by Tawny Weber
“You look like you’re about to do serious hurt on someone.” Looking fascinated now instead of dejected, Sammi gave him a wide-eyed stare. She reached as if to touch his cheek, but before making contact she tightened her hand into a fist and let it drop to her side. “Did you find Sterling?”
And just like that, all of the anticipation and that little spark of hope in Laramie shut down. Ignoring the tight feeling in his chest, he carefully stepped back, putting a few feet between them.
“I didn’t find Barclay.”
“Oh.” Her deep breath pressed her breasts tight against the threadbare fabric of her smiley-face T, the move lifting the shirt away from the waistband of her denim cutoffs. Laramie’s mouth went dry. “Did you have anything for me, then?”
Oh, the many responses that ran through his head.
He had to take a mental step back, chanting cadence in his head to keep his mind off them. Because unlike her actions while in an alcohol-induced haze, or over the safe distance of the phone, she’d made it clear that she wasn’t interested in what he had to offer.
“I didn’t find Barclay,” he repeated with a shrug. “He’s safe, though. And I know why he was grabbed and who’s behind it.”
So many emotions chased one another across that expressive face. Frustration, hope, fear and, surprisingly, anger. It was that last one that Laramie addressed.
“Why does that piss you off?”
For a second she looked as if she were going to protest, to claim that she wasn’t angry, and Laramie mourned that fury-fueled eight-year-old who’d never hesitated to use her fists to solve things.
“Me? Pissed?” Sammi threw her hands in the air, the move pulling that shirt tight across her jiggling breasts and Laramie almost groaned. Nope. The eight-year-old had been kick-ass, but he’d take the twenty-four-year-old any day. “Why should I be pissed? I’m stuck here pretending everything is fine while my fiancé is missing. I’ve had three bridal showers, each one more embarrassing than the last.”
She shot him a narrow-eyed look so filled with outrage that Laramie had to force himself not to laugh.
“Do you know what a Brazilian is?” She poked a finger in the air before he could respond that it was a person from Brazil. “It’s something that hurts, that’s what it is. It’s embarrassing and painful. And there I was at my stupid spa shower, stuck stripping those fancy panties they foisted on me at the last party, so some masochist with a hair fetish could pour hot wax on me and then rip it right back off. All because I couldn’t offer an acceptable excuse not to.”
Oh.
Laramie’s lips twitched.
That kind of Brazilian.
His gaze dropped to her shorts, wondering what shape was hidden beneath that worn denim. He’d seen hearts, lightning bolts, sports logos, diamonds and once enough bling to make him think twice about getting too close.
“Why didn’t you just say no?” he managed to say instead of asking if she’d considered a question mark.
“How?” She shot him an impatient look. “As far as they all know, Sterling is hale and hearty in Dallas instead of kidnapped by God knows who for God knows what until God knows when. So I couldn’t tell them that I’m having second thoughts about getting married. Who does that? Who ditches a guy while he’s being held captive?”
One who would have ditched him, anyway, Laramie wanted to suggest. But he wasn’t sure Sammi was ready to hear that. Instead, he pulled one of the stools out from under the room-length counter and settled in to get comfortable.
“Why couldn’t you tell them you preferred to go with what nature provided? Or that Barclay prefers it.” It was killing him not to stare at her shorts while saying that. Curiosity was so intense he had to actually force himself to resist the urge to talk her into letting him get a closer look at the subject of their discussion.
“Because these women believe that it’s a bride’s duty to make herself as sexually attractive as possible to her new husband.” Sammi rolled her eyes with the same disgust echoed in her tone. “As if whoever she was when he proposed wasn’t good enough or something.”
“Do you really care what all those women think?”
That stopped Sammi Jo in her tracks.
“What difference does that make?”
Laramie scowled. Did she really believe that? His mother’s oft-stated words came to mind.
“To thine own self be true.” When Sammi’s mouth dropped a little, he quickly added, “The difference between being happy and subverting your preferences to fit into someone else’s standard.”
