by Stacy Gail
“Maybe I’m part Hobbit and this is second dinner.”
“They had second breakfast, not second dinner, but I see what you mean.” Grinning, she snagged a bottle from him before she wrapped an arm around his waist. “It’s a good thing I think you’re a sexy beast when you have a little meat on your bones. I love a man with a healthy appetite.”
“That’s me, a sexy beast with the beginnings of a beer belly.” Thoroughly content with that fact, Patrick leaned in for a quick kiss before dropping the rest of the bottles on the table and handing one to Essie. “Hope your man likes Bud, Essie, ‘cause that’s what I got him.”
“I have no idea what Steele drinks but I’m sure it’ll be great, thanks.” She didn’t bother correcting Patrick’s assumption that Steele was her man. She didn’t even know what that meant. What she needed to do was make a plan for how she would react in case Steele stood her up, so that Carla and Patrick wouldn’t feel sorry for her. Man, she hated pity. She’d had more than her lifetime’s allotment of it. Enough to know, at any rate, that she had developed a violent allergy to it.
She had to smile as she watched Patrick and Carla wander toward the snack bar, arms around each other. They fit, those two. They’d found each other, recognized that in a world full of individuals that they were a matched set, and had such faith in that belief they went about building a family together.
If she could ever find where she belonged, she’d be grateful every damn day for the rest of her life.
“Hey,” a low rumble sounded in her ear. “Is that beer for me?”
She gasped and whirled in her seat, only to find herself nose-to-nose with Steele. His pale eyes got lighter with a smile as he leaned in to threaten her mouth with his.
“Did I surprise you, sweetness?” With that, he graced her lips with a quick, lip-tingling kiss that ended much too soon.
“You’re here.” She could hear the delight in her voice, and didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. So much for playing it cool. She should just hang a sign around her neck declaring that she was Ezekiel Steele’s number-one fangirl and get it over with.
His scarred eyebrow rose. “I told you I’d be here, and I’m not even as late as I thought I’d be. I could’ve stopped by my place to change, but I didn’t want to take the time.”
That was when she noticed the nice dark trousers, blue-pinstriped Oxford shirt with white cuffs and collar, and a suit jacket that was slung over one arm with a yellow silk tie hanging out of a pocket. “Wow, nice threads. You don’t usually dress up for work.”
He shrugged and moved around in front of her so he could lean his butt against the rim of the table. “Not for the House, no. I want to blend in over there, not stand out, and I’d definitely stand out if I dressed like this.”
“So why are you looking so pretty today?”
He snorted. “Shit, did you just call me pretty?”
“You got a problem with that?”
“Woman, do not make me prove I’m a dude with a dick and enough testosterone for at least two men.”
Lord, he was cute. “So…you don’t like knowing that I think you’re pretty?”
“Trick question and you know it. Try the word handsome and see what it gets you.”
“Handsome is much too tame a word for you, Mr. Steele.”
“What word would you use, Miss Santiago?”
“I already said you were pretty, especially in a suit. What made you wear it?”
“I had a consult with a prospective client this evening at PSI, and that meant putting on a dress-to-impress show.”
“The trials and tribulations of adulting.” Helpless to stop herself, her gaze went to the tailored cut of his pants, and couldn’t quite manage to look away when she noticed how perfectly the cut cradled his package. Size fourteen shoe… “Somehow I don’t equate uber-hot, swag suits as part of a private security company. I was picturing dark rooms with lots of tech stuff and hard-bitten, cynical men staring at a massive wall of screens displaying the world’s most dangerous hot spots.”
The smile that suddenly stretched across his face was so dazzling it took her breath away. “You think suits are hot?”
“I believe I said uber-hot. Suits are a woman’s idea of lingerie, in case you didn’t know.”
“Hmm. I’ll have to remember that.” His eyes narrowed speculatively on her, as though he was trying to get to what lay beyond her surface expression. “The only dark rooms at PSI are at night and when the lights are out. I’ll have to show it to you someday.”
