignore that.

"I'm glad, Alexandra," he says.

My mouth almost falls open. He knows my name. How does he know my name? My full name; my Sunday name. The name my parents use when they need to tell me serious things.

"How . . . how do you know my name?" I whisper, no longer sounding calm.

He shrugs. "I know where you work. Wasn't hard to find out which doctor was on that night. Lot of men at your surgery, a fifty-year-old woman, and you," he explains.

I honestly don't know if I should be frightened or flattered by his efforts. Naïvely, I decide I'm a little of both.

"You could have sent a thank-you card." I smile. I'm flirting, definitely, for some reason only the champagne knows.

He watches me closely. "Yeah, maybe. But then I wouldn't have gotten to see you in that dress." His voice is low and quiet as he runs a hand over his perfect mouth then turns toward the desk.

I can't breathe again.

"Have a drink with me, Alexandra, yeah?" he says, lifting the champagne out of the bucket.

I really want to tell him to stop calling me Alexandra. Only people who don't know me call me that. And my Aunt Audrey. But he doesn't know me, and I don't know him, and so maybe he should be calling me Alexandra.

"It's a big night for me," he adds, fixing me with another of those intense stares. He pops the cork on the champagne with little effort, and for some reason, I don't jump the way I normally do when people pop champagne corks. I'm too entranced watching the easy motion of his hands as he lifts one glass then the other, filling them both halfway.

I've always had a particular thing about men's hands. Rob teases me about it incessantly. His hands are beautiful. Long, tanned fingers. Smooth skin with raised veins across the back, topped off with clean, short fingernails. I watch transfixed as he holds out a glass of the chilled, fizzing champagne to me. As I take it from him, my hand grazes his, and I note he feels warm to the touch. My own are cold and clammy. The only part of my body that is cold.

As I look back up at his eyes, I decide it feels surreal being here, in this place, with him. People say that all the time. It's a completely overused term. But this is surreal. Not only seeing him but knowing that he wants me here. That he thinks I look beautiful. That he orchestrated this so he could see me. Did I not daydream about this exact thing?

It all makes me feel slightly giddy and light-headed, and it's only partially from the champagne. I try to focus on something real, fixed, to anchor myself back to reality: the TV on the wall, the champagne bucket, the desk. It's pointless though, because as soon as I glance at him, I'm dizzy again. Distracted by his eyes and his smell and the way his mouth moves when he says my name. In contrast, he appears totally calm and utterly at ease. I'm normally an at-ease person. Calm, analytical, thoughtful. I've been called these things often enough, and I believe them.

"Did you visit a hospital?" I ask in the most professional tone I can muster.

He gives me a guilty look as he sips his drink. "I told you, I really don't like doctors." When he smiles, he shows me a flash of sharp tooth, and my womb clenches anew. "How do I look to you? Good, or . . .?" He smirks.

I swallow. "You should have visited the hospital. They're far better equipped to deal with a stab wound . . ." I say, ignoring his question. I lift my glass to take a sip of the cold, fizzy champagne. It's sweet, wet, and welcome on my dry, nervous tongue.

"Well, I'll keep that in mind, Doctor." His eyes continue to assess me, glittering serious pools of blue-green. He looks as if he's in a focused kind of trance, as though wherever he is I'm with him, and it's only us there.

Suddenly, something occurs to me. "I don't even know your name," I say as I take another sip of champagne. "Though, you know mine and where I work. Seems a touch unfair, don't you think?" Okay, so I'll admit, I may potentially be flirting with him—but in my defense, I'm giddy and perky, and he thinks I look beautiful in this dress. While he isn't my type, he is extremely attractive, and I'm very, very single.

He blinks as though until I mentioned it, it didn't even occur to him. He takes another sip of his champagne and sets his glass down on the desk, then he stretches his hand out toward me. It hovers mid-air for a second before I reach out to take it. It's hot, soft, and large.

"Jake Lawrence," he says. There's an authority to it. Jake Lawrence. I repeat it over internally a few times as I decide whether it suits him. It does. It's a name for an extremely attractive, slightly dangerous man. I have a feeling it's not a name I'm likely to forget anytime soon.

He doesn't shake my hand; he just holds it in his. Then, softly, he grazes his thumb slowly over it. It sends a shiver down my spine. It feels almost sensual somehow. I realize if I consider the way he is holding my hand to be sensual, I'm even more single than I think.

It's not oral sex, Alex.

