by Kim Karr
Or I’m simply wrong and being overly paranoid.
There’s also a possibility that even if he was there, he might not know it was me with him. The sun was really bright, the hallways were really dim, and the chaos of the moment took place in a whirlwind.
The SUV comes to a stop in front of a lime green building painted with pictures of bottles of Corona and glasses of Margaritas. The flashing neon sign reads, “El Pescadoro.” There are a good number of cars in the parking lot, so I assume the place is popular, especially since it’s a Tuesday night.
Caleb gets out, but he doesn’t circle around to open my door. Instead he heads inside.
Shocked, I sit in the car for at least five minutes stewing. Sure, I told him not to talk to me or look at me, but I didn’t mean it. Not in the way he’s taking it.
Doesn’t he understand that?
He’s supposed to be protecting me, and he’s doing a really crappy job of it. Storming in after him to tell him so, I’m surprised how packed the place is. There are patrons at the bar, on the dance floor, and sitting at tables. It takes me a few seconds to spot him.
Mr. Caleb Holt, in all his broad glory, is sitting at a booth in the very back. His long legs stretch to one side and his unruly sandy brown hair curls up from the heat. Everything else about him is cold and composed. It’s the story of my life, and I’m sick of it.
Practically running in his direction, I can feel my body trembling as I flop down in the seat across from him. “Are you always such an asshole?” I ask him.
His jaw ticks and I can’t tell if he’s suppressing a smirk or trying to hold back his own anger. “I don’t know, that depends. Are you always such a bitch?”
The waitress comes to the table before I can respond. She places a bottle of beer with a lime wedged into the neck in front of him and a Margarita in front of me. “Here you go, and I’ll bring your food right out,” she says in half English, half Spanish.
“Gracias,” Caleb responds, and without looking at me takes a sip of his beer.
Somehow the drink in front of me diffuses my anger. I squeeze the lime over the frosty flakes of ice, lick at the salt, and then take a long sip. The heat out here is crazy hot, the air stifling, and the dangerous chemistry between my babysitter and I is suffocating.
After I finish half of my drink, I dare to chance a glance over at him. Whether I’m afraid he’s looking at me or not looking at me, I have no idea, but the fact that his eyes are on me, watching me, studying me, waiting for my response thrills me. I try to calm the throbbing pulse in my neck. “I’m not always a bitch,” I tell him, “but you seem to bring it out in me.”
Setting his beer bottle on the scratched, wooden surface, he crosses his arms over his chest. Skeptical, he arches both brows. “And why is that?”
I take another sip of my margarita. “I don’t know. Do you want to tell me the truth or would you rather continue with this game we’re playing?”
Caleb chuckles darkly. “If I were playing a game, sweetheart, you’d be lying under me right now and not sitting across from me.”
Three things shine bright from that comment. First, it doesn’t get past me that he just openly admitted he is attracted to me. Second, he has a dirty side that I want him to let out more often. And finally, I now know without a doubt, it was him at the old cigar factory.
Sweetheart.
Sweetheart.
A crazy laugh of unbelievability fizzes from my throat. “You do know that if Enrique knew you were talking to me like that, he’d fire you.”
He pins me with that dark emerald stare. “And I’m pretty certain you know I give zero fucks about what Enrique thinks.”
My mouth drops that he just admitted that freely.
Chips and salsa are delivered to the table along with another margarita for me, and this time it’s fishbowl-sized. Caleb must have told the waitress to keep the drinks coming.
Guess he knows I need the buzz.
Not certain if his motive is genuine, and not really caring, I grab a chip and dip it in the robust salsa. It’s spicy, and the chips are fresh from the fryer. With a chip in my hand, I point my finger at him. “That’s what I don’t get about you. He’s your boss and I’m his—” I stop.
“His mistress,” Caleb finishes for me, nursing his one beer.
I don’t bother to correct him. Technically, the definition of the word mistress is, “a woman having an extramarital sexual relationship with a married man.”
Enrique and I aren’t in a sexual relationship, but what we are engaged in might be even worse. It’s taboo. Wrong. Illicit. Freaky. And admitting it out loud is more than I can handle right now, so I let him believe I’m Enrique’s mistress.
It’s easier.
And I’m so over things being complicated.
Caleb grabs a chip, bites down on it, chews, and then licks the salt from his lips. “Here’s the thing, Gemma, I work for him.”
I raise a brow. “At least you’ve stopped calling me by my last name.”
He shakes his head. “I’ll call you whatever you want me to. It doesn’t change the fact that my job is to protect you. Here’s the thing, I can only do that if you let me. Going into buildings without me, knocking on doors without me, running away from me, telling me not to talk to you or look at you, none of that helps me do my job.”
I sip my margarita and then set the glass down. “I didn’t really mean the last two when I said them yesterday,” I admit. “I was just mad.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t tell.”
The invisible lines I’d drawn for us are blurring with each ounce of tequila I drink, and for once, I don’t care. I don’t care because I’m free of Mr. Enrique Cruz for a little while and it feels so good. I don’t care because I’m with a guy who’s more gorgeous than a man should ever be. And I don’t care because I know this man is hiding something and I’m pretty certain he knows I know that, and in his words, gives zero fucks.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask him.
