“You sound almost like you mean it,” he quipped.
“I do.”
And in response he said nothing, instead casting only a doubting glance her way.
“Look, this isn’t who I am,” she tried to explain, exasperated. “I don’t . . . do this sort of thing. I . . . I don’t even know your name.”
“Rogan Wolfe,” he told her.
Oh, so he wasn’t lying—he really was the big bad wolf.
“And you are?”
“April,” she said, thinking this was surely the most bizarre introduction of her life. “April Pediston.”
“Hey!” They both looked up then, startled, toward a voice that had come from the end of the alley.
April could barely make out the person who stood there, catching only a glimpse of a leanly muscled guy in a white tank before the wolf said, “Shit.” And finally let go of her wrists, allowing her arms to drop to her sides.
“What’s happening? What’s wrong?” she asked softly.
But Rogan didn’t really have time to answer that right now. He kept his eye on Martinez as he said, low, “You need to get out of here, Ginger—fast.”
Even in his peripheral vision, he took in her wide-eyed expression as she murmured, “Wh-what?”
God, she was taking this personally? Like she thought he’d suddenly just tired of the game and was trying to get rid of her. Did she not see the thug up the alley, the thug starting toward them now?
Thinking fast, he reached down to the doorknob—heading back into the club, into a crowd, would be the best way to get out of this situation. But damn it, it was locked. He hadn’t gone back in the last time he’d been out here with Ginger in the alley, so he didn’t realize it automatically locked from inside. Which meant there was only one other move to make.
“Shut up and run,” he told her—and when she still didn’t, he grabbed her hand and pulled her deeper into the alley, forcing her into a jog, high heels or not. Now she didn’t have a choice.
Rogan didn’t know where the alley led, but it was his best chance to continue keeping Martinez from getting a good look at him, at least at his face. And besides, the dude clearly thought, correctly, that Rogan was the same guy who’d been listening in on his phone calls outside the storage room, and he didn’t seem happy. Rogan didn’t want some back alley confrontation, especially not with Ginger there. God, given what he knew about her, she might do something crazy like throw herself in between them and get herself hurt, or worse.
“Where are we going? What’s happening?” she asked again as he tugged her along, her shoes clicking on the concrete.
“Didn’t you hear the ‘Shut up’ part?” he groused. And when she actually tried to pull up short and stop their progress, apparently offended, he wanted to throttle her. But instead he just said, through clenched teeth, “Look, sweetheart, that’s a bad guy chasing us. We’ll chitchat later, but right now you need to get your ass in gear.”
Martinez’s tennis shoes slapped against the alleyway as he followed, urging Rogan back into a run, once again dragging his inquisitive kissing partner behind him. He was pretty worked up from the passion that had been swirling between them, but now his heart beat harder from adrenaline.
Reaching a cross street in the narrow alley, he paused to assess his options. Going straight would lead to Collins Avenue, parallel to Ocean, but wanting to get out of Martinez’s line of sight, he turned right into a wider alley that led past the back doors of businesses and restaurants. Yanking his companion with him, he started up the alley, pulling on one of the first lit-up doors he came to.
When it opened, he drew Ginger into the busy kitchen of what looked and smelled like a pizza place. And despite the expressions of the guys standing around in white aprons, assembling pizzas, he kept them both moving, weaving his way to the small dining room, past the cashier, and back out onto Ocean Drive, all in just a minute or two.
“What now?” Ginger asked, her voice all pretty and breathless.
Rogan looked up and down the street. They were still too close to the Café Tropico, and he was ready to be done with Junior Martinez and the whole business for the night. No sign of Martinez at the moment, but . . . “For all I know, he saw us go in that door and is right behind us. Come on,” he said, dragging her in the direction opposite the Café Tropico.
“Where are we going?” she asked, pulling back, clearly ready to argue with him again. “My car’s that way.” She pointed past the café up Ocean Drive.
“Well, mine’s right here,” he said, and just a few steps later he was reaching for his keys and clicking to unlock the shiny black Charger at the curb. “Get in.” But he didn’t wait for her to do what he’d just told her, instead opening the door and pretty much shoving her inside.
“Hey,” she complained, but he shut her up, thankfully, with a look of warning.
Even so, by the time he jogged around to the driver’s side, got in, and started the engine, she was talking again. “I could have walked to my car—it’s just up the street. And I don’t know what this is all about, but I don’t want to get involved. And what about my jacket? It’s back in the alley, and it wasn’t cheap—I need to go back for it.”
He let out a sigh as he glanced in his side mirror and eased out into traffic. “You can’t go back, at least not right now. Tell you what, Ginger. I’ll call the owner and maybe he can go out and get it for you, let you pick it up later. How’s that?”
She bordered somewhere between belligerent and agreeable now. “Well, fine, I guess. And thank God I at least still have my purse. But my name’s not Ginger.”
True enough, yet unfortunately he couldn’t quite remember what she’d said her name was. Since it had been right about that time that Junior Martinez had interrupted them. And in actuality he’d been a little more concerned with her breasts, and her mouth, and the rest of her than he’d been with her name. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about it—it was that he hadn’t cared about it at that particular moment.