It was ridiculous, how the curiosity over where he worked bubbled inside her. It was as though she didn’t want to leave any corner of his life unexplored. “I’m up for that.”
“Good.” He reached for the untasted bottle of beer in her hand and took a long swig from it before handing it back. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Feverishly she told herself that one little sharing gesture was no biggie, but she couldn’t make herself ignore the intimacy of it. “Are you sure you want to bowl in such swoon-worthy duds?”
“First pretty, then uber-hot, and now swoon-worthy? Damn, I must look good.”
“Best thing I’ve seen all day.” Holy crud, she was flirting. When was the last time she took a dive into the flirting pool?
Years. Freaking years.
She had to admit, the water felt great.
“Glad my personal Fashionista approves.” He ran a hand down the impressive wall of his chest, nice and slow. Her eyes followed its every move. Yum. “When it comes to a dress code in a bowling alley, the only thing that matters are the shoes. Did you happen to pick up a pair for me, or do I need to go to the counter?’
“The bowling shoes I got for you are a spectacular Green Goblin purple and green, with cheery skull accents in a fiery neon orange,” she said in her best runway narrator’s voice, and reached under the table to produce the size-fourteen beauties before handing them over. “Clearly you’re going to be the best-dressed bowler at Lights Out tonight.”
“I don’t know about that. I like what you’re wearing.” With his gaze riveted to hers, he set aside the shoes, leaned forward and slid a hand over her bare knee with slow, quiet deliberation. Her pulse stumbled so wildly it banged against the inner wall of her chest, and it took all her strength not to put a hand to the disturbance like some freaked-out Victorian miss. “You have the most spectacular legs I’ve ever seen, Essie, did you know that? And I’m a leg-man so I know what the hell I’m talking about. These babies are as amazing as your eyes, and that’s saying something. I could look at them all night and be a happy, happy man.”
“I’m glad you approve.” She could barely get the words out. Her skin was so completely on fire where he touched it was almost impossible to remember how to form words. “I’ve got to admit, that’s good to hear. I’m not used to showing them.”
“Yeah, I know.” There was a change in his smile, almost impossible for her to define until she realized, with his next words, that it was pride. “You’ve hidden what a knockout you are because you didn’t have anyone around that made you feel safe. Now you do, so you know you don’t have to hide anymore. Can’t tell you how good that makes me feel. Or how hot.”
Her face suddenly contained all the heat that her body was capable of producing. “Do you realize how cocky you sound?”
“Sweetness, I’ve earned it, because I’ve earned your trust. You’re just going to have to overlook my swagger.”
As he straightened to put on the atrocious Green Goblin bowling shoes, she had to admit that she’d overlook anything he did as long as he kept smiling at her. “Swagger looks good on you. And allowing myself to relax and just be me, without fear or compulsively hiding, feels even better. It’s like I’m finally emerging from my cocoon, and it feels great.”
“I’ll bet it does.” His attention swerved from tying his shoes to examining her face so thoroughly it was as though he thought he could find the secrets of the universe there if he looked lon
g enough. “You letting yourself be you is the greatest damn thing in the world.”
“Look who’s here.” With her hands filled with platters of food, Carla appeared at their table with Patrick bringing up the rear, already munching on a nacho. “I’m so glad you could make it, Steele. Ready to get demolished by Team Knowles-Harper?”
“You want to demolish him?” Patrick stared at Steele, who’d straightened to his full height to make room on the table for the food. “You crazy, babe?”
“Nope. Just competitive.”
“More than competitive,” Essie corrected while the two men shook hands and introduced themselves. “I remember when we were in the fifth grade, Carla didn’t talk to me for a week because I’d beaten her in our class’s monthly spelling bee.”