Oh, dear god, why did I have to think that? Now I'm thinking about oral sex, and his mouth, and oh my god . . .

When I glance at his mouth, I worry he can read my mind because he gives a slow, measured smile before licking his delectable bottom lip and biting it softly. Teasingly.

"Alex Marlowe," I answer, barely recognizing my own voice. It sounds girlish and breathless. It sounds ridiculous. "But then you knew that already, didn't you, Jake Lawrence?" I raise an eyebrow. Better. Stronger. Faintly sarcastic too. Well done, me.

He takes another step toward me, into the space between our bodies—so close now that I have to tilt my head back to look up at him. When he looks down at my mouth, I know he's going to kiss me. He's going to kiss me, and I've never been so nervous about being kissed before.

"I like hearing you say my name, Alex," he says as he licks his lips again. "I could get used to hearing my name come out of your mouth." His accent sounds more pronounced now, rougher in its lower decibels. As I wonder where he grew up, he moves forward and kisses me, swiping every other thought from my head.

His mouth is gentle at first, teasing mine open, but when I begin to respond he becomes more forceful, hungry. His hot mouth and tongue become increasingly possessive as he begins to stroke, suck, lick, and taste. I taste spice and heat. Mingled with the expensive champagne, it's delicious.

Oh, god, he can kiss.

I knew he'd be able to kiss. To not be able to kiss with that mouth would be a travesty.

He moves his whole warm, muscular body into me, causing me to stumble backward. He follows, keeping me pressed tightly into him, a firm arm around my waist. When I hear him moan softly against my mouth, it releases something inside. An unleashing . . . unraveling. I let myself go completely then, melting into him. The champagne glass in my hand threatens to crash to the floor, but I manage to keep a hold of it.

He moves his hand up my thigh, under the hem of my dress, grazing my underwear. He tastes amazing, raw and hot, and with my eyes closed and his smell invading my senses I definitely feel as though I'm in a dream. Jake slides his hand under my dress and grabs my butt to pull me into him. His erection, loud and thick against me, causes a rush of something sudden and damp between my legs. Because my body is well aware of how single I am, it works as an alarm call to stop. I need to stop this now.

God, I don't want to stop this.

When I push at him, I hear a low, frustrated noise akin to a growl escape his mouth before he finally steps back. I stare up at him, panting. His mouth is wet and red, and he's breathing hard too. He looks aroused, fierce, almost annoyed.

I swallow. "I need to get back . . . to my friends," I say, breathless, embarrassment flooding my entire body. Who on earth was I just there? What on earth was I thinking, letting him kiss me like that and touch me like that? I don't do things like that. Like this. But god help me, I'm so turned on.

I bring my hand to my mouth and smooth down my dress before walking on unsteady legs to set the champagne glass on his desk. When I look back at him, he seems satisfied with himself, a proud, arrogant smile arching his pretty mouth. I wonder why he looks so pleased with himself since what happened there wasn't even nearly enough.

He licks his lips again, and then, to his shame—or perhaps mine, because he doesn't seem ashamed in the slightest—he adjusts the erection straining against the front of his expensive trousers. It's obvious and disgraceful, and it makes me even more embarrassed.

So, he's hard. This ferociously attractive man is hard from kissing me.

I feel a surge of power at that notion. At the sheer idea of it. In fact, the thought dispels something from my psyche entirely, and for a split second, I think I might let him have me right here against the glass window like a wanton woman. Or on the sofa. Or on his desk.

Clearly, I'm not thinking straight. Clearly, I'm drunk.

Okay, I really need to get away from him. Now. If only I could detach my feet from the floor . . .

Then, when I think he's going to move forward and kiss me again, there's a loud knock at the office door. I nearly jump out my skin at the interruption, but Jake doesn't flinch. Neither does he move to get the door. He continues to stare at me until there's another knock, louder this time, accompanied by the sound of a girl calling his name from the other side. He curses under his breath, spins on his heel, and stalks over to open it, revealing a tanned pretty thing with dark hair and big blue eyes who beams up at him.

"Hey, Jake, sorry," she says, waiting for him to forgive the interruption. He doesn't. She glances behind Jake and then at me, and I see something harden her pretty features. "So, um . . . so, they called to say Aleska is caught in traffic—Knightsbridge, they said—but he should be here in the next thirty minutes. I've stocked the dressing room, but the bar needs you to sign this off." She hands him a tablet, which he grabs, signs quickly with his finger, and hands back to her.