Frowning, Sammi opened her mouth, then closed it again as if she didn’t know how to respond. Finally, her brow still creased in a sharp line, she shrugged.
“Standards or not, the deed is done. I’m plucked, waxed and oiled.”
All of the blood in his body shot straight to his dick at that image.
“Then, as if that weren’t enough, I had to sit through lunch afterward feeling as if everyone in the restaurant knew what I looked like under my panties.” She grimaced, her voice dropping painfully. “On top of it all, who should come in during dessert while everyone was sharing their favorite honeymoon sex stories but Janette Glass. It was as if someone had filled the room with hissing snakes, the way the room exploded in whispers. I wanted to crawl under the table.”
Janette Glass. Laramie’s amusement faded and understanding dawned. His stomach tightened, reminding him why he’d always been content to keep relationships with women purely sexual. He didn’t know if this was the sort of thing that he was supposed to offer an emotional supportive hug or if he should do what he’d wanted to all week, and offer to kick Barclay’s ass.
“How’d you find out?” was all he could manage.
“Find out that my fiancé has a lover? I’ve known for a while.” Sammi shrugged, her expression making it clear that she wasn’t going to talk about it.
Did she know about the others, too? He leaned back on the stool, debating. This was his opening, free and clear, to make a real move on her. But he couldn’t. Not when she was this vulnerable. Instead, he’d fill her in on what he’d learned about Barclay, then he’d get the hell out of here.
Laramie rubbed the back of his thumb over his forehead, wondering if he should see the base shrink when he got back to Coronado. Because something was seriously wrong with him.
“Look, you have every right to be upset that the man you’re planning to marry is sleeping with someone else,” he finally pointed out.
“What?” Looking confused for a second, Sammi then shook her head. “Oh, that? Well, I’d rather he wasn’t, but according to Sterling, we’re not married yet.”
Whoa. What the hell difference did that make? A commitment was a commitment. Before he could say that, though, Sammi shrugged.
“Besides, aren’t I practically having one of my own?”
“Whoa, sugar.” Sliding to his feet, he lifted one hand in protest. “Don’t be owning what isn’t yours. A couple of kisses and some naughty talk aren’t an affair.”
She stopped midpace to shoot him a chiding look.
“I practically threw myself at you both times we kissed,” she reminded him with that refreshing honesty he admired so much. Even as hot color washed her cheeks and her words lowered to a whisper, she continued. “And I came. That time in the alley, and each time we talked on the phone. Each time. What do you call that?”
“A credit to how good I am.” He tipped his hat back with his knuckles.
* * *
WELL, SHE COULDN’T deny that.
Sammi gave a helpless laugh.
Just looking at him standing there with his hat tilted back and that cocky grin on his face was enough to get her excited. The hard planes of his cheeks were dusted with a couple days’ growth, giving him an extrasexy air of danger.
How was she supposed to ignore that allure?
She’d come in his arms while he was fully dressed and he hadn’t been interested enough in more to even rem
ove his hat.
She’d had phone sex with the man three nights in a row, each one hotter than the last for her. But for him? If his reaction to seeing her again was anything to go by, he’d probably been watching TV during those calls.
She’d even told the man about her bikini wax—although she hadn’t actually intended to blurt that out. Had that got his attention? Obviously not.
Very conscious of her ratty hair and bedraggled appearance, Sammi looked around, desperate for a distraction.
Aha.
She grabbed two glasses from the cabinet above the sink, adding them and the bottle of wine to her tray. Before she could lift it, Laramie was there, taking it for her.
“Where to?”
Sammi debated telling him she wanted it in bed, then with a sigh gestured toward the couch. He’d made it clear that he wasn’t interested, and she really didn’t think she could handle another rejection.
“Are you still here next week?”
“Part of it.” Laramie paused in the act of setting the tray on the low glass table to give her a questioning look. “Why?”
