Martina looks at me in confusion. And then he's right there. Standing at our table. This time he's dressed all in black. Narrow black pants, a black t-shirt that's some expensive fabric that's not just cotton. Over it, a black dinner jacket. Not many guys could pull this off.
He does. But it's the look in his eyes that makes my throat go dry.
That, and remembering what it was like when he kissed me. And wanting him to do it again.
Crime boss. The new criminal law division I'll be heading up is supposed to provide legal representation for greedy executives abusing their expense account, maybe a little insider trading and other white-collar crimes. Bloodless crimes.
If Martina is right about Max, the kind of business he could bring me is a whole different story.
A very dangerous story. And not one that would enhance the firm's reputation in the way my grandfather envisions.
"When I said I'd see you soon, Hadley, I wasn't expecting it to be tonight." His voice is smooth, low, sexy, just like I remembered. His eyes even more impossibly deep blue in the flashing lights of the club.
"Max," I say, louder this time. Then I introduce them.
He glances at Martina, and then back at me.
"Welcome to my place, ladies." He's speaking to both of us, but his eyes are fixed on me, and I can't look away. "I'll make it my personal business to ensure you have a very pleasurable evening."
I feel like my panties are about to catch fire from the heat in his look.
"I'd invite you to my table," Max says, "but I'm conducting some business there at the moment."
And I can't help but wonder just what kind of business it is. Then I remind myself I need to stop. Those rumors Martina mentioned might not even be true. But what if they are? That's the question coming from the little voice inside my head that just won't shut up.
I absolutely cannot risk getting involved with a man who is up to his neck in some kind of criminal enterprise. It would go against everything I was raised to believe matters. Everything I've based my career on since the day I decided to be a lawyer.
I represent people accused of crimes and make sure they get their day in court, or at least a decent plea deal from an overly zealous prosecutor. It's not up to me to decide if they are innocent or guilty. It's my job to make sure the government plays by the rules.
I always play by the rules. I'm just not so sure what rules Max Bennett plays by. But I'm intrigued enough by him to want to find out.
"How do you concentrate on business in the middle of all this?" I ask him, genuinely curious. There are people everywhere, and the music is just short of deafening as it competes with all those voices. The reflection of the colored lights alone would probably make it impossible for me to concentrate on anything.
Anything except the white hot stab of arousal I feel every time Max looks at me. Right now he's looking at me like he wants to gobble me up in huge bites, and then come back for seconds.
Martina, meanwhile, can't seem to wipe the star struck expression off her face. Not that I'm spending much time looking at her.
"When I have private business," Max tells me, leaning so close I can feel his warm breath on the side of my neck, just below my earlobe, "I take it upstairs to my office."
Private business is, I'm sure, just private business. But when he says it like that my mind goes immediately to sex. And I imagine being alone in his office with him.
Max tilts his head slightly and our bottle girl instantly appears.
"Is there a problem?" She looks a little nervous, but not frightened of him. So that's something.
Max has an edge, and his vibe is definitely dangerous. But a crime boss? I'm thinking ruthless businessman, sure, but if there's one thing I learned during my time in Philadelphia, it's that rumors are often a long way from the truth. And I'm wondering if maybe Max plays up his apparent reputation for underworld connections, because what would be better than that to draw a young, edgy crowd to a hot new Miami club? People love a hint of danger.
Then again, maybe I'm just trying to convince myself that taking this attraction I feel for Max further wouldn't be a mistake.
"These ladies are my guests, Leah. See that the charge is removed for bottle service and take care of whatever they want." He hands her several folded bills and I see Martina staring.
I'm about to protest, then I reconsider. I was already worried that Martina might have overstepped putting a $1200 charge for bottle service at a club on the law firm's credit card. So if Max wants to erase our bill, why not let him do it? It's not like it's costing him the inflated prices; he owns the club.
"I'll take good care of them," Leah says. She immediately freshens our drinks, and, when we both confirm we don't need anything else right now, says she'll be back to check on us again soon.
"Enjoy yourselves," Max says. "I need to go attend to business, but I'll be back later." He looks directly at me when he says this. The clear implication is that I shouldn't leave the club until he does come back later.
"Well holy shit," Martina says as soon as Max is out of hearing range. "Wait, don't tell me. Maxwell Bennett is hot guy from the plane?"
"The one and only."
"Oh, Hadley, you must have made one hell of an impression."
"It's all thanks to you for putting me in First Class."
"Thank your grandfather for that." She pauses and takes a drink, then grins. "Or maybe not. I'm not sure what Mr. Reese would think about you getting up close and personal with the notorious Maxwell Bennett."
