Give In To Me

by Lacey Alexander

  April had breathed out her relief long and deep. It wouldn’t have been her fault if Juan had beat the hell out of Kayla, but she still wouldn’t have liked knowing she’d been involved in anything that had caused that kind of physical violence. And, of course, eventually he would find out she was Kayla’s attorney, but hopefully Kayla would be out of his reach by then.

  “You were okay, too, weren’t ya?” Kayla had asked then. “Nothing bad happened to you? When you disappeared, I worried.”

  Even now, a wave of heat swept over April at the memory of how she’d “disappeared” into that alley, and she couldn’t attribute it to the Miami temperatures. “Sure,” she’d said softly into the phone. “I was okay. Nothing bad happened.”

  But as she listened to the sound of her own heels clicking up the sidewalk, and to the vague yet sharp melody of Latin music echoing from a club she’d just passed, she was pulled back in time to that night. Had something bad happened to her? She still couldn’t decide. And was she okay? She liked to think she was, but the fact that she could still feel those kisses so keenly bothered her. It had been a week, after all. The memory should be fading.

  And worse . . . Lord, even now, the spot between her legs wept with a harsh desire she barely recognized in herself, just from remembering. His tight hold on her. His brusque tone. The roughness of kisses that she’d somehow felt rush through the entire length of her body.

  It was a highly unusual experience, so of course it’s going to stick with you a while. It would stick with any woman, but you in particular, after not having been kissed in so long—well, of course a weird interlude like that is going to affect you.

  And yet even when she tried to explain away the fact that the encounter still lingered with her, it wasn’t just the lingering that bothered her. She knew that. It was . . . it was . . . oh hell, it was the part of it that she couldn’t quite admit to herself. It was . . . how much she’d liked it. And not just being kissed. It was how much she’d liked . . . being manhandled, being held so tightly, having no choice. Good God, the truth was that she’d liked . . . being forced.

  So there. You did it. You admitted it to yourself.

  And the result? As she continued up the street, her body literally wept with desire. Her panties were soaked with her own arousal. With somehow . . . wanting more of that.

  You must be insane. Who are you? How could you possibly want a man you don’t even know to force you to kiss him? Or . . . more.

  Suddenly it was hard to take a deep breath. She was a smart, together woman. She didn’t need romance in her life. Or sex. She was logical and sensible and always had been. And men like Juan Gonzalez, who used his brute strength to control his wife and probably any other woman who got in his way, were animals. Lower than animals. They made her sick.

  And yet she, April Pediston, wanted a man to force his attentions on her?

  Suddenly, the Miami air around her thickened, making it difficult to breathe. She couldn’t even begin to make sense of her own emotions, her own yearnings. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to admit this to herself—it was unthinkable. Almost unbearably so.

  Overcome by heat in a flash, she stopped, unbuttoned her suit jacket, took it off. A delicious sea breeze cooled her at the precise second she needed it most, wafting across South Beach to reach her. Glancing down, she saw that the silk cream-colored tank she wore clung to her from the heat, and at the moment, it added to all the strange sensations pummeling her. In particular, the way the clingy material accentuated her breasts made her feel sexual, reminding her once more how very aware of them she’d become just since the brusque mystery man had pulled her blouse closed over them. The way the fabric slid slick against her stomach, her sides, felt almost like being . . . touched. The man in the alley had left her feeling more cognizant of her body, her skin, than anything had in a very long time.

  And that was when she saw it. The scene of the crime. Without quite realizing it, she’d come upon the Café Tropico again.

  She hadn’t even thought about that—that the parking spot she’d found would lead her directly past the very place where all that strange, powerful kissing had taken place.

  Maybe that’s why it’s so very with you right now. Maybe being here again so soon just brought it all back, even if just sort of subliminally.

  Better thought: Maybe once you’re past it and you reach the yogurt shop, it’ll fade. At least a little. Anything would help at this point.