“Why does any ten year old need to know how to spell the word ‘incontinence?’ It’s not like that’s a big issue at that age.” With a huff, Carla gave her content kids a sharp-eyed mommy-look before heading over to the automatic-score touch screen to type in her name. “Okay folks, let’s get this show on the road. Who wants to go first besides me?”
For the next hour or so, Essie had an absolute blast. She hooted and catcalled like a pro when it was either Carla’s or Patrick’s turn, and cheered like crazy when it was Steele’s turn. In all honesty, she hadn’t thought a kitschy bowling alley with neon on the walls and ball returns would be Steele’s speed. With her theatrical background, the backdrop she would put him in would be more along the lines of the House, or a gun range, and most definitely a Harley Davidson store.
But a bowling alley?
Not so much.
That was why she was shocked when he got a strike on the first frame, and she believed him when he shrugged and said, “Fluke.” Then he got a strike on the second frame. The third was an impossible split he almost made and the fourth was a perfect spare.
Fluke? Yeah, right.
The man totally knew what he was doing.
She, on the other hand, did not.
Her first frame was laughable, even to her. The ball didn’t feel right in her hand, she was positive her fingers would get stuck in the little finger hole thingies, and she had no clue how many steps she needed to get enough oomph behind the ball. Because of that, she wound up doing approximately a dozen mincing, dance-like steps up to the line before aborting the mission at the last second while yelling, “Holy cats, what am I doing?”
It took a while for everyone to recover from that, but once the laughter had died down Steele came up onto the wooden floor behind her, aimed her toward the correct lane—always a good thing when bowling—and curled his fingers around her wrists as she held the ball up to her chest. His mouth was against her hair, his front pressed to the line of her back and his rock-hard arms curled around her. It was a delicious sensation, being utterly enveloped like that by another person. And not just any person. A person she trusted. Maybe that was why it seemed as though every nerve in her body moved over to where he made contact with her. Or maybe it was because she was delirious from the heat they generated between them, a heat that rivaled the temperature of the sun’s surface.
Or, maybe he just turned her on, something she’d never fully experienced before, and being in his arms was where she wanted to be.
His mouth never left its resting place against her hair as he instructed her, something about not thinking of hitting the pins and aiming for some dinky little arrows on the floor instead. He even helped her on the motion of how to swing her arm back. She was such a fan of how it rocked her against him, she asked him to repeat the motion a few times.
For practice.
When she’d snuggled back into him on the third swing, he’d laughed softly, wrapped an arm around her waist from behind and gave her a squeeze.
Smart man knew exactly what she was doing.
Oh well.
Despite all the pointers Steele had given her, Essie’s first attempt at bowling had been an enthusiastic gutter ball that was so spectacular she couldn’t help but laugh. Her “spare” attempt had been better, and there had been something ridiculously gratifying when Steele cheered as she sent seven pins flying. From that point on, in between talking trash and chowing down on artery-clogging food and beer, she couldn’t remember when she’d had more fun.
It wasn’t until they were on their final frame when the lights suddenly went out and long purple tubes overhead—black lights—flickered on. All at once, the copious amounts of neon on the walls, the bowling balls, even the white pins at the end of the lanes fluoresced like magic.
“Ladies and gents, it’s time for Lights Out play through the complex. Enjoy!”
“Cool,” Carla began, but was interrupted by a slow-building wail from Charlotte, who had been contentedly sucking on a juice box while cuddled on her father’s lap. Now she was clutching her father’s shirt, crying and kicking as if she was being burned alive.
“Uh-oh.” Concerned, Essie came to her feet to see if she could help just as Dillon woke up and began to cry, no doubt because his sister was crying.
“She’s afraid of the dark,” Carla explained hurriedly, dropping her bowling ball back onto the return chute and half-ran to her children. “Man, I didn’t know they turned off all the lights in here. This isn’t good.”
“We’re going to find you some light, baby,” Patrick promised his now-screaming daughter, his hand cupping her little head and doing his best to cover her eyes while holding her close. “Don’t be afraid, Daddy’s here. Nothing to be afraid of when Daddy’s here.”