“You’ll, uh, have to refresh my memory, sweetheart.”
Her pause, accompanied with a sigh he could hear, told him that irked her. “April Pediston,” she said.
“Okay, got it.”
“My car’s parked on the next block, so you can let me out at this light,” she said—right about the time he blew right through the intersection she’d indicated.
“What are you doing?” she snapped. “Why didn’t you stop?”
He didn’t look at her as he spoke, matter-of-factly, keeping his eyes on busy Ocean Drive, currently teeming with well-moving traffic surrounded by plenty of pedestrians as well. “Could you eat some pizza? After running through that kitchen, I could go for some.”
She, however, stared across the car at him in disbelief. He still watched the road, but he could feel the weight of her glare. “After all this . . . weirdness, you want to take me out for pizza?”
“Something like that,” he told her. He didn’t really have a plan—he was just going with what felt right at any given moment. “Maybe I’m . . . trying to apologize or something.”
“Hmph,” she said, managing to sound both irritated and satisfied at the same time. “Well, that’s definitely the most gentlemanly move you’ve made by far. And I’m glad you agree that an apology is in order after the way you . . . well, the way you manhandled me.”
Rogan held back the grin that wanted to sneak out, tossing her only a quick glance before turning his attention back to the brightly lit street before him. “Except that’s not what I’m apologizing for.”
He felt her look. “What are you apologizing for?”
“Getting you chased by a thug. And losing your jacket.”
“But not the rest,” she stated, apparently seeking clarification.
“Nope. You liked the rest. And so did I. Nothing to apologize for there, Ginger.”
“My name’s not—”
“Ginger. Yeah, I keep forgetting. Sorry.” He quickly searched his m
emory, just in case she was getting ready to slug him. “April. So, pizza?”
She took her sweet time answering, and it was just starting to get on his nerves when she said, “Yeah, sure, okay, I guess. Pizza.”
“All right,” he told her.
“And about that guy who was chasing us—what the hell was that about? I mean, should I . . . be scared of you, Rogan Wolfe?”
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll explain all that over dinner. And as for whether you should be scared of me . . . well, not because of the guy chasing us you shouldn’t. But if you can’t handle what happened between us in that alley before he came along . . . maybe you should be a little afraid, Ginger.”
* * *
It was difficult, but April refrained from asking where he was taking her for pizza. She was, in fact, attempting to keep from asking him anything else at all. She still had a million questions, and talking made her less nervous than just sitting there taking in the dark interior of his car and wondering exactly who Rogan Wolfe was, but when he’d told her he’d explain over dinner, she’d gotten the distinct impression he was ready for her to be quiet. Not that that would normally be enough to shut her up. With anyone. But on some strange level, she wanted to please him. Though she had no idea why.
Of course, maybe his last words a few minutes ago had played a part in shutting her up, too. What was he saying exactly? That there was going to be more of what happened in that alley? And did that scare her? Well, what scared her a little was that somehow she’d found herself in a car with an intimidating man she didn’t know and who might somehow be involved with crime, or at least violent-seeming thug types. What scared her was that she was responsible, and capable, and smart—not the sort of woman who normally found herself in such a weird, uncertain situation. And okay, yes, if he was telling her there was definitely going to be more steamy heat between them—that scared her a little, too. Because she was unsure if she could handle it, no matter who he turned out to be.
It comforted her a bit, though, to hear him now on his cell phone, talking to someone at the Café Tropico about her suit jacket. He sounded just as confident and take-charge as he had all along, but in a more reasonable, normal way. He sounded . . . smart, and smart was good. She respected and appreciated smart. Whereas stupid was just plain dangerous.
Pushing the button to disconnect, he said, “Okay. Dennis found your jacket. You can pick it up anytime. He’s going to lock it in his office in the back.”
“Thank you,” she said. It felt like the first thing that had gone right in a while, the first thing that had happened that made any sense.
That’s when she realized, though, that they’d left the busy hotel-and-entertainment-laden part of South Beach and headed into the residential area that led to South Pointe. The neighborhood sat parallel to the less touristy part of the beach and was populated with apartments and condos, some in modern towers, others in smaller, older structures.
“Um, where are we going? I thought we were having pizza.”
It was then that he pulled into a parking lot that edged a three-story building the color of terra cotta. “My apartment. Getting the pizza delivered.”
April just blinked. Was he serious? It was bad enough that he’d pretty much shoved her into his car without her consent, but did he really think she’d be okay with going to his place? “Um, I don’t think so, Mr. Wolfe. I thought you were suggesting a restaurant or I wouldn’t have agreed to this.”
Putting the car in park, he turned off the ignition, as if this were a done deal, the mere act intensifying her irritation. Because apparently she’d gotten a lot more back in her right mind over the last few minutes than she’d been either of the times she’d ended up kissing him.
And the small hint of a grin he flashed in her direction incensed her all the more. “First of all, Ginger, there’s no need to be so formal. You can call me Rogan.” He added in a wink. “And second—sorry, honey, but I’ve had a long day and I’m really not up for a restaurant. And you don’t look like you’re up for one, either.”
