“Here.”

Taking the card that Tobi shoved into her hand, Regan studied the gilt name etched onto the expensive card paper.

“Charles Rosewood.” With a frown, she lifted her head to meet Tobi’s expectant gaze. “What’s this?”

“He’s waiting for you at the bar.”

“Why would he be waiting for me?”

“He owns a bazillion tourist shops around Chicago. All in the most primo locations, I might add.” She heaved a wistful sigh. “God, I’d kill for his Michigan Avenue store.”

Okay. That explained precisely nothing.

Not an uncommon occurrence with Tobi.

She might possess the business acumen of a Fortune 500 executive, but she rambled like a total ditz.

“He’s a friend of yours?”

“Not hardly.” Tobi ran a hand through her hot pink hair. “He’s way out of my league. I only recognize him from the society pages.”

Regan shifted, uneasy at the thought some stranger was asking to see her.

Was it another trap? Was Caine still hoping he could capture her?

“Then what’s he doing here?” she demanded, openly suspicious. “And why does he want to see me?”

“He’s here because he noticed the etchings in the window, and he wanted to be introduced to the artist.”

“Why?”

“Holy crap, for such an intelligent woman, you can be incredibly dim.” With quicksilver movements that made Regan occasionally wonder if Tobi was more than just human, she grasped Regan’s arm and pushed her out the swinging doors. “Go talk to him.”

“But…”

“Go,” Tobi hissed, shoving her hard enough that she stumbled into the main room.

Intensely aware that a dozen customers had turned to look at her with raised brows, Regan had little choice but to smooth back the damp curls that had escaped her ponytail, and walk with as much dignity as possible toward the bar.

Keeping her pace measured, she wound her way through the wooden booths and small tables that glowed beneath the discreet lighting set in the open-beamed ceiling.

Once she reached the open space reserved for bar patrons, it was easy to spot the odd man out.

It wasn’t just his hand-tailored suit that fit his lean body like a glove, or the perfectly trimmed silver hair that framed his lined, still-handsome face. It was the way he held himself, and the cool arrogance with which he studied his surroundings.

He might as well have rich bastard stamped on his forehead.

Certainly not one of their usual fun-loving, free-spirited customers.

Angling so she would approach him from behind, Regan opened her senses and breathed in deeply. The stranger certainly smelled like a human. Not even a hint of demon blood. Odd considering most successful business owners were at least part imp.

Of course, that didn’t mean she was going to lower her guard.

“Mr. Rosewood?”

The older man turned smoothly, a charming smile already curving his lips. A smile that didn’t hide the shrewd intelligence in his dark eyes.

“Please, call me Charles.”

“Tobi said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes, Ms…?”

“Regan,” she said shortly, not bothering to hide her suspicion.

“Regan.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “A beautiful name for a beautiful young woman.”

Regan allowed his grip to linger before pulling her hand free.

Yep. Definitely human.

“How can I help you?”

He waved a manicured hand toward the etchings in the pub window. “You did those?”

“Yes. Tobi lets me sell them here on commission to make some extra cash. Is there a problem?”

“Quite the opposite. I find them enchanting.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was polite, guarded. “Were you interested in buying one of them?”

“Actually, I’m interested in selling them.”

“Selling?” She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“As I said, I find them enchanting, but more importantly, I’m certain my customers will find them enchanting.” Almost as if a switch had been thrown, his expression went from charming to astute. “How fast do you work?”

Regan blinked, sensing she was about to be hit by a steamroller.

“I can do one or two smaller sketches in a day. The larger ones take at least two days.”

“So…four smaller sketches and two large sketches in a week?”

“Something like that.”

“Good.” He regarded her steadily. “I want to buy them.”

“All of them?”

“All of them, every week. And I’m willing to pay top dollar for exclusive rights to your work. Shall we say—” He reached down to pluck his business card from her hand, and retrieving a pen from his pocket, he wrote on the back. Then with a faint smile he shoved it back into her hand. “How’s that as a starting figure?”

Steamroller, indeed.

No wonder the man owned half of Chicago. The poor imps didn’t have a chance.

Bemused by the man’s brisk, decisive manner, Regan glanced down at the card, her heart nearly halting at the figure he had scrawled on the card.

“Christ.”

“Here.” Reaching toward the bar, Charles poured a large shot of whiskey into a glass and handed it to her. “You look like you could use a drink.”

“Thanks.” She downed the whiskey in one fiery gulp. “It’s just a shock.”

“A good shock, I hope?” he murmured.

“Yes, I…” Abruptly, Regan was hit by the unwelcome reminder, that “if it seemed to good to be true…” motto. This sudden windfall seemed all too convenient. “Wait. You don’t happen to know Styx, do you?”

“Styx?” The man frowned in confusion. “As in the mythical river?”

“What about Jagr?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of them. Are they local artists?”

She grimaced. His confusion seemed genuine enough.

“Never mind.”

His brows lifted at her odd behavior, but taking the empty glass from her hands and setting it on the bar, he determinedly pressed his advantage.

“So, Regan, will you meet at my office so we can make my offer official?”

“You’re serious?”

“When it comes to business, I’m always serious,” he assured her. “Call the number on the card and my secretary will make the arrangements.”

With a nod of his silver head, Charles turned and walked toward the pub door.

Regan watched his departure, clutching the business card as she tried to decide what she was feeling.

There was surprise, of course. She never dreamed her casual etchings could be worth a dime, let alone a small fortune. And maybe a bit of pride. Hell, she wasn’t above a few vices.

But shouldn’t there be more?

Satisfaction at the knowledge she would soon have financial security? Anticipation of planning her future? Overwhelming joy and fulfillment?

Obviously spying from the kitchen, Tobi was charging toward the bar before the door had closed behind Charles.

Skidding to a halt, she regarded Regan with an impatient expression.

“Well?”

Regan gave a bemused shake of her head. “He wants to buy my etchings.”

“Woo hoo!” Indifferent to the curious gazes she was attracting, Tobi grabbed Regan and gave her a rib-crushing hug. “I knew it. Haven’t I been telling you that you’re a fabo artist, and that you were bound to be discovered?”

Gently disentangling herself so she could suck air into her collapsed lungs, Regan pulled her lips into a stiff smile.

“I’m not sure peddling art to tourists is being discovered, but I’ll admit you’ve always had a lot more faith than I did.”

“Because I know talent when I see it.”

Regan’s smile became genuine as she reached out to ruffle Tobi’s pink spikes of hair.

“You’ve been such a good friend to me, Tobi. If you hadn’t let me…”

“Blah, blah, blah.” The woman waved her hands in dismissal, then her eyes abruptly widened. “You know, you should go out and celebrate. Drink some bubbly, eat some chocolate, find some yummy stud to spend the night giving you mind-blowing sex.” She grimaced, waving her hand toward the bar. “I’d join you, but Carly’s a no-show yet again, and I have to close.”

That’s exactly what she should do.

Go out. Maybe hit the bars. Find some adorable hunk to…

Her mind shut down.

It simply refused to go where adorable hunks might lurk, even if it was only in her fantasy.

She heaved a sigh. “Actually, I think I’ll just go home and savor my stroke of fortune.”

Tobi threw her hands in the air, her silver bracelets rattling.

“Jeez, what am I going to do with you? You’re beautiful, intelligent, and sexy as hell, and if I weren’t such a nice person I’d hate your guts, but you don’t have a damn clue about enjoying yourself.” She tilted her head, her smile disappearing as she studied Regan with an uncharacteristically serious expression. “That apartment might as well be a prison, Regan. Go out. Live. You can’t be a hermit forever.”