His hand at my wrist stopped me from pressing the button for my floor. “Come to my room. Have a drink with me.” His brilliant eyes sparked playfully on mine. He placed his big warm hand against the small of my back and suddenly I felt normal. His touch grounded me more than it should. “Emmy?”

I wouldn’t argue with him. Not now. “After the night I had—yes please.” I knew I was probably asking for trouble getting alone with him again, but I felt powerless to say no.

He took my hand, tucking it in the crook of his arm so it rested against his ribs. He was warm and whole, and my body responded with a tiny shudder at the contact. It had been far too long since I’d been with someone. My body was merely confused—responding to the simple contact from a man. Okay, a hot man. A hot man who brought me to orgasm with only his hand in a matter of minutes. A man I had fantasized about . . .

He punched the button for the top floor and grinned slightly as the elevator carried us higher.

Ben slid the key into the card reader and pushed open the door. I entered the darkened room, noticing it smelled like him: crisp soap and the musk of spicy cologne. He flicked on the light, illuminating a large room with a king-sized bed, a desk, and a chair in front of a large picture window. His room was bigger than mine.

“Nice view,” I said, walking toward the window. Gauzy white curtains framed the picturesque twinkling lights below.

I heard the rattle of glass and looked back to watch him carry two glasses and a few little bottles over to the bed. Dumping everything onto the nightstand, he surveyed our options. “We can go super-sophisticated tonight and I can offer you an exclusive mix of cheap vodka and Perrier. Flat, of course.”

“And warm?” I giggled, noting the lack of ice.

He tossed a sexy smile over one shoulder. “I’m classy like that.”

“I’m in.”

He chuckled again and I decided I liked hearing him laugh. I needed to hear more of that sound.

I crossed the room, slipped off my heels, and sat on the edge of the bed. Ben sat next to me and handed me a glass. He filled it with vodka and then topped it with the no-longer-sparkling water.

Raising his glass, his eyes met mine. “To vodka. My second favorite V-word.”

My smile faltered. I wondered if our flirty-playful banter was permitted only through text messaging since we’d yet to actually flirt in person. Was this allowed?

I took a sip and grimaced at the bitter concoction burning a path down my throat. “Mmm, vodka and water.”

Ben shrugged, taking a much more poised sip of his own. “At least it’s low-cal.”

That made me sad. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated his flawless physique, but I wanted to give this boy a cheeseburger, stat. Maybe a big cupcake and a sugary daiquiri, too. But I supposed vodka would do the trick. And Lord knew my waistline could use a break. My daily chocolate croissants and café au laits with frothy whole milk had started to add up. I looked up and saw Ben surveying me, his playful smile lifting on one side, just for me. This man watched me with definite interest, and in an instant the shitty, insecure feelings inside me vanished.

He took another sip, continuing to appraise me over the rim of his glass. It was times like this, when he turned all thoughtful and quiet, that I’d kill to know what was running through his mind. Especially where I was concerned.

“What’s your angle?” he asked, finally.

“I’m sorry?” My what?

“I’m just confused about what you want—your motivations. Everyone’s got an angle with me, Emmy. I’ve seen and heard it all—bossy photographers trying to manipulate me into showing more skin, girls who just want to say they’ve fucked a model. Forgive me if I sound like a dick, but people usually hang around for my looks, money, fame, connections, or the VIP events I can take them to.”

“I’m not interested in those things.”

“I know. Which is why I’m confused.” He swirled the liquor in his glass, taking another sip.

Working alongside Fiona for all these many years had messed with his head. Just like the executives tonight, everyone wanted a piece of him—a piece of this godlike man.

“You’re sweet to me . . . so giving . . . it’s unexpected . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking lost.

“Ben, when I see you on set and you’re tired or hungry or have low blood sugar—my momma raised me better than that. I can’t let a man go hungry.”

“So you’re a bit of a food peddler.” He smirked.

“I suppose that’s an inherited gene.” I returned his uneasy smile.

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I tend to be skeptical about girls wanting to hang around me. You’ll tell me if there’s something you want? Autographed photos for your friends, maybe? Tell me what you want from me, Emmy.”