While Jake's head is down, she throws another stare in my direction, and it's the same look: resentment. The fact I'm clearly stepping on someone's toes being in his office makes me feel like even more of a hussy.

As he goes to close the door, she steps forward and says quietly, though not quietly enough, "See you later then?" There's a hopeful lilt to her voice.

I tense, looking away. So, he sleeps with his staff. What a gentleman.

"Just get back to work, Gemma, yeah?" he says brusquely and closes the door in her face.

I feel sorry for her. Whatever they had going clearly meant more to her than it did to him. I glance toward the leather sofa and desk, and a myriad of sleazy thoughts go through my head. Namely: I wonder how many girls he's had in here. I was nearly another one. Though, I suppose, since it's the opening night . . .

How depressing. Great. Now I feel cheap. Drunk and cheap.

I really have to get out of here.

"Well, thank you, Jake," I say, moving toward the door. "Again, thanks for inviting us. The hospitality really has been lovely." Too late, I realize that sounds like an innuendo. As though him kissing and groping me is part of the hospitality. Christ. Go, Alex. Now. Leave. "It's a really great place, and I'm sure it'll do really well. Good luck with . . . everything." I'm jabbering now, which must be really sexy. I get to the door, but suddenly, he's beside me, close and hot. He puts his foot against it to stop me from opening it.

"I want to see you again," he says. It sounds like a demand, his whole persona that of someone who isn't defied often.

See him again. Of course, my sensible head knows it's a bad idea. Warning after warning flashes loud and bloody clear. He's dangerous and seductive, and he sleeps with his staff. However, my body thinks it's a fabulous idea, especially the part between my legs. It's pretty much screaming, "Yes!" and asking when.

"I don't think that's a good idea," I say, hoping my body gets the picture too. But when I look up into his eyes, I can't think straight. Again. All the warnings would be so much easier to heed if not for his eyes and his mouth and his smell . . .

Christ, what are the warnings again? I shake my head to clear it. If I can just get out of this room and away from him, it'll be fine. He's distracting me from the obvious, and I'm too hot. It's so hot in here. Why doesn't he have air-conditioning in his bloody office?

His head tilts to the side, studying me, a lazy half-smile on his lips. "That's not a no, Alex," he points out, reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from my face.

Was it not a no? God, that's not even proper English.

"I've thought about you a lot since that night, Doctor," he continues in the low, soft, rough-edged tone, reaching out to skim his finger softly across my jaw. "I thought about what I'd do if you came here tonight and I saw you again."

His eyes are piercing. So piercing. He thought about me a lot?

"And what was that?' I ask in a soft voice I don't even recognize. God only knows how I'm able to speak because I'm barely breathing.

He grins again, slow and lazy. "First, I told myself I'd kiss you." He leans in, and I think he's going to kiss me on the mouth again, but he doesn't. Instead, he brings his head to my neck and takes a deep breath of me there. "Then I told myself I'd find out how you smelled right here . . ." His voice is barely audible, so low and gravelly my nipples harden and I have to bite back the moan that catches in my throat. I can't breathe. "I also thought about fucking you."

I gasp. An image of his strong, tattooed body thrusting into me without any tenderness or care explodes into my mind, and I feel another surge of something hot and damp rush between my legs. He makes an almost pained noise. Soft, growling. It vibrates over my entire body.

"Are you thinking about it now? Wondering how good I'd feel inside you?" His voice tickles my tender skin, hot and deep. "I'd feel good, Alex. You can trust me on that."

I turn my head slightly to meet his eye, our lips so close I feel the heat of his breath on mine. He looks confident. He would feel good inside me. How on earth is it that he's so confident? Sexual arrogance. Is that even a thing? Because there's only one way a person would know they're good at being inside someone, and that's from experience.

His sexual experience is another warning I should heed.

"I really have to go," I plead in my unsteady voice, which I realize still isn't saying no. I need to get away from him and back to the safety of Rob and the girls, where I can think straight. Where it isn't so warm and intoxicating.

When I pull on the handle, he shifts his foot, and though his stare never leaves me, he lets me pull open the door. Squeezing myself through the gap into the cool air of the hallway, I scurry away from him like the coward I am.

I look back only when I reach the top of the stairs, and it's mainly to check he isn't following me. He's not. He's standing in the doorway, arm stretched up against the frame, watching me retreat with a small, sexy smile on his face. He nods once, sort of like he's accepted a challenge. A challenge he knows he'll win hands bloody down.