by Heidi Rice
Their enchiladas had come and gone, and he’d discovered that watching her eat was as erotic as it had been last night. He’d never given it much thought before, but far too many of the women he’d dated in the past had picked at their food, or worse insisted on ordering nothing more exciting than a salad—usually because they had some dumb idea they were fat.
But not Iona. She’d closed her eyes and hummed with pleasure while swallowing her first bite of the spicy enchilada. The husky groan had arrowed right through him, and he’d been struggling to keep his mind on their conversation ever since.
‘She’s my cousin, like Manuel,’ he clarified. ‘And most of the rest of Santa Cruz.’
‘How many cousins do you have?’ She put down her margarita, her voice hushed in awe.
‘Last count? Twenty-eight.’ Or was it twenty-nine? It wasn’t something he kept abreast of.
Her eyes widened. ‘But that must have been fabulous growing up,’ she said, the words overflowing with enthusiasm. ‘Having such a huge family?’
Not especially, he thought, annoyed to feel the old anger and resentment resurfacing.
‘It was just me and my dad growing up,’ she added, and he remembered what she’d told him about her mother. ‘Do you have lots of brothers and sisters too?’
‘No. There’s only me,’ he said, the soft brogue of her accent wrapping around him like a caress. ‘My mother married a great guy ten years ago. They wanted more kids, but—’ He stopped abruptly, astonished he’d let that piece of information slip out. ‘But it didn’t happen.’
Maria had never blamed him, never even mentioned it, but he knew having him had screwed up her chances of having more children. So he always avoided the subject.
‘That’s a shame,’ Iona murmured, the genuine sympathy in her tone soothing, even though he’d cauterised the wound years ago. ‘But I guess at least you had all those cousins.’
‘We didn’t see much of each other as kids,’ he said, careful to stop short of explaining the reason why this time. He’d let go of the anger a long time ago, when his grandfather Ernesto had finally been forced to admit that Maria’s gringo son could amount to something. But that didn’t mean he wanted to talk about it.
‘So what’s a quinceañera?’ Iona swirled the straw in her margarita and then placed it in her mouth.
Plump lips sucked on the thin plastic. ‘It’s a girl’s fifteenth birthday party. In the Mexican-American community, that’s when her family celebrates her coming of age.’
‘And Maricruz’s quinceañera is this weekend?’
‘Yeah, I guess so.’ How come they were talking about Maricruz and her party? He jerked his gaze off her lips, which had mesmerized him again. And struggled to get the conversation back where he wanted it. ‘So how did Demarest get so friendly with your old man?’
Her smile faltered and then disappeared. ‘That’s a bit of a non-sequitur.’
‘I’m curious.’ He forced himself not to care when she stiffened. She owed him. He’d already told her more than he would usually tell a date about his mother’s family, but she had a way of questioning him that made him forget to be cautious.
His gaze strayed to the snug bodice of her dress. Not to mention her other distracting qualities. He took a swig of his cerveza.
Behave.
‘Why don’t you want to tell me? Have you got something to hide?’ he asked.
‘He came into our gift shop,’ Iona replied, her face a rigid mask.
‘You told me you were the one who worked in the gift shop,’ he said, and knew he had her when she flushed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about you And Demarest, Iona?’ He pressed his advantage, despite the tremble in her fingers as they clutched the stem of her margarita glass.
It was what he was trained to do. And he wanted to know. Suddenly it seemed vitally important to hear the truth from those lush lips.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about what Demarest did to you?’
She remained rigid in her chair, her eyes glassy with shock.
‘Did you think I would judge you?’ he added, softening his voice.
A lone tear spilled over her lid, shocking him.
Hell. Had it been worse than he thought?
She brushed the tear away with her fist and stood up.
‘You can go right to hell, Montoya,’ she whispered, her whole body vibrating with tension.
The show of temper was a relief after the moment of anguish. But his relief was short-lived, when she threw her napkin on the table and rushed off through the crowded tables towards the exit.