I blushed irrationally. I knew he couldn’t read my thoughts, or see the dirty video of me and him replaying inside my head. “Well, I don’t have an angle.” I didn’t know how to answer him, and I certainly couldn’t admit my feelings, so I did the only thing I could. I picked up the book sitting on his pillow. “The Prince, huh? He’s more than just a pretty face. I’m impressed.” My awkward attempt at a topic change was cringe-worthy.

Ben seemed to go with it, however, a smug smile tugging at his mouth. “I can read. Let’s calm down,” he said dryly, plucking the book from my hands.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so surprised, but honestly, you have to know models aren’t usually known for their intelligence.” Regret instantly followed my little rant.

Ben’s jaw twitched. “Fair. Annoying. But fair. Nothing’s worse than showing up for a shoot, only to have a photographer speak to me like a small child.”

“They do that?”

“You wouldn’t believe how often. Half of them are just arrogant and rude, and the other half act like they want to get in my pants.”

I giggled. “Asshats.”

“Precisely. Can I top you off?”

My sick little sex-deprived mind thought we were jumping into the dirty talk—until I realized he was opening another minibottle of vodka and was awaiting my response. “Oh, sure. Can I just hit the little girl’s room first?”

“I only have a boy’s room, but it’s all yours.”

I strolled to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. A line of men’s upscale grooming products littered the marble countertop, and a fancy electronic toothbrush sat cradled in its charger. If all that wasn’t enough to tell me that this man was different from the boys back home, the pair of black Armani Exchange boxer briefs that lay discarded on the floor should have. Part of me liked seeing that he was still just a guy—a messy, toilet-seat-left-up-and-everything guy.

I couldn’t explain to him, let alone myself, what I was doing here, other than simply giving in to the pull to be near him. He was gorgeous and funny and made me feel all kinds of alive. Okay, I suppose that was reason enough. I glanced in the mirror as I washed my hands. This man dated supermodels. The girl in the mirror was no supermodel. I wasn’t delusional enough to think I could compare with the women he was exposed to. Straight brown hair, big bluish-gray eyes, a funny mouth that often curled into a smile for no reason at all. I was typically described as cute. Not that I’d ever minded that before. But being around models all the time made me wish I was six feet tall with legs up to my armpits and looks best described as exotic. Sadly, that wasn’t in the cards. I finger-combed my loose brown waves. The girl staring back at me was a mess of nerves. What was the real reason that Ben asked me up here? I wondered if Fiona ever felt this insecure. Not likely with her thousand-dollar Louboutins, designer clothes, and the male attention she garnered with a simple smile. I gave up and tucked my unruly locks behind my ears.

Ben was sexy, rich, and probably had girls dropping their panties left and right. Yes, I was sure he got more ass than a toilet seat, yada yada yada. Three girls—as if. Shut up, Emmy. I was smart, hardworking, and a good cook. If that was all I had to offer, it would either be enough or it wouldn’t. I was the girl he’d invited back to his room, dammit.

I lifted the hand towel from the counter and stopped cold. Two bottles of prescription medications were sitting underneath. Three more pill bottles sat on the glass shelf under the vanity. I wondered what they were for. He didn’t seem sick, but he had more pills than a pharmacy. Seriously, was he sick or dying? That could be the only probable reason for all these bottles. Otherwise, he had a major problem. Gunnar’s words rang in my head. Something about Ben being a mess without a pile of pills. It couldn’t be true. Ben didn’t seem that way at all. My hand shook as I lifted the bottle from the counter. The name of the medication was something foreign to me. No chance of pronouncing that.

Ben knocked on the door. “You okay in there?”

“Fine!” I called. My heart jumped into my throat, like he was going to somehow know I had snooped. It wasn’t really snooping since everything was sitting out in the open, but still. I buried the bottles back under the towel and wiped the confused scowl from my face before rejoining him.

“There she is. Thought I was going to have to send in a search party.” Ben had removed his dress shirt and was now in black slacks and a white V-neck T-shirt that sharply contrasted his tanned skin.

“Nope. I’m here.” I smiled, tension falling from my shoulders.

Ben watched me with guarded eyes, and I wondered if he knew that I’d seen his pill collection. Then again, he could have been watching for my reaction, because when I saw what was on his bed, my breath caught in my throat.