by Naima Simone
“Our other friend, Jason, would be Alec. He’s a twenty-first century yuppie,” Zephirin added, interrupting her apology.
Sophia blinked. Stared. Blinked some more. “You know St. Elmo’s Fire?” she asked, disbelief rife in her voice. Aside from Giovanna, no one knew St. Elmo’s Fire.
He shrugged one of his massive shoulders. “My younger sister was a Blockbuster junkie when we were kids. It was one of her favorite movies. I might’ve watched it a time…or ten.” He snorted. “Not that I had much of a choice.”
She laughed at the mental image of a girl who shared his beautiful features forcing him to sit in front of a television and making his much younger self watch the eighties movie.
“By process of elimination that leaves Kevin,” he continued, but she shook her head.
“You have that broody thing going on, but nothing else. Unless you’re secretly in love with your best friend’s girlfriend.” Heat soared up her neck and into her face. “I mean, maybe…uh…”
“Are you trying to ask me if I’m in love with someone?” He leaned farther onto the bar, his feet parted firmly on the floor, his long legs sprawled out on either side of her stool. A stool that obviously hadn’t been fashioned for six-foot-six giants.
“No,” she stammered. “Of course not.” She lifted her half-empty glass to her lips. Sipped. “So, are you?”
Though his full mouth remained in a straight line, humor seemed to flicker in his eyes. “No,” he replied softly. Then in a slightly harder voice, “Are you?”
“No,” she whispered.
A beat of tense silence pulsed between them. It lasted for a second, but it was filled with a thick heat that wrapped itself around her, infiltrated her, set her veins on fire. It might’ve been smothering if not for the arousal…the need weighing it down.
“You’re different,” he said, smashing the hush like a sledgehammer taken to a plaster wall.
“How so?” she asked, forcing a calm into her voice that had ceased to exist from the moment she’d stood in that studio and laid eyes on him for the first time.
Again, her nerves started jackhammering away under her skin. She always felt on the verge of discovery with him, as if any second he would call her out as the liar she was. And then she would have to go old school “You can’t handle the truth!” Jack Nicholson on him.
Hmm. Maybe the Lemondrops were starting to work their magic.
“There’s the food order, for one.”
Hell. Another sip of alcohol. “A girl’s gotta eat.”
“Then there’s the tattoo.” His intense scrutiny dipped toward her waist, setting off sparks and crackles below the area. With just one look. If he ever got his hands on her—inside her—she’d probably self-combust. But damn, wouldn’t she die happy? “Not many mainstream models wear ink on their skin. It’s beautiful,” he murmured. “Does it have special meaning?”
Special meaning. More of a reminder. Of a time when she’d been mercilessly bullied and tormented daily. Though they were twins, Giovanna had been popular, accepted; she’d belonged. And Sophia, the heavier twin with her dyed hair, quirky clothing, shyness, and 122 IQ score, hadn’t. Giovanna had tried her best to defend her, but she couldn’t always.
Not until Sophia had entered college had she started to come into her own. And accept herself. Love herself.
The tattoo was a testament to both her past and present.
But she could say none of that to him. Even if she were sitting across from him as Sophia instead of Giovanna, unloading all of her baggage on him had to be on the “101 Ways to Turn Off a Man” list in the Dating Guidebook.
“It’s pretty,” she said with a patented “Giovanna Cruz” smile. “Sorry to disappoint. What about yours?” Images of his inked body scrolled across her brain like a parade float dedicated to complete bad-boy sexiness. Clearing her throat, she gestured toward his chest with her glass. “Does the panther have special meaning?”
He studied her, the long fingers of one hand splayed over his muscular thigh. “Yes,” he said into the brief moment of silence. “It’s for my grandmother. She raised my sister and me. The panther is a symbol of courage, power, and grace. That’s her.”
Obvious love for his grandmother resonated in his low, molasses timbre as well as the open, honest words. Not many men of her acquaintance would’ve waxed poetic about a parent in fear of appearing like a mama’s boy or soft. But not Zephirin. She didn’t think it was possible, but somehow it made him that much sexier.
“Now I feel totally shallow,” she muttered.