‘Hey, come back here,’ he shouted, making the nearby diners turn and stare at him, but she didn’t even slow down.
Tugging his wallet out of his pocket, he threw a wad of bills on the table and headed after her.
Where the hell was she going?
Iona burst out of the restaurant into the night, ignoring the queue of people staring at her and Zane’s shouted demand to slow down.
She wanted to throttle him. She would throttle him, if he so much as touched her.
‘Madre de Dios.’
She heard the muffled curse only moments before a hard forearm wrapped round her waist, halting her getaway as his lean body butted against her back.
She swung round but he grabbed her bunched fist in his hand, and stopped her from socking him on the jaw.
‘Calm down, damn it.’
‘No,’ she shouted, the word whipping away on the wind as the fury rose up to mask the pain and humiliation.
She’d let her guard down, had started to believe that this might be more than just a pity date. That he’d actually meant what he said about wanting to get to know her better—which only made the humiliation worse. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she said yanking her hand out of his.
The tightening in her breasts, and the slow pulse of arousal in her belly that she had no control over, only added insult to the injury.
‘Miss, is everything all right?’ The tentative question had both her and Zane turning to stare at the older man who had come to her rescue. ‘Is this man bothering you?’ he asked, not looking quite so confident about the gallant impulse when Zane glared at him.
‘She’s great,’ Zane ground out, before she could think of what to say. She knew she wasn’t in any physical danger from Zane Montoya, but didn’t emotional danger count? ‘I’m a cop.’
‘Okay.’ Her Sir Galahad nodded quickly. ‘Sorry to bother you, Officer.’ He hurried back to join his wife in the queue—the impulse to rescue her hastily abandoned.
‘You’re not a cop,’ She snapped as Zane hauled her into the car park, away from the ocean and out of sight of the other customers. ‘You’re a fake cop, remember.’
She kept her voice down. She was perfectly capable of fighting her own battles. Especially now she’d got a good head of steam.
‘I used to be a cop,’ he shot back, sounding as furious as she felt. ‘Now shut the hell up before you cause any more trouble.’
‘Me?’
He’d ambushed her, when she hadn’t been prepared for it. She should have guessed he’d been a cop—he certainly had one hell of an interrogation technique. He’d let her think she mattered, that even though this might be a pity date, it had potential. She’d been flirting with him, the buzz of the margaritas making her bold as they devoured the food and she lapped up all that focused attention. And then he’d shown his true colours and ruined it all. And for what? So he could get information out of her that she hadn’t wanted him to know. That he had no business knowing. The case was over, Brad was in jail where he belonged—what had been the point of humiliating her further? Had he wanted to punish her? Who gave him the right to do that?
‘Yeah, you,’ he snarled. ‘You don’t see me trying to punch anyone, do you?’
She wrestled her arm out of his grip, but as she turned to face him he backed her against the sand-washed brick of the restaurant wall.
‘You deserved it.’ She hurled the words at him,
angry that her shiver of reaction had nothing to do with the chilly sea air and everything to do with his nearness. She raised her arms to shove him away but he captured her wrists, held her hands easily by her side to hold her still.
‘Let go of me.’
‘Not until you settle down,’ he said in that firm, domineering voice that made her feel like a six-year-old.
‘How could you do that?’ she asked, her voice breaking on the accusation and making blood surge into her cheeks.
‘Do what? Ask you about Demarest?’ he replied, his face shadowed by the moonlight. ‘Because you lied to me last night.’
‘So what? I knew this was a pity date. I knew it,’ she ranted, determined that he would never know how easily he’d primed her with his let’s-get-naked hormones. She yanked her wrists free, wedged her hands against his chest.
‘A pity date! What the hell…?’