“We gotta bounce, my girl can’t take this.” Looking stressed and upset for her poor little girl, Carla waved a distracted hand their way while gathering up Dillon’s carrier with the other. “I’m sorry, guys.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, just get Charlotte to a place where she feels safe.” Essie waved them away, and in less than a minute she found herself alone and in the dark with Steele.
Hmm.
“Well.” All at once she was breathless, like she was the one who was afraid of the dark. But she wasn’t afraid. She liked the dark, and the one thing that had been less-than-perfect about their night out was that they hadn’t been alone—something she hadn’t known she wanted until they got there. Now, all was right with her world. “Do you think Carla was eager to leave because she knew Team Knowles-Harper was getting creamed by Team Santiago-Steele?”
“Let’s put it this way—I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“So.” She glanced up at the scoreboard above their lane, no longer interested in the game. “What do you want to do now?”
Through the darkness, his hand reached out to curl around hers. “I’ve got one or two ideas.”
Chapter Eleven
Essie’s heart thundered so loudly she was sure Steele could hear it as he led her from the bowling lanes up a short flight of stairs to the billiard section of the building. The black lighting was just as dominant here, with black-light fixtures hanging over each table to illuminate the specially treated balls and glowing white pockets in the tables. Only one table was in use near the front, so after paying at the register, Steele guided her to a table at the very back and had her choose a pool cue while he racked up the balls.
“You seem to be a man of many talents,” she remarked, and as he hung up the triangle, she tried not to focus on the more X-rated talents a man with a size fourteen shoe might have. “Bowling, billiards, turning grown men into pretzels. Is there anything you can’t do?”
“Not that I know of.” He scooped up the cue ball and idly rolled it between his hands as he headed toward her. “The billiards and turning men into pretzels came from my time in the service. The bowling came from my father.”
“You father liked to bowl?”
“He liked whatever got him attention. He was a preacher who’d use just about any gimmick under the sun—fasting, mass baptisms, bingo and bowling for fundraisers, faith healings, snake-handling, exorcisms… you name it, he did it. And with every tric
k he pulled he would snag more to his flock, then scare the crap out of them with promises of eternal damnation if they ever tried to leave him.”
“Charming man.” She kept her eyes on him as he came to stand beside her at the head of the table. Even through the dimness she could see his face was a perfectly blank mask. She’d gone through enough therapy sessions to know that the level of non-emotion Steele was displaying didn’t exist. “You mentioned snake-handling once before. Did you father really make you handle venomous snakes?”
“When I was a little kid, yeah.” As she’d noted earlier, the faintest hint of a Southern drawl crept in, though she doubted he was aware of it. “It was a win-win situation for that bastard, and a no-win situation for me. But that’s how shit usually goes when you’re dealing with a narcissist with a side order of megalomania. Or so my forensic profiler pal at PSI tells me,” he added dryly. “Personally I always thought he was just a selfish sonofabitch.”
No kidding. “I don’t understand why someone didn’t put a stop to it the moment they witnessed that level of child abuse.”
“I’m from the Bible Belt, sweetness—rural Louisiana. It’s understood that whatever is done in the name of religion—or what my dad said was religion—should never be questioned.”
“Yeah, but snakes? What the hell does that have to do with religion?”
“It worked out basically like this. If I didn’t get bitten, it was all due to the glory of my father’s faith protecting me from harm. If I did get bitten, I was an evil-tainted nonbeliever who got righteous punishment from the big guy upstairs. Nothing was ever my old man’s fault.”
It was almost too awful a concept for her to wrap her mind around. “And… did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Get bitten?”
“’Course I did.”
Damn.
“I was twelve, going on twenty-five, which means I had a shit-ton of attitude. I was fed up with my old man’s control-freak bullshit, his constant condemnation of everything I did, the whole eternal damnation thing. I was just done.”