He shook his head. “No, not shallow,” he contradicted. “Just not exactly truthful.” Before her heart could lodge itself in her throat, he added, “About the tattoo. But it’s okay if you don’t want to share. I’m patient.”
Sophia snorted, hiding behind nonchalance when inside she melted and shrank from his piercing perception. “I’m pretty sure calling your date a liar is a surefire way of blowing your chances at another one,” she said, voice wry. Then, her statement replayed through her mind and slapped her in the face. Hard. “Not that this is a date or anything,” she rushed to add, the words running up on one another so fast they sounded more like, “Notthatthisadateoranything.”
“And there’s another difference,” he observed, cocking his head to the side. “You were more”—he paused—“reserved the first time we worked together.”
Oh damn. Had he asked Giovanna out, and she’d turned him down?
She struggled to maintain her composure as the horrifying thought raced across her mind. Her twin had never mentioned him, but then why would she? Being hit on by the men she met in the industry was probably part of the job description. The greasy slide of envy returned, this time thicker, darker, harder to erase. Jealousy of the obvious attraction Zephirin was giving her. Only because he believed she was Giovanna. Which, at the moment, was Sophia. But if he’d met Sophia as Sophia, he’d never have been interested.
Briefly she closed her eyes, the urge to escape thudding in her chest and head like a primal drum. But the desire to steal this date—this night—with this man even if it was based on a lie throbbed harder, louder.
But her reasons for turning down his invite to dinner earlier hadn’t suddenly evaporated—he believed her to be someone else. And not just anyone, but her twin sister. The pretense during the shoot was one thing, but carrying on the act outside of it was lying. If she were smart, she would get her burger and fries to go, tell Zephirin good-bye, and leave for her quiet, empty home.
But like some geeky, lust-filled version of Cinderella—and with a little help from the alcohol lubricating her inhibitions—she just wanted to be someone else for a little while. Enjoy this dance of attraction, savor the sensual gleam in his eyes, for the next few hours before she returned to her normal life of codes, cramped offices, shitty bosses, and thrift store jeans. Just one night to be someone different—someone who sexy-as-sin football players found attractive. Was that so bad? To seize this moment for herself since she would never see him again after tonight?
“I could’ve been having an off day then,” she offered the vague explanation with a shrug. “I don’t really remember. I’m sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for?” He arched that eyebrow again. She really shouldn’t find that so insanely hot.
Another shrug of a shoulder. “If I hurt your feelings.”
Surprise flashed in his eagle eyes before they narrowed on her. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
I’m so out of my element here. And no good at this. Floundering, she fumbled for and wrapped her fingers around her refreshed drink, the cold condensation chilling her skin. “Of course.” She frowned. “Is something wrong?”
For a long second, he didn’t reply. “No, sorry. I’m just not used to people apologizing for anything. Being genuine. Even less accustomed to that kind of honesty.” For a moment, something dark moved in his eyes. “I’ve been lied to so often, the truth is my white whale.”
/> Uneasiness pitched and rocked in her stomach because she was one more person he could count as a deceiver. “Para decir mentiras y comer pescado hay que tener mucho cuidado,” she murmured. When he cocked his head to the side, she explained, “It’s an old saying my mother used to say all the time when I was younger. It means, ‘When lying and eating fish, one must be very careful.’ Like when eating fish with bones, you have to be very careful telling lies because people can get seriously hurt by them.”
A heartbeat of silence passed. “Your mother seems like a very smart woman,” he finally said.
“So she’s fond of telling me,” Sophia whispered.
Then he loosed a soft, gruff burst of laughter, a half smile quirking a corner of his sensual mouth.
“That’s beautiful.” The admission stumbled off her tongue before she could trap it, lock it up, and throw the damn key into the fiery pits of Mount Doom. Maybe he hadn’t heard—
“What is?”
Fucking Lemondrops. Swallowing a sigh, she waved her hand in the vicinity of his face. “Your smile. And laugh. First time I’ve seen either. They’re…”
“Beautiful,” he supplied when her voice trailed off.
“Yes.” Well, hell. Where was a marauding army of orcs when you needed one? Jesus. This was exactly why she didn’t play this dating game. She didn’t know the rules, and ultimately ended up violating them in all manner of socially awkward ways.
“Who are you?” The hard, rough murmur caught her off guard almost as much as the question.
