Though the truth was . . . women, dating, fucking—they hadn’t been high on his priority list since he’d come south. Sure, he’d found someone to hook up with a few times—God knew his sex drive hadn’t faded after Mira—but mostly he’d thrown himself into his job. Which was why he was here tonight, working undercover. Undercover and not officially on the clock. And maybe it was why—even if he was up for good times with fun women—he was no longer interested in twenty-two-year-olds.
Remembering why he was here, he pushed the beer aside, not wanting to let alcohol dull his senses. He might not always play by the rules, but that didn’t equal being sloppy.
In fact, since hitting South Beach, Rogan had felt more inspired by his work than ever before. After spending the first dozen years of his career in small-town Michigan, he’d found his calling in Miami. In Miami, things were happening: crimes were being committed and there were true bad guys who needed to be taken down. A place like Miami, Rogan now knew, had a lot to do with why he took satisfaction in being a cop.
A few minutes ago, the Café Tropico had been mostly empty and he’d been keeping a low profile at the bar, but now that it was filling up and the band was getting ready to play, he felt safe to casually shift on his stool and take a look around the open-air room. He was hoping Junior Martinez and his sidekick, Juan Gonzalez, would show up tonight.
The bar’s owner, Dennis Isaacs, whom Rogan had gotten casually friendly with since working this area and sometimes stopping by for a meal when he was on duty, suspected the two of selling drugs out of a back room. Dennis had let them know they weren’t welcome here, more than once, but he was an older man and the two thugs were comfortable pushing their weight around. The pretty bartender was Dennis’s niece and though she was far from being as pure as the driven snow, she and some other workers at the café knew he was trying to help Dennis out and had been instructed to keep things on the down-low if anyone, like Martinez or Gonzalez, came asking any questions about him.
The Café Tropico wasn’t fancy and had certainly seen better days, but it was a decent place. Besides possessing tidbits of old Miami charm if you looked hard enough, it was also one of the few spots on Ocean Drive where you could walk in and get a burger without busting your wallet. And Rogan wanted it to stay a decent place.
Coming to Miami had lit a fresh fire under him, sharpened the edges on what had almost become a dull occupation. And so now he found himself going unofficially undercover, taking a special interest in this situation off the clock in hopes of bringing down a couple of dealers, even if they were low level. Best case scenario—he could end up getting promoted to detective. Worst? Well, even if he wasn’t completely playing by the rules, if he was successful in taking some drugs and a couple of losers off the streets and helped out a local business owner at the same time, he just didn’t think his captain would come down on him too hard.
The room was filled with the same people he would expect—a few tourists in shorts ate burritos or cheeseburgers while they waited for the classic rock cover band to start. Some club hoppers—younger and more slickly dressed—had stopped in for an early drink before moving on to the trendier establishments up the block. A middle-aged couple Rogan thought he’d seen here before did some salsa dancing to the Latin music that had just begun to play over the loudspeakers a few minutes ago, warming people up for the band. So what if the Latin tunes would clash with the band’s songs? It was that kinda place—more about easy grub and alcohol than about sticking to a theme.
The only unpleasant sight was the group of guys at the pool table in the corner. Some Latino, some white, they sported too many bald heads, muscle shirts, and tattoos for Rogan’s liking as a cop—they just looked like trouble. And he knew he’d seen at least a couple of them hanging with Martinez and Gonzalez here before.
That’s when his eyes fell on the lady in the navy blue suit. Damn, talk about out of place. What on earth was some uptight professional chick doing here, dressed like that, on a Friday night? Not like it was against the law or anything, but . . . well, she just looked sort of silly. Not to mention far too stiff, even as she lifted a sandwich to her heart-shaped lips.
That was when he realized she was pretty. Almost hard to notice given the way she was dressed, and with her coppery red hair all pulled back tight in a bun like a librarian would wear. But she had damn attractive lips, that was for sure—and as his eyes traveled downward, he caught a glimpse of shapely legs ending in a pair of pumps that would have been more sexy than professional if they weren’t the exact same shade of navy as her tailored suit. You should let your hair down, honey. She just looked . . . buttoned up too tight. Didn’t she know this was the tropics?