  So she started walking a bit faster. Though even as she did so, she found her eyes searching the exterior of the place, taking in details, almost as if trying to seek something out, but she had no idea what. She drank in the faded green paint, chipping in places. The old sails that made tents over the front, open-air part of the restaurant. The open windows at other parts of the building, and the shadowy darkness within. Despite herself, her heart beat faster.

  But then she knew why. Apparently, her heart had known something she hadn’t.

  “Excuse me.”

  She jerked her eyes forward to find she’d nearly collided with a guy on the sidewalk.

  And then she lifted her gaze—to see the very man who had kissed her senseless in the alley.

  Chapter 3

  She pulled in her breath sharply as their eyes met, his shining with recognition. “Ginger?” he said. It would have struck her as funny—him addressing her as if that were really her name—if she hadn’t been so filled with shock and horror.

  Because this couldn’t be happening. What were the chances? Did he live here or what? Maybe he worked here, actually. She hadn’t thought of that before. But what did it matter? Don’t just stand here gaping at the big, handsome lug—do something!

  Yet the only thing she could think of to do was . . . run.

  Because she wasn’t equipped for this. She wasn’t prepared. Even if she’d just begun to let herself think she could possibly want more of what had happened in that alley—she couldn’t have it. She couldn’t. And she wouldn’t have dreamed she’d actually have the option—that she could conceivably come face-to-face with him again.

  “Excuse me,” she said—though it came out far too weak, almost whispery, for her liking. And then she stepped briskly around him and took off up Ocean Drive as quickly as her pumps would carry her.

  Though he said nothing and made no attempt to stop her—thank God—she sensed, felt, his eyes on her as she went. And despite herself, she wondered what exactly she was running from. Him? Or some dark, undiscovered part of herself?

  * * *

  Rogan sat on the same bar stool he often occupied at the Café Tropico, talking to the same pretty bartender, drinking his usual beer. But it was Friday night and business picked up earlier than usual, so Dennis’s niece was busy, leaving him to do more thinking than talking—which suited him fine.

  He still couldn’t believe he’d nearly collided with the buttoned-up redhead that way. South Beach was a bustling place, so a chance meeting seemed unlikely. That was why he felt safe hanging out at the Café Tropico so much—enough people came and went each night that he felt fairly inconspicuous, even after getting involved in that tussle with Martinez.

  Though today the redhead hadn’t looked nearly as buttoned-up as before. He’d had a much better view of her body this time and he’d liked what he saw. Her expensive-looking little top had clung to her tits. Tits he couldn’t help thinking would fill his hands nicely.

  Of course, she’d still seemed just as buttoned-up. She’d looked like a deer in headlights, something he’d seen more than a few of back in Michigan. Meeting up with him again had clearly scared the shit out of her.

  He’d thought about chasing her. But he had work to do. And if she was that dead set on getting away from him, who was he to try to stop her?

  You stopped her from getting away last time, though. And you both liked it. A lot.

  His groin tightened now as he remembered the heat of those kisses last week. He’d had sex that hadn’t been as good as t
hose kisses.

  And still . . . it had been a moment in time, nothing more. After all, hadn’t he decided he was just fine with short liaisons that revolved around heat and sex? And this had definitely been about heat—and sex, too, even if that part hadn’t actually happened.

  And no matter what he wanted from a woman these days, other things generally took priority in his life. There was little Rogan held sacred: his H.O.T. brothers, his real brothers—and now, lately, his work.

  But not women? Love? Ever?

  What about Mira? Is Mira sacred to you?

  He swallowed back the small sting of pain that still pierced his gut when she came to mind. But it was small now, barely there. And yeah, Mira could have been sacred to him. If she’d wanted to be. But she’d made another choice, a choice he even respected because he knew damn good and well that it was probably the best one for her. And life went on.