“Doing what, exactly?”
“Protecting me.”
“Because it’s how I’m going to pay my rent this month,” he deadpans.
“So, money is the only reason?”
“What other reason could there possibly be for hauling your ass all the way to Mexico in the heat and putting up with your bullshit?”
“Some ulterior motive, perhaps? A reason you want to get close to Enrique?”
He lifts his brooding gaze. “Yeah, like I told you, money.”
The food arrives—baskets of tacos and burritos, and we both start eating, saying very little.
When we’re both finished and I’ve had another margarita or two, I say, “Tell me something about yourself.”
“Like what?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Where you went to school, if you have a girlfriend, or how you got that scar on your face?”
“Laguna Beach, no, and I got in a fight, and the knife won,” he replies flatly.
I blink, surprised he answered all three questions and shocked at the lack of emotion behind his answers. “Wow, you’re such a conversationalist, I can hardly stand myself.”
“You bring it out in me,” he says with a sly smile.
A smile that makes my heart beat wildly, even while it’s being held captive by the rusty cage in my chest.
A smile that makes me wet and wanton.
A smile that makes me feel safe.
He’s dangerous.
I finish my drink and hold up a finger for another.
The feeling is false, of course. It’s not real. But alcohol has a way about her, and tonight I give zero fucks about the reality of San Diego.
Tonight, my reality is Mexico. My reality is the mouthwateringly gorgeous, tall, dark, and handsome, boy-next-door with the rebel attitude.
Sure, he screams trouble. And yes, he is the kind of boy my mother would have warned me away from if she were still alive.
And she would be if Enrique hadn’t kil
led her.
Chapter 16
Cold Water
Caleb
GEMMA IS DRUNK.
I didn’t lose count of how many margaritas she drank, and I didn’t tell her to stop at five either, because I didn’t care. She obviously needed to let off some steam, and I was there to stop her from doing anything terribly stupid.
Terribly stupid includes sucking my dick if I asked, I remind myself. Terribly stupid includes allowing me to taste her pussy. And terribly stupid definitely includes letting me fuck her. That last one has my dick twitching in an angry reminder as I gently set her down on the bed.
Staring at her, I can’t help but wonder what she sees in him. Why she’s with him. Why she lets him own her. Money? Power? A debt? Cruz’s world is lawless, and she seems to know the difference between right and wrong. She can’t be with him for love. Then again, what the fuck do I know about love?
I pull her Converse off without thought, and then I decide I can’t let her sleep in her jeans and shirt, so I undress her without looking.
Yeah, yeah, I can be chivalrous and gallant when I fucking want to be. When the girl I want doesn’t belong to someone else. When the girl I want to be inside of isn’t letting someone else in.
Fuck.
I shouldn’t admit that, not even to myself.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, pulling me close.
“Don’t worry about it,” I whisper in her ear.
Taking my arm, she wraps it around her body. “And don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”
I don’t move.
I don’t breathe.
I don’t say anything.
I should be freaking the fuck out but instead I’m relieved. Relieved that she knows, that she remembers me, that for some reason, she isn’t going to let the tiger out of the cage. And that regardless of her smartass comments and tough girl show, she wants me.
She’s dangerous.
Instead of staying in her bed, somehow, I force myself out. Her bed isn’t for me. It’s for him.
In the darkness, I make my way across the suite. In a matter of minutes I’m picturing those big, brown eyes fringed with long lashes and biting my lip while fucking my fist, wishing it were her I was sliding in and out of instead of my own skin.
The need to claim her as mine should have been the reason I walked away, because there is no world where she can ever be mine even if she wasn’t his.
The need to bury my cock deep inside her so I can wipe my sins away should have been the reason I walked away.
That isn’t the reason either.
The reality is I walked away because I knew she wanted to wipe her own sins away with me, and to do that, she definitely needs to be sober.
When I take her, I want her to remember me. Remember how it feels to have my dick buried in her pussy. Remember how I make her scream my name. Remember me when he’s fucking her.
Stone-cold sober is the only way I am going to take her, and yes, there is no mistake about it, it’s wrong and it’s against all the rules . . . but I am going to take her.
And soon.
Good thing I’ve gone radio silent.
Chapter 17
One Dance
Gemma
BARS OF LIGHT steal in through the broken blinds.
It’s hot.
Oppressively hot.
With a nauseated sigh, I glance at the giant red digits on the clock beside me. They read “6:14 a.m.”
Sitting up in bed, I throw the thin covers back and bring my palms to my temples, pressing them against the vibrant ache. I haven’t drank that much in a very long time. The need to keep my wits about me is top priority when I am in Enrique’s world.
Out of bed, I look down at myself and realize I’m in my bra and panties. I don’t remember undressing. In fact, I absolutely know I didn’t. Caleb must have done it. How dare he think he has the right to strip me down.
Yanking my door open, I march out into the suite. His bedroom door is closed but a line of cheap fluorescent lighting underscores the second bathroom in the suite.