Just then, his cell phone vibrated and he pulled it from his pocket to find a text from Colt. They were getting together tomorrow night.
It was then that the shouting started.
Rogan looked up to see none other than Juan Gonzalez yelling at a tacky-looking white woman—who happened to be sitting at the same table with the buttoned-up chick. He hadn’t even noticed her before, too busy—for some insane reason—checking out the suit. But now Gonzalez was saying, “What the hell you doin’ with her, here?” Though he barely deigned to toss a glance in the suit chick’s direction as he yanked the woman up by her arm, toppling her chair in the process with a thud that would’ve sounded louder in a room where there wasn’t already so much noise.
Rogan tensed, knowing that if things escalated, he’d have to get involved—but damn, he really hated to blow his cover here. Even if he managed to defuse the situation without flashing his badge, getting in Gonzalez’s face would mean he’d be remembered. Which would mean he’d have no chance of accomplishing what he was here to do.
Now the woman, who seemed to be Gonzalez’s wife or girlfriend, was yelling back, jerking her arm away, telling him to get his grimy hands off her. And—shit—that was when the chick in the suit stood up. “I don’t know what’s going on here,” she said to him, loud and clear enough to be heard above the din, “but I was in the neighborhood on business and stopped in for something to eat when I ran into your wife. I have no idea what you think was happening, but we were only saying hello. So what’s the problem?”
Oh hell—now Gonzalez turned to the suit. He towered over her, tall and lean, as he stared her down, stepping up close enough that it made Rogan uncomfortable. Much more uncomfortable, in fact, than when he’d grabbed the other woman, but Rogan didn’t know why.
“The problem,” Gonzalez said, “is that I don’t like bitch lawyers talkin’ to my bitch wife. Got it, bitch?”
Rogan couldn’t quite see the woman’s reaction—she faced slightly away from him—but she didn’t cower or back down in any way. And when Gonzalez turned again to his wife to begin yelling at her some more, commanding her to get her ass home, then going so far as to give her a push in the direction of the door—the suit chick shoved her way in between the two of them, saying, “Don’t you touch her or I’ll call the police!”
Great. Just great.
And when Juan Gonzalez put his hands on the suit chick—clamping down on her upper arms—Rogan reacted, his instincts taking over. He bolted to his feet and began moving in that direction.
Of course, now other men who’d caught wind of the scuffle were stepping forward to help, too, but that didn’t stop Rogan. It was more a compulsion than a decision at this point—he’d already mentally committed, driven to protect the out-of-place woman in the suit. Even if she didn’t seem exactly helpless, still arguing with Gonzalez, and the way Rogan saw it, just digging herself into still-deeper shit.
Rogan was the first person to reach them, and he quickly drew a conclusion on what his best move would be, on all counts—he pulled back his fist and landed a hard right to Juan Gonzalez’s jaw.
Clearly not as tough as he looked—and liked to act—Gonzalez dropped like a stone to the floor of the Café Tropico.
But that didn’t even begin to quiet the situatio
n. Now the dudes from the pool table were looking over, dropping their cues as they decided to get involved—and, oh hell, one of them held on to his cue stick, reminding Rogan of something he’d learned from bar brawls in younger days: they made good weapons.
At the same time, the other mixed bag of men who’d been ready to come to the suit’s rescue were still on the scene, a couple of them asking the tacky wife if she was okay, others starting to catch wind of the scary-looking dudes headed their way—and from the corner of his eye, Rogan realized one of them was Martinez.
Gut instinct: Get out. Quick. No one, including Gonzalez, had gotten a good look at him yet—his cover wasn’t blown.
His second gut instinct? Take the buttoned-up chick with you.
