She groaned. “Where are you, Lola?”
I dropped my voice and sneaked a look around. “I’m at his apartment. I only have a minute.”
“What, are you in the bathroom? Do you have the water running so he doesn’t hear you on the phone?”
Oh, she was a riot. And not too far off the mark. “Do you think he could be hiding something?”
“How should I know? I haven’t talked to the guy since high school. Ask him, why don’t you, loca.”
“What am I supposed to say? Huh? ‘Tell me if you’re a raving lunatic or a sex addict because you seem too good to be true, and, oh yeah, I found your jumbo box of condoms’?” I sighed. “I’m in trouble.”
“What’re you wearing?”
I looked at my reflection. One hundred percent temptress, which meant Jack and I would probably have sex tonight. “What if he’s a serial killer? Or a compulsive cheater? Or—oh my God—a dog-hater?” Although he had fed Salsa some table scraps.
“Cálmate, Lola. I only asked what you’re wearing.”
I groaned. “A fuck-me dress and stripper shoes.”
“Uh-oh,” she said gravely. Finally, she was realizing the direness of the situation. “Can’t you put on a sweater or something? Give yourself a fighting chance.”
“I don’t know if I want to. That’s the problem.”
“Focus, Lola. It’s too soon. Find a sweater.”
“I don’t have one. It’s a hundred degrees outside.”
I sensed her throwing up her hands in defeat. “Good luck, then. Don’t say I didn’t try to help you.”
I curled my lip at the phone. “You’ve been a huge help, Coco. Remind me to send you a You’re the Wind Beneath My Wings card.”
She laughed. “You won’t be able to resist him, so why bother fighting it? You’ve wanted him forever. Just be thankful he has the raincoats handy.”
And she called herself my friend? Where was the support?
I put my phone away and let my gaze drift to the bed again. “Hmm,” I sighed. I propped one knee on it and leaned over the bed, just to test it out. Firm mattress. No squeaks. Another perfect score for Jack Callaghan.
I crawled forward, stretching my arm out to touch the pillow. Squishy and delectable and inviting. The air in the room shifted. Every nerve in my body sent off warning signals. I was a good girl. I need a commitment—or at least a few more dates—before I put out. Didn’t I? Didn’t I!
My mother’s frantic voice screamed in my head: Get out of that man’s bedroom, Dolores. ¡Ándale!
The numbers on the alarm clock on the bedside table changed—7:16. Yikes!
I backed up and jumped off the bed, whirled around—and ran smack into Jack.
His arm snaked around to my back, keeping me upright. He looked down at me. His hands skimmed my sides as if they belonged only there. A slow smile curved his lips. “That dress, and you crawling on my bed, should be outlawed.”
I started to melt before I remembered the Trojans. This was a man who very likely was pleasuring another woman.
My mind threw up red flags, but my body didn’t care. Flutters replaced the coil of nerves in my gut. He liked me, didn’t he? We had chemistry. Sarah was probably nobody.
Right. And Antonio and Reilly were getting married next week. I backed away from him and his hands fell back to his sides.
His dimple skimmed his cheek. “I see you’re making yourself at home.”
I pressed my hand to my chest to calm my racing heart. If I pressed down hard enough, maybe I could will it into submission. “I—I was just—um, I thought I’d—” I sputtered to a stop, unable to come up with a convincing lie.
He took my hand and led me back to the living room. “No harm, no foul. Find anything interesting?”
I opened my mouth to ask him the burning question and get it over with. But I clamped it shut again. I couldn’t do it.
Light filtered in from outside. The candles at the table flickered. I suddenly realized that he’d come into his apartment, lit the candles, and then come to find me. Not my best being-aware-of-my-surroundings-at-all-times detective moment.
He opened a bottle of Primitivo from Sobon Estate winery and poured a glass, sliding it across the concrete bar to me. I gave no pretense of being a wine connoisseur and took a good long drink without swirling my glass, studying the tint, inhaling the bouquet, or taking a delicate sip to ascertain the sweetness or the body, or whatever it was. Red and good. That was all I needed to know at this point.