The idea of snooping in his room while he’s in the shower isn’t one of my best, but I want to know who this man really is and my plan for discovery last night didn’t exactly pan out.
On tiptoes, I slowly open his door and step inside. The room is void of anything personal. His bag must be somewhere. Dispelling any feelings of being nauseated, I get down on my hands and knees and peer under the bed for his duffle.
Nothing.
The closet is open and I rise on the balls of my feet to move the extra blankets aside. When one falls, I shove it into the corner of the small square and look up.
Nothing.
His bag must be with him.
Without warning, the shower cuts off and I’m forced to scurry out of his room. I’m a quarter way across the suite, a quarter way to my room, when the door swings open. I whirl around and through the levy of steam, a trim, muscular body comes into view.
I freeze right where I am and attempt to glare at him, but I can’t make my mouth turn down. The problem is there’s a towel knotted at his lean waist and I can’t help but eat him alive with my eyes.
I can’t help but notice the way moisture seems to glisten all over his firm upper body. The way his abs cling to his tan flesh. The way the terrycloth merely skates across his hips. The way his hair falls in that damp, sexy way. The way he moves with power and strength.
Simply put, the sight of him makes me a little dizzy, and I swear I can feel the wetness dripping between my thighs.
He’s . . . beautiful.
A God.
An Adonis.
Hercules.
And I’m in my freaking underwear.
I cross my arms over my midriff in a hopeless attempt to shield my skimpy lingerie. Then again, it’s not like he hasn’t already seen the black lace.
“Gemma.” He leans against the door as if amused.
The movement stretches his torso, causing his towel to slip a little, scattering my emotions in a way I shouldn’t allow.
“Caleb,” I respond, trying to remain calm and cool. Typically I’m on my A game when I get caught sneaking around, but today I’m anything but.
His eyes scour me and either he’s removing my bra and panties and I’m standing here naked before him, or he’s reading my mind and knows I was snooping in his space. Either selection isn’t optimal. “How do you feel?” he asks, not letting his cards show. This man has no tell.
“Like death,” I answer honestly, “I was just getting a glass of water.”
“In my room?” He raises a brow.
I glance over my shoulder. “I got a little disoriented.”
He nods and points to the kitchen, clearly in front of me, not behind me. “It’s that way.”
The strong woman I’ve created over the past four years feels weak under his gaze and finding the fortitude to fight back is almost impossible. For some reason, all I want to do is fall into his arms and tell him all of my secrets, not go toe-to-toe over every little thing we do.
But I can’t do that.
So, instead, I summon my inner bitchiness, and retort, “I’m aware. I just wanted to make sure that after you undressed me last night, you didn’t take anything with you that belongs to me.”
His square, hard jaw ticks as if he’s suppressing a laugh. “You mean like the something white you bought for Enrique, because clearly you’re not wearing it now?”
The shame.
The pain.
The agony of my life.
I feel it like it’s my own skin, and I swear the rusted wires around my heart squeeze harder at his torturous words.
In this moment I hate him for saying that.
Hate him for seeing me for what I am—a possession.
Hate him for not seeing past that.
Hate him for not remembering me.
And most of all I hate him because he’s just another hard, heartless bastard in my life.
> Something I don’t need.
Rage pounds through me and I’m finally able to glare at him. “Never undress me again.” The words feel wrong on my tongue, especially since I want him to stomp across the room like a caveman and rip my underwear off right now.
He takes a moment to examine me. There’s a cocky smirk plastered on his handsome face as those emerald green eyes sparkle with a kind of hardened mirth that isn’t learned.
I want to know why, but like me, he’ll never tell his secrets.
Dragging his tongue across his lower lip as if he wants to taste me, he says, “If that’s what you want, it isn’t a problem. Just know the next time you pass out before I even get you home, I’m leaving your ass in the car.”
Fighting past the memory of being in his arms, I stomp across the room, muttering under my breath, “There won’t be a next time, and why is it so hot in here?”
“The air must not be working,” he mutters. “I’ll call the front desk.”
“I’d appreciate it,” I bite out, slamming my door shut. Inside, I lean against the marred wood and stare at my bed. Fragments of last night come back to me in pieces. Him lying beside me, holding me, and me telling him I know he has a secret, and he’s still here.
My body is humming with a beat I don’t understand. I’m so confused. I want him to ignore me, but I hate when he does. I want him to stop looking at me the way he is, yet when his eyes aren’t on me, I don’t like it one bit.
I shouldn’t be feeling anything toward him. I belong to Enrique and I want, no need, for it to stay that way. Flirting with Caleb Holt, or worse, can cost me everything.
He’s dangerous.
And yet, he makes me feel alive, and more than anything, I need that feeling right now.
I can’t push him away.
The tiny motor of an electric razor starts up, and I know what I have to do to keep him with me—make peace.
Finding a tank dress in my suitcase, I pull it over my head. After fixing the straps, I not only find myself peeking out the door, but stepping back into the suite and then knocking on the bathroom door, which he just so happened to have left slightly ajar. “Caleb, can I come in?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
Pushing the door open, I remain in the entrance on neutral ground. Steam rises off his shoulders and the wall of pure muscle causes arousal to shoot through me.