Sammi tried to gauge the resilience of her ego as she curled up on the corner of the low-slung red leather couch. She was still smarting too much to tell, though. Maybe once she’d dealt with the fallout from one rejection, she’d know if she could handle another.
With that in mind, she leaned forward to pour wine into one glass, and after getting a nod from Laramie, the other. She waited until he’d parked his hat on the table and settled on the opposite end of the couch, far enough away that she had to stand again to give him his drink.
“So what’s the deal with Sterling?” she asked once she’d settled back on the couch, tucking her feet under her. “You said you knew what was going on.”
“That partner of his, Dillard is up to his ass in debt. He took out a loan from the kind of people who collect late fees with weapons. He’s been siphoning funds from the car dealership, but when Barclay got suspicious he corrupted the computer system to try to buy time.”
“That’s why Sterling was using my computer,” Sammi exclaimed as realization dawned. “To try to check the dealership’s books.”
“Probably. He also froze the accounts.”
“So Sterling is innocent? He didn’t do anything wrong, but Carl Dillard kidnapped him?”
“Nothing I found on Barclay showed him dirty. But I’m not a PI, so there’s probably a lot that I missed.” Laramie shrugged off the idea of Sterling’s innocence as if he’d never believe it. “Dillard has liquidated everything he’s got and is in the wind. My take is the loan shark has Barclay. The only piece that doesn’t make sense is his covering Dillard’s ass by keeping the kidnapping a secret.”
“He must not want his father to know.” Sammi rubbed her forehead, wondering how she was going to smooth this one over between father and son. “Mr. Barclay dislikes—strongly dislikes—Carl. But the more he criticized the partnership, the more Sterling was determined to make it work.”
“So let’s see if I’ve got this right.” Laramie leaned back, resting his booted foot on his knee and spreading his arms wide along the back of the low leather couch. His laid-back appearance was at odds with the cutting edge of his tone. “He pulled you into his kidnapping, worried you so much that you were willing to do anything, even barter your innocence, because he didn’t want his old man knowing he was right?”
“Well—”
“He’s such an arrogant jackass that he couldn’t deal with the situation like a man. Instead he hides behind your skirt, putting you through hell and worry,” Laramie stated. He went on and on, pointing out Sterling’s each and every flaw in that same biting tone.
Since Sammi couldn’t actually disagree with anything he said, she just let it roll right over her as she drank her wine and secretly reveled in the fact that someone was outraged on her behalf. Finally, after he’d been silent for a solid ten seconds, simply staring at her with an impatient look on that sexy face, she shrugged.
“I wasn’t bartering my innocence,” Sammi muttered into her glass as she finished her wine. After all, it was really the only thing she could disagree with.
For a moment he looked as if he were going to contest it. Or at least debate the definition of innocence. Then, apparently done with it, Laramie nodded.
“What were you going to do?” He gave her refilled glass an arch look. “Drown your worries in wine?”
“I was more embarrassed than worried,” Sammi reminded him, wrinkling her nose before gesturing to the tray still covered with a silver dome. “The wine was just to wash this down with.”
She lifted the lid, letting the comforting scents wrap around her like a warm hug. Covering three large plates were at least twenty slices of cake. Varying in size, color and texture, the glistening white frosting of one nestled up against the sassy pink-coated chocolate of another.
She waited expectantly.
After giving the tray a blank stare, he lifted that same stare to Sammi’s face. She had to bite back her giggle when he wordlessly arched his brow.
“I had to visit the baker today to finalize the wedding cake order and had a craving for a taste,” she explained with a loving look at her choices. After careful perusal, she chose a small plate with three squares of chocolate cake. Milk, mocha and double fudge, if she remembered correctly. “I’ve heard this thing about oral gratification. I’m trying it out.”
As the rich scent of chocolate filled the air, she scooped up a bite too big for the fork, one hand under it to catch any crumbs. Sammi paused with the fork halfway to her mouth when Laramie closed his eyes and groaned.