‘Oh, come on, Montoya. I knew you were patronising me. I figured you had an ulterior motive.’ How could she have lost sight of that so easily? ‘But I never thought you’d stoop that low.’ The more she thought about it, the more outraged she became. He’d taken advantage of her inexperience and her vulnerability. Just like Brad. ‘Did you learn that in cop school? How to flirt women into a coma, and then go in for the kill?’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about how you played me.’ As if he didn’t know. ‘All those smouldering looks. All the flirtatious words and clever little touches—as if you wanted me. When we both know all you really wanted was to question me about Brad.’
‘Are you nuts?’ The rising fury and frustration in his voice made her pause for a moment. ‘You think I was faking that?’
‘I know you were,’ she shot back—not prepared to fall for the soft words and flirtatious tricks all over again. Even if the tone wasn’t all that soft now.
He swore under his breath. Then murmured, ‘To hell with this.’
Grasping her cheeks in callused palms, he slanted his lips across hers.
Shock came first, the gasp of surprise giving him the access he needed. His tongue delved into her mouth, firm and seeking and hungry. The shudder of arousal bolted down to her core. She squirmed, easing the ache against the hard wall of his chest. Rough palms trailed down, his thumb stroking the pounding pulse in her throat as he framed her face and angled her head, to take more.
The blast of need burned through her system as her tongue tangled with his. And the fast, furious exploration turned to slow, insistent strokes. He tasted delicious, the hot spice of heat and lust and man making her head spin. She reached for him, her fingers fisting in cool linen and feeling the flex of muscle beneath.
He lifted his head at last, his breathing as harsh as hers.
His hips trapped hers, and the ridge in his pants prodded her belly. ‘You think that’s fake?’ His eyes glittered in the streetlight.
She shook her head, unable to speak as her tongue had gone numb.
‘I’ve been sporting that most of the night,’ he continued. ‘Ever since you licked the salt off the rim of your first margarita.’
Iona blinked, desire unfurling in long ribbons of need.
‘It appears I may have misconstrued your motives,’ she choked out in a husky whisper.
His eyebrows shot up and then he laughed, the sound amused and arrogantly male. ‘Yeah, just a little.’ He dropped his forehead to hers, let out an unsteady breath, his thumb tracing the line of her collarbone in an absent caress. ‘I shouldn’t have made this about him. Because it’s not,’ he murmured. ‘I screwed up and I’m sorry.’
‘I accept your apology,’ she replied breathlessly, the magnificent erection cradled against her belly.
He stepped back and her eyes darted down to the bulge of their own accord.
Oh, my!
Her tongue wasn’t numb any more; it had swollen to twice its normal size—along with a few other parts of her anatomy. ‘I stand corrected. That certainly doesn’t look like pity,’ she murmured.
He let out a strained laugh as he led her to the Mustang and opened the door. ‘I better take you home.’
She climbed into the car. Home? He was taking her home? Now?
He climbed into the driver’s seat, switched on the engine and crunched the gear shift into reverse.
‘Excuse me for asking,’ she protested, having found her voice at last as the car trundled down the access road, ‘but why are you taking me home?’
He sent her another of those penetrating stares as the sheen of something dark and dangerous lit up those striking blue eyes.
‘Because no way in hell are we ending this date in a parking lot.’
CHAPTER FIVE
A PITY DATE!
Zane kept his eyes locked on the road, the headlights slicing through the dusky dark.
‘What made you think this was a pity date?’ he asked over the rushing wind. Had Iona really been that clueless about how much he wanted her? How was that even possible?
‘No particular reason,’ she said, but he could hear the lift in her voice that signified she was lying.
‘Sure there is.’
She glanced across the console and he slowed the car, so that he could divide his attention between her and the road.
A long-suffering sigh gushed out. She crossed her arms over her waist in a defensive gesture that would have been cute, if it weren’t so distracting. ‘You called me cute.’
‘Only because you are.’
‘No, I’m not. Babies are cute. Puppies are cute. I’m a grown woman and I’m not cute.’
He smiled. He couldn’t help it—the snippy tone only made that do-or-die accent all the cuter.
