Page 2 of Wicked Fortune

But he doesn’t.

He never does.

Instead, he brushes a kiss over my lips, then disappears, leaving me alone on my bed. My fingers grasp the tousled sheets. My heart pounds in my chest. And I clench my thighs together in a desperate attempt to cling to the lingering wisps of passion that twine through me.

But it’s no use, and I whimper as my eyes flutter open, pulling me out of the world of dreams. I fight back a soft moan, hating that I feel the loss of him so much. This man I haven’t seen for twenty years. Who I barely saw that night, hidden as he was in the shadows.

He’s a man who lives only in my memory. And in my fantasies. A man I can’t control. A shadow. A savior. A fiend.

A bastard and a thieving son-of-a-bitch.

And a jerk, to boot.

He may have saved me from the monster, but he betrayed me, too. And now—when he slides into my dreams—I hate how much I crave the fantasy. How much I crave him, a man whose face I’ve never fully seen and whose name I do not know.

Once, I’d called him the Stair Man. But that was before I learned the truth. That he’d broken in to steal from my family. A damn cat burglar.

I should hate him, but I can’t. Despite knowing the truth about him, what started as a little girl’s gratitude for being saved has turned into an erotic escape where I imagine his hands, his lips, his tongue.

His cock.

I still remember the feel of his chest and arms as he carried me up the stairs, then tucked me safely into bed. I recall the musky scent of cologne that tickled my nose.

At the time, it had been only a pleasant, safe aroma. Over the years, though, my innocent childhood thoughts devolved into deliciously erotic fantasies. And now that woody, citrus scent makes my nipples peak and my core tighten and tingle with longing.

Acqua di Parma Colonia. An elegant, timeless scent. And popular enough in Los Angeles that I often feel like Pavlov’s dog, brought to arousal by that familiar fragrance, only to sag with disappointment when the random man who caught my attention lacks even an inkling of the presence and bearing of The Cat.

“Idiot,” I mutter, as I force myself fully awake, then rub my face, as if that will scatter the unwanted memory and the dream it sired.

The dream is always the same.

But this time, it had been different. I frown, trying to grab the tail of the dream before it fades.

Jenny.

The memory of my friend hits me like a slap, and a cold chill rushes through my veins.

Jenny had been there when the dream began, whispering to me while the monster held me. Begging me to help her. But how could I when I was trapped myself? And now that she’s dead, what help could I possibly be?

A wave of caustic sadness rolls through me. It’s too late. I don’t even know what I could have done back then. Maybe I’d missed a sign. A cry for help that she⁠—

“Dammit, Aria!” Bree’s voice beckons from the other side of my bedroom door, and I jump, now fully jarred from the dream world. “Will you turn off the stupid alarm and get out here? I’m starving!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” She’s right—my phone is squalling. I roll over and slap the screen to turn off the alarm. “Gimme five secs.”

I yank on the leggings and long-sleeved tee I’d left hanging on the back of the closet, then hurry into the living area. As soon as she sees me, she cocks her head, raises her brows, and says, “Another erotic fling with Mr. Cat?”

I grimace. Sometimes having a lifelong bestie can be a real pain in the ass. “It’s The Cat,” I tell her. “And a girl doesn’t dream and tell.”

She just crosses her arms and lifts a brow.

“Fine,” I say. “He was there, it was hot, enough said. Just put away your prurient fantasies for a sec and listen to me, okay?”

Her dark eyes widen at the edge in my voice, but she nods.

“Jenny.” I cross my arms, letting the name hang there as I give her my most meaningful stare.

She exhales with a surprised little oh as she takes a step back, looking down as she tucks a strand of long, dark hair behind one ear. With a Jewish father and a Cherokee mother, she is both exotic and stunning. And the only reason I don’t hate her for it is because she’s my best friend in the world.