"Why? Has my grandfather had dealings with him in the past?" If so, that might explain Max's reaction when I mentioned the name of my grandfather's law firm.
Martina shrugs. "Not as far as I know, but I haven't been with the firm very long. But he definitely has a reputation in Miami."
"I wonder how my grandfather would react if Max brought some legal business to me."
She practically spits her drink.
"Are you serious?"
"Max obviously has a ton of money and he owns this club. I'm betting he generates a lot of work for lawyers. Why shouldn't Andrew Reese and Associates get a piece of that?"
"Why not indeed?" Martina says, settling back in the cushioned booth. "But I'm thinking you're more interested in getting a piece of something else."
I frown. "After what you just told me, I'm not so sure. Though you have to admit he's hot."
"Oh, he's hot all right." She puts her hand on my arm. "There's such a thing as too hot. Don't get burned."
When I don't respond, she sets her drink down, her face suddenly serious. "I mean it Hadley. I don't think you know who you're dealing with."
"I just met him, Martina. I'm not going to do anything stupid." I say the words, but I'm a little bit afraid I might actually do something stupid.
I know that after hearing Martina refer to Max as a crime boss – a crime boss, for heaven's sakes – I should forget all about sitting next to him on the plane. Forget about how every time he looks at me, I get those stirrings of desire that make me want to do something spontaneous and damn the consequences. Forget about that kiss that promised so much more.
I've spent my whole life being careful. My childhood was an exercise in never taking risks because I couldn't stand the thought of leaving my father all alone in the world. I don't think he ever got over my mother's death.
The fact that I look so much like her must have been a constant reminder to him of what he'd lost. But instead of resenting me for it, he devoted his life to being super dad and trying to make up for the fact that she was gone.
I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be thrilled if he knew I was sitting in a Miami club right now, at almost midnight, wondering if I'm going to get laid. By a man who might just possibly be some kind of gangster. Gangster as in old school. Like Al Capone or Michael Corleone.
"I think these drinks are starting to go to my head," I tell Martina as I take the last sip of my third vodka cranberry. True to her word, Leah is making sure we always have a fresh drink, and anything else we want.
I try to spot where Max is, and I think I see him for a moment looking out from one of the sky boxes. There are several other men in dark suits with him; it seems like an odd group to be out at a nightclub. But then again, he did say it was business, not entertainment.
"Let's get out on the dance floor," Martina suggests. "I'm tired of sitting back and watching."
In moments we are absorbed into the high energy crowd. It's like nothing I've ever experienced before.
The music is intense, and there's something about the pulse of the crowd, the lights everywhere, the DJ suspended above us, and the opulent decor, that is just so freeing. I throw back my head and laugh.
"You seem to be enjoying yourself."
I turn around to see a guy, probably around thirty, watching me. He's wearing a dress shirt and chinos with a blazer. His hair is styled perfectly, and his vibe is wealthy young professional. But instead of understated power like Max, he kind of radiates spoiled and bored.
Still, I'm not going to hold it against someone just because they grew up rich. If things had happened differently in my own past, I'd have been one of the spoiled rich Miami kids with lots of money to spend in clubs.
Plus, maybe this whole Max thing is just because I don't get out enough. I should give dancing with this guy a try and see if I feel any kind of a spark.
"What's not to like?" I respond, and just like that we are dancing together. Martina gives me the thumbs up as she turns to the guy she's currently dancing with and moves in closer.
His name is Dylan, he tells me, and he comes here often. He's a little too showy a dancer - he seems to like people looking at him - but again, I'm not judging. People come to clubs like this to be seen.
After a few more dances, I hate to admit I'm a bit out of breath and thirsty. And my theory is a complete bust. This guy is young, attractive, and clearly has both money and confidence. But I feel zero attraction. In fact, the whole time I've been dancing with him, I've been looking around hoping to catch a glimpse of Max.
"I'm going to get something to drink," I tell Dylan. "Thanks for dancing."
"Hey," Dylan says, reaching out and touching my arm as I'm about to turn away. "Not so fast. Why don't you and your friend come on over to the bar. There's a group of us."
"Thanks, but no. We've got a table."
I look around for Martina, but she's disappeared into the crowd of bodies, while I've been moving closer to the edge to leave the dance floor. When I step off, Dylan is still with me.
"Then I'll come back to your table. I'll get us some Kamikazes."
"No, thanks," I say again. I'm trying to extricate myself, but he's still got his hand on my arm.
"What's your problem?" Dylan says.
I'm about to answer, but then I hear a voice behind me.
"I think you're the one with the problem."
Over the din of conversations and the pounding beat of music, that voice puts my senses instantly on alert. Even before I turn around, there's no question who it is.
Max.