He wasn’t sure where that part had come from—she seemed better able to defend herself than Gonzalez’s wife, who he’d been happy to leave in other people’s care. Maybe it was because she still looked so ridiculously misplaced; maybe he feared it would make her the easy target of Martinez’s thugs. He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t stop to examine it—he just found his hand clamped tight to one navy blue sleeve and the slender arm underneath as he tugged her toward an out-of-the-way side entrance, at the same time calling to Dennis’s niece behind the bar, “Might wanna call nine-one-one, honey.”
Upon leading the woman out into a narrow old alley, the south Florida balminess hit him like a brick. They didn’t have weather like this in Michigan and he was still getting used to it. Though large, open windows to the Café Tropico were but a stone’s throw away, stucco walls surrounded them on both sides, and shutting the door behind them reduced the ruckus to a low, steady racket.
Now that they were alone, the woman stared down at where he still held on to her, then shifted her glaring gaze to his. Her eyes were blue. And her hair looked more auburn than copper now. “Who are you and what on earth do you think you’re doing?” she snapped. “Unhand me this instant.”
Rogan just blinked, not sure if he was amused or irritated. “Unhand you? Who are you? The fucking queen of England?”
She appeared aghast, her eyes widening. “How dare you drag me out of there like that!”
Rogan lowered his chin matter-of-factly. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but I saved your fish-out-of-water ass in there. Dragging you out was an act of mercy.”
Through the windows up the alley, sounds of the brawl inside—women shrieking, guys yelling, things breaking—could be heard. And then the shrill but distant wail of a siren sounded, putting Rogan’s mind at ease. The disturbance inside would be over soon. Which meant he could resume concentrating on what was happening out here.
Namely that despite her belligerence—something he hadn’t expected—the woman in the suit was even more attractive than he’d realized. He liked the warm shade of her hair and the way it shone when light hit it, like moonlight on the water—and damn, he really wanted to see it down now, falling around her face. Her eyes were bright, determined—even if also combative at the moment. And her lips looked made to be kissed. And . . . well, like they might be good for something else that came to mind, too. Only now did he see how her suit hugged her body, highlighting the curves and making her look far less frumpy than he’d originally thought. In fact, despite her attitude, the lady lawyer was beginning to seem downright sexy to him.
“I need to get back in there, check on Kayla,” she told him, attempting to pull her arm away.
He held firm. For more than one reason. His groin had begun to tighten. “She’s fine, sweet cheeks. There are plenty of people looking after her by now. And she’s not the same kind of target as you.”
She flinched within his grasp. “Sweet cheeks?”
A short laugh escaped him. “Sorry—I made an assumption.” That her ass was sweet, he meant.
And when her face turned nearly as red as her hair, he knew she understood. Even if he shouldn’t have said it. But something about her made it too easy, too tempting to resist. Already he could feel how hard she worked at being prim and proper and professional. And already he could sense something much more interesting bubbling just beneath the surface.
Even as she blushed and went quiet, he took in more about her. A complexion too ivory for a place like Miami. Long lashes that framed those eyes. They were a deep, dark blue here in the alleyway beneath a dim bulb by the door, but he had a feeling that in the sunlight they’d be electric.
Something dusky drew his gaze unwittingly down to find a tantalizing hint of cleavage peeking from beneath a simple white silk blouse—enough delectable curve and shadow that he knew a button had to have come undone somewhere between the moment she’d stood up to face Juan Gonzalez and now. Like it or not, she wasn’t buttoned up so tight anymore.
And eyes that had gone from angry to embarrassed now grew . . . more sultry. A soft blush still burned on her cheeks, but that, too, now felt like something that was more about a slow heat building between them than anything like embarrassment. Her lips were slightly parted, making something in him needful, hungry.
He still hadn’t let go of her arm. But she’d quit asking him to. She’d quit pulling away at all. He liked having hold of her. Despite himself, he liked knowing she couldn’t really get away if he didn’t want her to. But just as much, he liked that she no longer seemed so bent on fleeing.
