Beams of light—green, purple, blue, red—bounced in frantic rays above the heads of the dancing crowd. The music pumped so loudly, the building vibrated with it. Rose, used to the pounding bass, the explosions of color that broke up the dark, glancing off stone walls and vaulted ceilings, mixed the mojitos a young clubber had requested.
Sweat glistened on Rose’s skin as Croatians and tourists filled the space with their body heat. A wild freedom tinged the air with sex and recklessness.
Having bartended in different bars across mainland Europe, Rose was indifferent to the heady abandon of late hours in thudding nightclubs. She mixed drinks, served, and moved on to the next customer to ensure agitated, drunk clubbers didn’t cause problems at the bar.
The only bodies that drew her attention were those of her colleagues, and that was only because maneuvering around them in the tight circular bar was something akin to a dance.
Fewer than three hours into her shift had passed, and Rose was already longing for the small bed in the tiny room she was renting above a bakery. The mattress was lumpy, there was no A/C, and the bakery opened just as she was getting to bed, but at least the place smelled like warm bread. Which was a million times better than what most places she rented smelled like.
Focused on making four Cuba Libre cocktails, it took Rose a moment to realize the hair on her arms had risen as though there was static electricity in the air. She stilled, frowning as goose bumps shivered across her skin.
What the …
The music cut, and a new track played.
A thudding, prolonged bass, followed by electronic pop filled the club. The ethereal voice of Ruelle echoed around the room. Rose knew the song. It was called “Live Like Legends.”
She looked out into the crowd of dancers to see they were writhing together, their movements becoming more sexual as the music built to a crescendo. Wondering at the strange feeling that had descended over her, Rose searched the dancers for something—she didn’t know what. Perhaps for something that was out of place in the sixteenth-century building turned nightclub.
“Hej, ti, naša pića!” A customer snapped his fingers in her face.
It successfully yanked her from her study of the dancers. “Don’t snap your fingers at me.” She didn’t care if he couldn’t understand her. Her tone was of the universal language of, “I don’t take shit from anyone.”
He sneered but thankfully shut up.
She’d just finished serving the rude guy when the music hit its peak, the bass and drums deep and booming, strings—most likely violins—frenzied, beautiful, and the electronic pop sound Ruelle was known for building to a climax in the same style of an epic movie trailer. Awareness scored her spine, turning the damp, warm skin of her nape cool. It felt like strong fingers clasping her neck.
The feeling was so ridiculously powerful, for a moment Rose thought there was someone touching her. She spun away from the cash register, nostrils flaring as she took in the space around her, finding not even her colleagues near. Both Petra and Josip were on the other side of the circle.
And that’s when she felt it.
Like all the air had evacuated the room.
Chest tight, Rose gasped as her gaze shifted over the parting crowds. Her feet moved without her command, stumbling toward the bar counter—as though someone had tied a rope around her, lassoing her. Holding her captive.
Then she saw him.
Head and shoulders above everyone else, she saw a hulking figure, hair of indiscriminate color illuminated every few seconds by the dancing beams of light. The crowd parted for him as he glided through the sea of bodies. For such a big man, he moved gracefully, light as air, impossibly so … almost otherworldly.
Longish hair framed his bold face, the ends tickling his angular jawline. His nose was a sharp blade to match the sharp angles of his cheekbones. Thick stubble covered the lower half of his face, surrounding a mouth pressed tight with concentration as his head swung from left to right, as though he were searching for something or someone.
Rose swallowed hard, her mouth dry. The man was mammoth. He had to be over six and a half feet tall. If his height wasn’t enough to draw attention, the way he dressed was. The club was hot, yet he swept through the rabble wearing a dark three-piece suit and a long, black wool overcoat.
He paused, his heavy brows drawing together. His body language reminded