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far from the previous club, and she pulls away from him.
    “Stay put, ladies,” Rico says, pushing out of the limo. He strolls to the velvet rope barrier, ignoring the line people waiting to get inside. Talks quietly to the bouncer. Emma is watching, her eyes frankly curious. Caleb feels the first twinge of misgiving. Bringing her here is a risk, but there’s nowhere else he feels safe enough to take her. And it’s too late to change his mind now.
    Rico turns and gives them a sharp nod.
    Caleb watches as his crew spills out of the car, unobtrusively taking defensive positions with Emma’s friends, putting Emma and Caleb at the center. The action is so natural they do it without orders. Even here.
    Bamboo is different from the last club—from all of the clubs they’ve been to tonight, and as he enters, watching her, it’s like seeing it through new eyes. It’s busy without being crowded, loud without being noisy, sexy without being trashy. The dark interior is warm and mysterious, intimately familiar, and it soothes the last of his rattled nerves. A few of the girls—working girls—give him wide smiles, chattering at him in their liquid language that conjures memories he can’t afford to indulge. He knows enough Thai to know they’re offering, but he gives them a quiet smile and quick shake of his head.
    None of that. Not tonight.
    “Boss?” Rico, at his elbow.
    “Downstairs. Get a couple tables. I need to go clean up before I scare the Asians’ patrons.”
    Emma twists, her eyes wide as she stares at him. “You’re leaving?”
    “Just for a few minutes, Emma. Stay with Rico. Drink some water. I’ll be right back.”
    She looks so worried, he almost doesn’t move away. But a slim, dark-haired figure in the corner of his eye catches his gaze, and he forces himself to put some distance between him and his cousin.
    He turns, and black eyes in a tan face stop him. A question quirks there, softly demanding. He clenches his teeth, ignoring the Asian security surrounding them, and strides past the man. He hears the soft order. “Don’t. Leave him. Keep his guests comfortable.” And then, the soft pad of feet as the other man follows him.
    Caleb moves through the nightclub with negligent skill, an absentminded awareness of his surroundings that betray how often he’s here.
    The VIP section is quiet, long secluded booths, blood-red carpet and polished bamboo tables gleaming under the warm paper lanterns. Caleb ignores it, going directly to the bar. The waitress already has the Scotch out, and slides a glass to him as Caleb reaches the bar and pulls out his Marlboro Reds.
    Another body settles against the bar next to Caleb, a warm length of male muscle, sleek silk and black linen pants.
    Caleb slides a look to Rama, and feels, as always, the riot of emotions that the Asian syndicate boss always arouses. It’s spiked by the adrenaline from his fight and the coke still pushing his rage and lust, and his eyes narrow. There isn’t time for this tonight.
    A worried frown pulls at Rama’s face, so different from his usual calm. “What are you doing, Morgan?”
    He shrugs, and tosses back the scotch.
    The Asian makes a displeased noise, and reaches out, snatching the drink from Caleb and passing it to the bartender. He snaps a foreign order, too fast for Caleb to follow, and then refocuses on his royal guest. “You look like shit, Caleb.”
    A pleased smirk—ruffling Rama is almost fun as baiting Seth and spoiling Emma. “Work keeps me busy.”
    Rama’s head tilts slightly. “Aren’t you a bit high in the syndicate for enforcer work?”
    Caleb’s eyes go serious, thinking of why he did it. Who it was for. “For some things, I will never be too high.”
    Rama sighs, and tugs on his arm. His eyes flicker with hurt as Caleb jerks away, but it’s gone before Caleb can address it. And feelings aren’t his area of expertise—so he changes the subject. “Your office?”
    Rama nods, and leads them out of the