Their gazes locked, held. In his peripheral vision, he took in the subtle shift of her blouse, sensed her chest heave slightly. He let out a breath, aware of the desire palpitating between them suddenly like a living, breathing thing.
That’s when her lips began to tremble, just a little. And a bit of fear snuck into her eyes as she lifted her free hand to point toward the metal door they’d come through. “I . . . um . . . she’s my client.” Her voice came softer than before.
“I got that,” he said deeply.
“But . . .” Now it was she who expelled a heavy breath, as if she’d been holding it without quite meaning to. And she shook her head, her eyes dropping uncomfortably toward his chest. “Lord—when she suggested meeting here I never dreamed it would be someplace her husband hangs out. What was she thinking? She wants to divorce him,” she added, seeming to feel the need to explain. Then she crushed her eyes shut for just a second and spoke under her breath. “Damn it, I shouldn’t have told you that—it’s none of your business.” She seemed to be talking nervously now, and he knew, even more than before, that they both remained very aware of the fact that he still held her arm in his grip.
And that was when Rogan stopped trying to hold back and gave in to the urges pulsing through his body. Still clamping tightly to her wrist, he lifted his other hand to firmly cup the back of her neck and leaned in to kiss her. There was nothing gentle about it—and though he hadn’t weighed it, he supposed he hadn’t meant for there to be. He wanted to kiss her hard, and even though he fully expected her resistance, he wanted to make it difficult for her to fight the kiss, difficult to push him away without giving herself a chance to sink into it.
And that’s exactly what happened. At first she shoved against his chest with her free hand, trying futilely to withdraw, the back of her head retreating against his hand, and a small squeal of protest left her. But he kept kissing her, hard, and as he moved his mouth powerfully over her soft lips, he realized to his surprise that pretty soon the palm against his chest relaxed and her mouth was meeting his with complete and utter abandon.
A thick satisfaction poured warmly through his body as he stood kissing her in the hot alley, keenly aware that the buttoned-up chick in the business suit wasn’t resisting one little bit.
Chapter 2
April could barely process what was happening. What was she doing? How had this happened? Was she really kissing some big, dark-haired, broad-shouldered guy she’d barely exchanged two words with? How on earth had she ended up in this alley with him? And dear God, he’d manhandled her—was still manhandling her. She hated that. Didn’t she?
She’d tried to push him away, of c
ourse, but his grip had been too tight, and then, then—at some point she’d just stopped. Stopped fighting, stopped struggling. She’d just accepted. And enjoyed. She’d begun to relish the response of her mouth, and of her body. She’d begun to lean closer, to rest her torso against his, to let her breasts connect with his chest. One minute she’d been talking with Kayla Gonzalez and the next she’d found herself lost in the most potent and unexpected pleasure of her life.
I don’t do this. I don’t kiss strange men.
And yet as his tongue pressed between her lips, she let it—and then she met it with her own. She thought how strange it was to be doing something so intimate with a man she didn’t know and was pretty sure she didn’t even like.
The next thing she knew, his hand was in her hair and he was pulling at the clip there, yanking it free. Despite other noises that should have been louder, she heard hairpins hit the concrete beneath her feet as her hair fell around her face. Or . . . maybe she didn’t really hear them at all—maybe it was more like she felt them, falling, leaving her, no longer holding things together the way they were supposed to. The clip itself hit the ground, too, and the stranger’s fingers were running through her hair now—he was using both hands. He’d finally let go of her wrist. Despite herself, she missed the touch, felt a little too free.
You should stop this now. You should use this moment to do what you tried to do in the first place and back away.
Only his kisses permeated her being far too much at this point. It was like the pleasure was an oozing, spreading thing, seeping through her whole being. It had been a while since she’d been kissed, and her lips hungered for what he was giving her even as she suffered the sensation of somehow being almost consumed by him. No matter how she sliced it, though, his kisses were too rough and delicious to pull back from. Her loosened hair seemed to form a veil around their faces.
Give In To Me Page 2