I stared out the balcony window at the city below, then moved my gaze to his face. I wanted to close my eyes and touch every inch of him.
“Lola?” I blinked and found Jack giving me a puzzled look. “I asked if you want some more wine.”
My eyes drifted to my nearly empty glass. “Oh.” I pushed it toward him.
He held the bottle from the bottom, refilling my glass. “Are you all right?”
Hell no. I wanted his lips against mine. I wanted my fantasy of us rolling around on his perfect bed to be real. I gulped. “Fine.”
“No, you’re not.” He leaned against the counter behind him and studied me. “You’re distracted. And you’re downing that wine like it’s tequila.”
I pulled the glass away from my lips. Yikes! It was half-empty again.
“You better pace yourself.”
He was right. Stay in control, Lola. And keep your hands to yourself. “What’s for dinner?” I blurted. “Cold cuts?”
There was that funny look again. “You think I’m giving you cold cuts for dinner?”
I arched a brow at him. “Deli meat in the fridge.”
He gave me that half grin again as he leaned forward conspiratorially. “You must have missed the secret steak compartment.” He picked up tongs and strode out the French doors to the balcony.
I spun my stool around and admired him. What would he do if I walked up behind him, slipped my hands under his crisp button-up shirt, and brushed my palms against his chest? My vision blurred, and I fanned myself—wow, it was hot in here.
I heard Jack’s voice somewhere in the distance. “Earth to Lola.”
“What? Oh…”
He leaned against the counter next to me—how’d he get there?—and tapped the tongs into his open palm. “Where were you?”
I debated telling him the truth—that I’d been fantasizing about him—but went with distraction instead. “So when do we eat?”
His blue eyes smoldered with gray. “You’re hungry?”
I blinked, steadying my nerves. “Yep. Remember I told you—I like food.”
He put the tongs down and moved in front of me. Then his voice dropped low, a sexy, wicked grin slid onto his face, and my heart skipped a beat. “Do you want to skip straight to dessert?”
Chapter 17
I was not averse to skipping the main course and indulging in dessert. My breath grew shallow as he spread my legs with his, edged his body between them, and traced his fingertips up my thighs. Oh my God, he was smooth—or at least very well-practiced.
Condoms. Remember the condoms.
Right. I tried to break the spell by looking away. No dessert before dinner. I needed answers first—and ground rules. Like when Jack was with me, he would be focused only on my pleasure.
But he pushed my hair back and brushed his lips against my ear. “I’ve waited a long time for this, Lola.”
I’d waited a long time for this, too. Fourteen years, to be precise. He nibbled my neck, and a flame of heat spiraled through me. I was too weak to withstand his powers, and I gripped the counter behind me to stay upright.
“Mmm.” I don’t know which of us moaned. Maybe both.
He ran his hands over my sides and up to my rib cage. “Mmmm. How do you say beautiful in Spanish?”
I felt the heat of his tongue against my jaw and struggled to keep my eyes open. If I could see, maybe I’d stay alert and in control. “Bellísima,” I breathed, trying my damnedest not to moan again. But a lus
tful sigh slipped out as I shifted my hips on the stool and pressed myself up against him.
He sucked in his breath and froze, then muttered, “Tu eres bellísima.” His fingers slipped into the V of my neckline as he trailed kisses along my jaw, my collarbone…
My eyes fluttered closed. I loved that he spoke Spanish for me, even if his accent wasn’t up to par. My breath caught. ¡Dios mío! That was his flaw! Jack Callaghan wasn’t perfect. I wanted him. Now.
I felt for the buttons of his shirt, working to undo them as he gently pulled down the fabric of my dress. The heat of his breath against the swell of my breast sent flames through me.
Then came his lips. Holy Mary Mother of God. Thank you, Victoria’s Secret, for the demi-bra—more uncovered flesh to ravish. I shuddered as he ran his tongue over my skin, his fingers lightly touching my nipple through the lace.
“Red and black,” he murmured. “I like it.”
That was no secret. His jeans could contain only so much. I pressed harder against him, my body screaming for release. Jack was finally going to be mine. Kind of.
