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and casting the phone back onto the floor in disgust. “Fuck. Shit .” She ran her hands through her unkempt locks in an obviously nervous gesture before finally turning to him, her expression apologetic.
     
    “I gotta go.”
     
    He arched a brow. Didn't things like this usually happen the other way around? “Jealous boyfriend?”
     
    She scowled at the jibe a moment before her face softened in good humor. “No, worse. Much worse.”
     
    Hurriedly, she began to move about the room, retrieving her clothing from the night before. As he watched her, his erection burgeoning for an amazing third time in eight hours, Liam continued to try and lighten the mood. “Hey, if it's some work thing, I can have my new boss roll up and take yours out.”
     
    Her smile was amused as she glanced at him over her shoulder, wiggling her phenomenal ass into her black silk Brazilian briefs. “Oh really? And what boss is that?”
     
    Usually, Liam absolutely abhorred dropping names to impress women. He hardly thought it was necessary since most of them were never satisfied no matter what you did. But once, this single time, he was infatuated enough to make an exception.
     
    “Darren Platt, President of the Dark Saints.”
     
    Vicky froze just as she slid into her dress, her eyes immediately going wide.
     
    What the...? For a moment, he merely watched her with bated breath, waiting for her reply.
     
    It seemed like an eternity before she turned to him, her expression unreadable. “You're a Saint?”
     
    The question turned him slightly sheepish. “Well, not quite yet. I prospect today.”
     
    “Don't!” Her response was so vehement, so intense, that he was slightly offended. After all the shit she'd talked the previous night, she couldn't have suddenly turned prude in the light of day? Did she have a problem with the way the MC operated? Was she a bleeding heart die-hard for the longevity of the lawful city of LA?
     
    “You've got beef with the Saints?” It was the only way he could think to pose the question without sounding like a complete dick.
     
    “Ha!” Her exclamation was simultaneously bitter and sarcastic. “Yeah, if only.”
     
    Now she was starting to piss him off. Frowning, Liam crossed his arms over his bare chest as he gazed at her over the rumpled sheets. “They've got a solid name and a strong reputation. Why not go for the best of the best?”
     
    Shaking her head, her face lined with disapproval, Vicky merely grabbed her purse and straightened to her full height. Her dark hair flowed in a mass of waves down her back. Most women would look like absolute shit the morning after a night of debauchery, but Vicky looked like a goddamn queen.
     
    A pissed-off, righteous, stubborn queen. “You'll regret it. I can promise you that.” With that, she turned on her heel and left the bedroom—and ultimately the apartment. The sound of the door shutting echoed throughout the otherwise empty space.
     
    Groaning at the tension in his muscles, Liam ran his hands through his mussed hair. “ Fuck .”
     
    That hadn't gone well at all.
     
    Casting the sheets to the side, he rose from the bed to head towards the bathroom for a shower, even though he was reluctant to wash the sweet smell of the surprisingly stubborn woman he'd slept with from his body.
     
    However, as he was about to leave the room, he noticed a slim leather case on the floor and bent to pick it up.
     
    It was a wallet.
     
    No doubt it was Vicky's. He was going to have to return it to her—and that was going to be awkward as hell. Maybe he could just mail it? Sighing, he flipped through the thing, pausing when he came upon her driver’s license.
     
    Age twenty-three. Thank God for that. Height five-eight, eyes gray, Victoria Platt.
     
    Platt .
     
    Fuck.
     
    Liam almost dropped the wallet. Platt. Vicky was a Platt—as in related to Darren Platt.
     
    It all made sense now. Her apparent disdain for the Saints and the bitterness in her