She followed his gaze as it dropped from her face to her chest, dismayed when the very look made her breasts sizzle with desire, and further distressed to realize her silk tank was now stained with sweat and dirt, and her skirt sported a few dark smudges as well. Oh Lord, if my clothes look so done-in, what on earth must the rest of me look like? Though she guessed it couldn’t be too awful or he wouldn’t have been making out with her back there like there was no tomorrow.
God, she still couldn’t believe that. Or this. She shouldn’t be here.
“Regardless, I can’t just go into your apartment with you.”
“Why not?” he asked. Like he couldn’t fathom a reason why she might harbor some trepidation.
She flashed a pointed look across the dark car, trying to ignore how captivating and . . . downright sexual she found his eyes. “I . . . don’t know you,” she reminded him.
“In ways you sure do.”
Oh boy. Her stomach churned. As did the spot between her legs. Just when she’d thought maybe her unaccountable lust was beginning to die down. And his piercing reminder unnerved her a bit. It was hard to sit there acting like someone who was in full control of herself, of this situation, when she knew they were both recalling how she’d given in to him in the alley. In fact, it was suddenly difficult to take a full, deep breath. And looking at him wasn’t helping the situation. She’d never experienced such a purely magnetic attraction to anyone in her life.
She drew her eyes away, peered out the windshield at his building. “Even so . . .”
Next to her, he sighed. “Look, I’m not an ax murderer.”
She let out a breath, albeit a shaky one—which she hoped he didn’t notice. And she cautiously shifted her gaze back to him as she asked, “Then what are you?”
“I’m a cop.”
She flinched, blinked, utterly taken aback. “Seriously?” she asked, sitting up a little straighter.
“Seriously. Feel better now?”
And in fact, she did. How could she not? It didn’t mean he was a saint—but it also meant he probably wasn’t a criminal, either. Feeling contrite, she nodded.
To which he replied, “Good. Now let’s go in and order some pizza. I’m starving.”
Chapter 5
Despite herself, she felt just as uncomfortable in his apartment as she’d expected. It was an average place—though probably overpriced due to the location—that somehow didn’t look completely moved in to. Curtains, or maybe a few pictures on the walls, would have made it feel much warmer. But maybe she shouldn’t be surprised by the starkness—Rogan Wolfe didn’t exactly seem like a sentimental guy. Or like a guy who minded things feeling a little stark.
She sat perched on the edge of a black leather sofa, not quite able to lean back and relax, as he ordered the food they’d agreed on after pulling out a delivery menu from the nearest pizza place. She’d noticed he had a whole drawer of delivery menus and wasn’t surprised to find he was a guy who ate on the run a lot and probably wasn’t secretly a gourmet cook.
Now he was in the bathroom—he’d offered it to her first, to tidy up, and though her hair was in disarray, she’d actually discovered, to her shock, that she thought it almost pretty. Messy hair when she was in her bathrobe in the morning just looked . . . messy, but it turned out that messy hair while in a top and skirt, even if a bit soiled, suddenly looked . . . tousled. Carefree. Maybe even a little sexy.
Not that she should want to look sexy for him. But she couldn’t deny that she did. She wasn’t sure what she wished would happen here, at all, but she knew she wanted to remain worthy, in his eyes, of having been just as kissable in the alley outside the café as she’d found him to be.
When he came back to the living room a few minutes later, he’d exchanged his dirty jeans and tee for clean ones, and he smelled clean, too—like soap, but still a little musky, masculine. Maybe that part of him was a scent you couldn’t wash off.
She tried not to be nervous at his return, even if his fresh clothes made her all the more aware of her dirty ones.
She hoped perhaps he’d settle in the reclining chair adjacent to where she sat, but instead he joined her on the couch. And she hoped he might turn on the TV or something, just to give them something to look at besides each other, but he didn’t do that, either. He wore that familiar arrogant, amused expression when he said, “You can relax, Ginger. Lean back. Get comfortable.” He’d sprawled rather sexily on the other end, taking up a full half of the sofa with his tanned, muscular body.
She met his eyes to say, “Why must you keep calling me that even now that you know my name?”
He gave his head a slight tilt. “Guess I always thought Ginger was sexy as hell. Just like you.”
She tried to keep breathing as the warmth of a blush rose to her cheeks. She hadn’t foreseen that answer or she wouldn’t have asked. And she decided not to respond to it. Though she had a feeling her nipples were probably showing through her top and bra now and that they hadn’t been a minute ago.
“So you’re a cop,” she said.
His nod came easy, light.
“And the guy in the alley?”
“Somebody I think is up to no good. But I don’t have any evidence yet. And I didn’t want him to see my face. Actually, didn’t want him to see me at all, but kinda blew that part, didn’t I?”
He continued to cast a soft, seductive grin her way, and she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to answer that question or if it was just rhetorical, so she moved on. “Are you a detective? You work undercover?”
“Not just yet, but hope I’m heading in that direction.”
“Show me your badge.”
He cocked his head slightly. “Something about that turn you on, Ginger?”
Give In To Me Page 6