  As for his H.O.T. brothers, he’d trained with them at police academy more than ten years ago now. He and a select group of guys from his class had been placed on the Hostage Ops Team, given special training after showing aptitude for handling hostage and other high-pressure situations. He knew that particular feather in his cap had been part of what had gotten him a job on the Miami force—and that he’d be ready to use those skills whenever they were needed. And even when they weren’t put to use directly . . . well, the same skill set that made him good in hostage situations also made him an effective cop every single day.

  But more than the training he’d received, what had lasted was the bond he’d formed with the other guys on the team. They were his best friends. They got together each summer now, sometimes more than once, and those long weekends were always like coming home, no matter where they happened to take place. And sure, he was closer to some than others, but he considered each and every one of them brothers in a way.

  And his real brothers? Hell . . . the truth was, he didn’t want to think about them. He missed them, and most of his memories of them were sad ones. But they were still sacred to him and always would be.

  Taking another drink of his beer, he spun on the stool and took in the whole room. Like usual on a Friday night, the crowd was heavier—the same mix of tourists and locals, some eating, some drinking, a few dancing.

  It had been just about this time last week that all hell had broken loose in here and he’d—somehow—ended up making out with Ginger outside. His groin tightened a little further as a slow smile overtook him. Hell, maybe he should have chased her.

  If it had been only a moment in time, after all, what had caused this second moment in time a little while ago? And she very clearly hadn’t come past the Café Tropico looking for him, hoping to see him, or it wouldn’t have panicked her so much. So the more he thought about it, the more it seemed . . . almost fated or something that he’d run into her again.

  But that was silly. He didn’t believe in fate. He believed in learning from the past but leaving it behind. He believed in living a life that made you feel good. And what made him feel good right now was bringing down bad guys, making a difference. When he was young, maybe he hadn’t become a cop for the right reasons. Maybe it had seemed like a way out. Maybe it had seemed like a way to feel power over other people after a shitty childhood. Maybe it had made him feel tough. But now it was about making a difference, doing some good, and he liked having grown up enough to know that, to have reached that place.

  Yet making out with Ginger in that alley—hell, that had made him feel good, too, even if in a whole different way. That had been about power as well, but also pleasure. And the power . . . it was about the power to bring that chick a pleasure she didn’t even know she wanted. And once he’d achieved that, for him it had brought about a weird sort of nirvana. It had only been kissing, yeah, but something about making that woman give in to feeling good, give in to wanting him, had brought a euphoria over him he wasn’t sure he’d ever quite known.

  Yeah, he should have chased after her if fate or God or whoever had brought her back into his path.

  But—shit, he’d have to fret over that later. Because right now Junior Martinez had just walked in the door.

  Fortunately, the guy was alone for a change—which made him a lot more vulnerable. He slinked through the room in his usual wife-beater and a pair of Ray-Bans, looking every bit the thug he was—yet keeping a lower profile than usual. It instantly made Rogan think he might be up to something. Rogan had been spending quite a bit of time here on his off hours and he’d yet to witness anything that looked to him like a drug deal, but maybe tonight he’d get confirmation that Dennis’s suspicions were on the mark. And since you couldn’t arrest a guy until he’d committed a crime, this was actually good news.

  Rogan held his spot on the stool, watching as Martinez sidled through the crowd near the dance floor, then slipped into the back hallway toward the bathrooms.

  Maybe he had to piss. But that hall also led to the storage room where Dennis thought deals were going down. After two locks had been broken, damaging the door itself in the process, Dennis had stopped bothering to fix it.

  Rogan almost took a last drink from his beer bottle, but thought better of it—instead he slid easily off the stool and moved unhurriedly toward the back hall.

  First he stepped inside the men’s room—nobody there. And there’d been no sign of Martinez in the hallway, either.

  Exiting, he remained in the hall, listening. It was difficult with the sounds of people and music from the restaurant, but the short corridor provided just enough of a buffer that he could hear Martinez talking to someone.