“What? A lot of my friends use the phrase all the time. They say eating something takes their mind off their worries. Like just popping it into their mouth makes their whole world better.”
More than ready to test the theory, Sammi nipped the cake off the fork. Mmm, yes. Chocolaty richness filled her mouth. So good. She wrapped her lips around the fork, sucking off the ganache that’d stuck to the tines.
“The creamy part is best,” she commented, her eyes on the other cake options on her plate. Milk or mocha? Which had the most frosting? She was going to need a lot of frosting to get her through the fact that the man she wanted most in her life was sitting so far away from her that he probably had one cheek hanging off the edge of the red leather.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
Sammi wished she could ask him the same question.
“Did you want some? I can share?”
“Is this really how you’re going to deal with it?” He shook his head. “Eat your way into a sugar coma?”
“Maybe I’m not eating cake because I’m upset about Sterling.” Laramie sighed when she licked the frosting off her thumb. “Maybe I’m eating cake because I’m trying not to think about something else. Or maybe I’m eating it because I’m tired of people telling me what I can and can’t do and what parts of my body should be waxed while doing or not doing it.”
Sammi stabbed her fork into the air to emphasize each word before scooping up the milk-chocolate-covered slice.
“Sammi Jo.” He reached over to lay one hand on her arm, keeping her from stuffing more cake in her mouth. The feel of his hand on her bare skin sent shivers of need through her. “Don’t make yourself sick over Barclay. He’s not worth it.”
Sammi didn’t know what came over her.
Maybe it was because Laramie had moved closer. Close enough to touch.
Or maybe it was chocolate going to her head, triggering an addictive need for more kinds of pleasure.
Or maybe it was simple frustration brought on by having the man of her fantasies touchably close but not interested in having her touch him.
But suddenly all of the frustrations, all of the sexual needs, all of the wishes unmet in her head exploded into a single act of defiance as Sammi dipped her fingers into her plateful of thick chocolate frosting and swiped then across Laramie’s cheek.
Uh-
oh.
Sammi’s heart raced. Eyes wide, she fought with all her might to keep her expression neutral.
Slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, Laramie lifted his hand to wipe at the gooey smear on his cheek. He finally glanced at the chocolate on his fingers, contemplated, then looked at her again.
His expression still hadn’t changed.
Sammi wasn’t having as much luck with hers. She tried to look contrite, but the giggles kept bubbling up in her throat.
“Sorry,” she finally managed, the word accompanied by an embarrassing snort of laughter. “I couldn’t resist.”
“Is that a fact? Well then, you leave me with no choice,” he said in a considering tone.
“Sure I do,” she protested, scooting backward on the couch. “There are plenty of choices available. Why don’t we talk about them?”
“Haven’t you heard? I’m not much of a talking kind of guy.”
Moving so fast that she barely had time to blink, Laramie grabbed her. One arm wrapped around her waist to keep her from escaping, he showed her his frosting-smeared finger. There wasn’t enough there to do damage, Sammi noted, relaxing a little.
In that uncanny way he had of reading her thoughts, Laramie reached over and swiped all of the lush, fluffy frosting off the chocolate cream cake.
“Hey, I was saving that,” Sammi protested. “It’s my favorite.”
“Yeah?”
He wiped his chocolate-covered fingers across her face, from cheek to chin, before she could duck. Then, wicked amusement in his eyes, he dabbed what was left on her mouth.
In her own swift move, Sammi grabbed his hand, holding it in place so she could lick the frosting from his fingers. Flavors exploded, rich and decadent. Silken chocolate with just a hint of spice.
And Laramie.
“You need to be careful, Sammi Jo,” he murmured, his eyes locked on hers. But he didn’t pull away. “Otherwise you might find you’re biting off more than you can chew.”
Oh, the images that ran through her mind of all the things she could bite, nibble and lick.