‘Puppies, huh?’ he said, not quite able to resist the urge to tease. ‘Have you ever owned a puppy?’
She slanted him a quelling look. ‘It’s not funny, Montoya.’
‘I’m guessing that’s a no, then,’ he continued when she maintained a stony silence. ‘Because if you had, you would know that puppies are not cute. I rescued a six-week-old lab cross from the pound a year ago. She ate a six-hundred-dollar pair of shoes, peed in my closet, drank from my john and tried to lick me to death. And that was all in the first day.’ He pictured the love of his life, who’d nearly killed him this morning by sticking her wet snout in his ear while he was in the middle of his morning reps on the bench press. ‘Not cute at all.’
‘You didn’t send her back, did you?’
The concerned tone tempted him to tease her some more. He resisted.
‘Nah, we came to an understanding. Now she only chews her toys and she knows peeing in the closet is out unless it’s on fire.’ He looked her way, enchanted by the smile edging her lips. ‘We’re still working on the other two.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘C.D.’
‘You called your dog Compact Disc? What a dreadful name.’
‘It’s not short for Compact Disc. It’s short for Cookie Dough.’
‘You’re joking.’ She giggled, the sound light and so sexy he began to wonder how they’d ended up talking about his dog.
‘Hey, it’s my favourite flavour,’ he said in his defence. ‘And C.D.’s kind of the same colour, so it fit.’
‘Now it all makes perfect sense,’ she replied, the tentative smile turning into something warm and appealing.
Time to change the subject. And get this seduction back on track.
‘The point is,’ he began, because there had been a point in there somewhere, ‘when I called you cute, I wasn’t picturing you peeing in my closet or drinking from my john.’
She snorted out another laugh. ‘That’s a relief.’
He chuckled back, despite the heat now pounding in his abdomen like a nuclear reactor. He swung the Mustang onto her street, pulled into the driveway next to the tiny vacation rental and switched off the transmission. ‘But I could probably live with the puppy analogy.’ He slung his arm over the back of her seat, touched his knu
ckle to her cheek and watched her smile falter. ‘If you had the sudden urge to lick me to death.’
Her pupils dilated and the freckles on her nose stood out against the flush of colour. He ran his knuckle across the soft skin, hooked a curl behind her ear.
Her tongue flicked out to moisten her bottom lip as those big almond eyes dipped to his mouth.
Cradling her cheek, he leaned across the stick shift and pressed his lips to hers. Determined to keep it slow this time, and easy.
She gasped, a soft sob that filled the air with the sweet scent of margaritas and desire. He swept his tongue across her lips, tempting her to open her mouth—knowing her taste was more intoxicating than that first sip of cherry cola on a sweltering summer day.
‘Or I could just lick you to death,’ he murmured, finally letting go of the pretence that he didn’t want to devour her in a few greedy bites. ‘Your call?’
Iona dragged herself back from the warm touch of his fingers on her cheek, transfixed by the low murmur of his voice. She sucked in air past the constriction in her throat and got a lungful of his light spicy cologne tempered by the salty sea scent in his hair.
He wanted to lick her to death.
The hot ball of desire plunged, sending ripples of sensation radiating out.
‘What do you say, Iona?’ The husky tone made the desire ignite. ‘It’s your choice, no pressure. But I’d like to take this further.’
Yes, please.
The thought shot into her mind and spilled out of her mouth. ‘Me too.’
His quick smile made her breath catch. Then he kissed her again. The press of lips hot and firm, the lingering touch of his tongue brief, subtle and not nearly enough. ‘Let’s take this inside.’
She nodded. But as she stepped out of the car and he clasped her hand and led her to the postage-stamp-size porch her mind began to race through all the things that could go wrong. She fumbled to find her keys as his palm rested on the slope of her back and rubbed.
Zane Montoya was hot and sexy and a bit too overwhelming What if she tensed up? What if, beneath that seductive charm, he was as rough and impatient as Brad?