  Unfortunately, it was hard to make out many words, but Rogan heard only one voice, so Martinez was probably on a cell phone. Very likely talking to whoever was supposed to meet him there.

  Rogan considered his options. He could stay put in the hallway, but that would seem suspicious and he’d be pretty damn noticeable to whoever was meeting Junior—not to mention if Junior had occasion to come back out into the hall himself. Dennis’s office—locked and untouched—lay right across from the storage room, so maybe he could get the key and wait inside. He wouldn’t be able to hear much from there, but at least he’d have some cover while he watched for a buyer—or, for all he knew, a seller. If this was an official investigation, he’d be able to set up surveillance in the storage room, but for now, he was on his own and this was as good as it got.

  “Hey, buddy—you waitin’?”

  Rogan spun to see a tourist—giving himself away with the tacky South Beach T-shirt he wore—pointing to the men’s room door. And hell—calling attention to the fact that there was a guy standing around in the hallway for no good reason.

  Rogan kept his voice low, quick, as he said, “Nah, it’s all yours.”

  And even as he spoke, Martinez went quiet for a moment, then could clearly be heard saying, “Hold on a minute, man—I gotta check somethin’.”

  Shit. Junior had tuned in to the fact that somebody was hanging out in the hall—and Rogan took that as his cue to walk away, fast.

  Fortunately, it took just a few quick steps to emerge back into the main room, sifting his way into the crowd near the dance floor—which had filled up quickly once the band had started to play. Even so, Rogan felt obvious and had the sixth-sense feeling he’d been spotted—Martinez still hadn’t seen his face, but he might well have caught a glimpse of him from behind, and though he couldn’t risk turning to look, he suspected he was probably being followed through the club now.

  So Rogan kept moving—swiftly but not so hurriedly as to call too much attention to himself. He did his best to blend in further with the crowd, thankful that Friday nights still got busy here—yet he continued feeling vulnerable, still suffering from the nagging sensation that Martinez had indeed seen him ducking from the hallway and was still quietly pursuing him through the crowd. Could be he was imagining the whole thing, but Rogan wasn’t usually paranoid, and ever since he’d come to Miami, he’d learned to trust his instinc
ts on such things, discovering they were usually spot-on.

  When he found himself near the old side entrance that led into the alley, exiting seemed the wisest move. Not that he had much time to examine his options. But leaving the club would bring this to a conclusion one way or another. Either Junior wouldn’t follow him—or he would, in which case Rogan would be ready and waiting.

  Once outside, in the same alley where he’d ended up not long ago—for a far different reason, yet still, ironically, related to the potential drug dealers he was looking to bust—Rogan let the door shut behind him, stepped to one side, and tensed for the confrontation that might be coming.

  * * *

  Darkness had descended over the streets of South Beach by the time April’s meeting with Kayla ended. Walking away, she thought back over the discussion and felt it had been productive. Though she hoped this would be the last time she’d have to venture to this neighborhood for a while. She liked it better after dark, she decided as she strolled back up Ocean Drive past the old art deco hotels. Probably because she felt a little more invisible now, like it was easier to blend in.

  Next: Time to go home and rest.

  Though she should also call Gram and check on her. Allison had been scheduled to take the kids over tonight to visit, so April should probably make sure that hadn’t meant dumping them there while Allison went to do something else. Arthritis had both of Gram’s knees in bad shape these days, and she could barely get around the apartment, let alone chase little kids. Oh, and that jogged April’s memory—she also needed to text Amber and remind her she’d promised to take Gram to the doctor tomorrow. And hold her to it this time. No matter what excuse she gives or how important she makes it sound, don’t volunteer to leave work and take her yourself.

  Resting sounded all too good. She felt mentally exhausted.

  And, of course, she’d had the insanely bad luck of running into Mr. He-Man Alley Kisser. How had that happened? The timing had been . . . amazing. And horrific.