He plumped my breasts together with his hands, his tongue going back and forth between them, his thumbs doing a fine assist on my nipples through the thin fabric of my dress. Oh God, I wanted to rip his shirt off, have him throw me over his shoulder and carry me back to that down comforter of his… .
Okay, maybe not. I wasn’t a cavewoman. But I could wrap my legs around his hips and he could carry me that way.
I ran my fingers through his hair, arching as I took a deep breath—and started coughing. Black smoke billowed in from the balcony.
“Oh shit.” He pulled away and snatched the tongs from where he’d dropped them on the counter and then raced to the barbecue.
My legs snapped together, and I gripped the counter to steady myself. What was it Jack had said last night? Oh yeah. Timing was everything.
Was the burning food a sign? Get it together, Lola. It’s too fast. An imperfect Spanish accent didn’t chase away the skeletons in Jack’s closet, and skeletons are important, especially when they involve prophylactics.
Taking my glass of wine, I slid off the stool and went out to the balcony. Flames licked at the two steaks from under the grill. He moved them to the side, turning them and letting the fire die down. “They’re a little crispier than I’d planned.”
“You were distracted.” I didn’t mean to say it coyly, but it came out that way.
“Yes, I was.” He slipped his arms around me again and brushed his lips over my neck. “In a good way.”
A timer went off inside. He dropped his forehead against mine for a second. “Hold that thought.”
I followed him back inside and stayed a safe distance from him. “I’m starving.”
“I am, too.” He gave me that wicked smile again, and I knew he wasn’t talking about steak.
But he went back to preparing the meal. He pulled dishes of sour cream, butter, and chives from the refrigerator, and we sat down at the table with our steaks and baked potatoes.
I felt his gaze intent on me as I focused on my food and took a bite of steak. I looked up through my eyelashes. “Delicious. You’re a talented man.” More coy. Obviously, I had a seduction wish. Or I was schizophrenic.
He gave me a cockeyed grin. “You think so?”
I knew so. “What are your secrets, Callaghan?”
He threw his hands up and looked far too innocent. “No secrets.”
Oh yeah? Then explain about Sarah and the missing condoms, bub. “Everyone has secrets.”
He cut apart his potato and piled on the fixings. “Try me.”
Hmm. A free pass for questions. Not an opportunity to waste—or take lightly. I put my knife and fork down. “When was the last time you had a girlfriend?”
“You cut to the chase, Cruz. Suffice it to say it’s been a while. Next question.”
Evasive. That wasn’t going to fly. I was a detective. Redirect. “How long is a while?”
His smile dimmed a little. “About six months.”
Six months. The condom box didn’t look that old. “What happened to her?”
He folded his arms over his chest. No more smile. “Next question.”
So it was classified information. I let it go, but I was no fool. I’d come back to past girlfriends another time. “Ever been married?”
“Nope.” His slow smile started to return. “Next question.”
“Ever want to?” I mean, really, what was the point in going out with someone if they never wanted a church wedding, reception to follow at a small local Mexican restaurant?
His body relaxed and he picked up his fork. “Someday—” He shrugged. “—with the right woman.”
Maybe with a nice Latina in an outlawed red dress? I scolded myself. “Kids?”
His smile grew. “Don’t have any.”
My eyes rolled. “Well, that’s a relief. But do you want any, Callaghan?”
“Of course, Cruz. Four sounds like a good number.”
I sputtered. “Four kids?” I didn’t know if there was a right or wrong answer to the do you want kids question, but four? ¡Ay, caramba!
He cocked his head. “How many do you want?”
“Not four, I’ll tell you that,” I said, hoping kid quantity was not a deal-breaker.
He smiled. “Numbers are negotiable.”
Yay! Not a deal-breaker, then. Moving on. Next question. “Who called you last night?”
“When?”
Was he serious? Salsa dancing at Club Ambrosía, an invitation to come inside my apartment in the middle of the night, and a phone call that had ripped him away. It had been gnawing at my gut, and he was feigning innocence? I narrowed my eyes. No more pussyfooting around. “Who are you sleeping with?”
The glass he was holding jostled, wine sloshing over the side. “What?”
“It’s a simple question, Callaghan.” Ooh, I was good. Direct, yet flirty at the same time. “Because, you know, if you’re sleeping with someone, and then we happen to sleep together—” I picked up my wine glass and pointed at him. “—and I’m not saying we will, but if we did, that means I might as well be sleeping with that other person because whatever diseases she might have, I’ll get.” I paused for a breath. “Haven’t you seen those posters about knowing who your partner’s been with?”
He stretched his hand across his forehead and rubbed his temples. “Wow.”
“You’ve practically seen me naked.” Okay, I’d been in pj’s, so maybe that was a stretch, but I went with it. Not to mention what would have happened if the steaks hadn’t caught fire. Hell, my panties were still damp. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about—” I waved my finger between us. “—us.”
“Hell yes, I’ve thought about us. I can’t think of anything else.” He leaned forward, his expression painfully serious. “I am currently unattached, not sleeping with anyone, single and available.” Then he cracked a devilish grin. “But I’m open to offers.”
Oh no. He was going to buy a brand-new, just for Lola’s pleasure box of condoms before I got into his bed. Or at least he was going to commit to buying one. I tilted my head and watched him carefully. “So you’re not sleeping with anybody?”
He held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
I arched a brow. I was pretty sure Jack Callaghan had never been a Boy Scout.
“Now it’s my turn,” he said as he refilled my wineglass. “Time to spill some of your secrets, Lola.”
Ooh. He’d let me grill him only so he could have a turn. Sneaky. I kind of liked that. I held my palms up. “I’m an open book. No secrets here.”
Now his eyes narrowed. “Why’d you and Sergio break up?”
My shoulders slumped. Man, he was good. He’d managed to ask me the one thing I really hated talking about. My turn to be evasive. I ate a lettuce leaf from the salad bowl, followed by a slice of ruby red tomato.
He watched me as I caught tomato juice dribbling down my lip with my ton
gue. “Well?” he said finally. Damn. Great willpower, Jack. Not even a slip in train of thought.
“It was time,” I said. He could be vague; I could be vague.
“What does that mean?”
“Not sure I remember, it was so long ago.”
He cocked his head and gave me a gimme a break look.
I smiled. “I’ll save that story for another time, too. We can have an ex-bashing discussion—how’s that sound?”
His left eyelid tightened for an instant. Then he moved on. Thank God. Jack’s voice grew casual. “What’s new with your case, Detective?”
Ah, a safe topic. And one I welcomed. I jumped at the chance to process my information aloud. “How’s this for shocking? George Bonatee and Assemblyman Ryan Case own Tattoo Haven.”
He raised his eyebrows, looking puzzled and dazzling at the same time. “Why is that so shocking?”
“Because Zod—”
“The guy who pierced you?”
“Right, the tattoo guy. His real name is Todd, and he’s Case’s son. He had motive to kill Emily if she was threatening to take her accusations against him to the police, which she apparently hadn’t done yet. And then there’s Bonatee and Case. They wouldn’t have wanted their names dragged through the mud, so they both have motives. Mrs. Case, too,” I said, realizing that she might have been willing to kill in order to protect her husband’s career and reputation.
I drew in a breath, trying hard to ignore Jack’s proximity, the tone of his voice when he’d mentioned my piercing, and the way his fathomless eyes studied me. I hurried on. “And then there’s the fact that Bonatee met his son for the first time and maybe wanted custody of him. Of course, that theory holds more water if Emily was blackmailing him, something I haven’t been able to prove. And Muriel, of course,” I said, adding one last-ditch suspect, “only because she’s a whack job and may have been working for the killer. Any one of them could have gotten Emily out of the way.”
He considered it. “Yeah,” he said. “But look at the facts: Even though Emily may have believed it, there’s no concrete proof that the infection was caused by the tattoo. Whatever Emily had was circumstantial.”
Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 01 - Living the Vida Lola Page 22