Her heart thudded against her rib cage. “I—” She swallowed. Tried again. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Once more, he leaned forward, this time eliminating all personal space. Both hands palmed his thighs, and his face hovered inches from hers. A tingle started prickling at the back of her neck. A warning of danger. If she owned one ounce of common sense, she would blurt out some excuse and leave. But her ass remained planted in the chair even though the ominous sense that she was in way over her head tripped down her spine.
“I want to know who you are. The guarded, untouchable model from a year ago who could freeze a man’s balls off, or the woman from today who sat at my feet, teasing my cock with her mouth? Which one is the lie?” His voice deepened, lowered so the words seemed to travel over gravel before coming out of his mouth. “You both have the same dark, damn near bottomless eyes, the same gorgeous body, and golden skin that makes a man dream of marking it with his tongue and hands. But this woman wears ink on her skin and piercings in her mouth and eyebrow.”
Stunned, she lifted a hand to her bottom lip, brushing a fingertip across the spot where the small hoop she’d removed for the shoot would’ve normally been. With the dark red lipstick, the tiny hole shouldn’t have been visible. How had he…?
He emitted a sound that seemed caught between a huff of laughter and a soft tsk. “You have a mouth made for sex. You think I wouldn’t notice everything about it?”
Mouth made for sex. Made for sex. Sex. Sex.
Ay bandito. The words echoed in her head like roars in the stadium where he played. They resonated in her chest, her belly…vibrated between her legs.
Her empty core clenched and spasmed around those words.
Maybe he glimpsed the heat setting her flesh on fire in her face. Or heard it in the almost inaudible whimper she didn’t quite manage to stifle.
Either way, something hot and bright flared in his eyes. “Look down at the bar. Out the window. Anywhere but at me,” he growled.
“Why?” she breathed, not removing her stare from the face that had gone taut with lust. It didn’t matter that she’d never glimpsed this expression on a man’s face before. She recognized it on him.
“Because those gorgeous eyes are practically begging me to…” He trailed off, a muscle ticking along his clenched jaw. Part of her wished he’d finished the thought. That same part almost demanded he tell her. “Giovanna—”
“Sophia. Call me Sophia,” she interrupted, unable to bear hearing him call her by her twin’s name again. She needed to hear her name uttered in that sex-and-sin voice. At least once.
“What?” He frowned.
“It’s my middle name,” she blurted, the lie burning like wildfire on her tongue. A second of damn bombarded her. She was playing with fire, giving him her real name—asking that he use it. He could google her as easily as she’d searched him. Although, given the number of Sophia Cruzes in the United States alone—and that she was one of millions of app developers and not a model or football star—he probably wouldn’t find her name a top hit. And she’d asked Giovanna to keep her out of her publicity bios, just for privacy reasons. Working in the tech industry made one paranoid like that.
Still, it was a risky if not foolish move…
But damn if she would take it back. Not if it meant having that drawl rolling around her real name. “Giovanna is the model. Sophia is…” Her voice disappeared, the breath stuttering in her throat. “Sophia is the woman you described. The woman whose eyes are begging you to…” She let the sentence dangle just as he had. So he would fill in the blank.
The words whispered between them, barely loud enough to be heard. But he caught them. The tightening of his solid jaw underneath the shadow of his beard telegraphed that he’d caught them.
“Are you drunk?”
She blinked. It took a moment for the half question, half demand to register. Where had that come from? “Excuse me?”
“Are. You. Drunk?” he gritted out.
“No.” She did an internal check. Feeling good and a little warm, but definitely not drunk. “No. Why?”
“Because I want to make sure this is Giovanna—or Sophia—talking and not the Lemondrops.”
In spite of the need carving a hole inside her, a short bark of laughter erupted from her. “I appreciate you checking, but no.”
He reached out, cupped her jaw in his big palm. A shudder rippled through her, and she clenched her thighs tight in an attempt to trap and alleviate the sweet, pulsing ache there. His thumb pressed into the corner of her bottom lip, directly over the pierced hole. He didn’t seem to care that her lipstick would stain his finger. Didn’t seem to mind getting messy. And damn if that wasn’t some kind of hot.
“Sophia,” he murmured. “Pretty. Sweet…and sexy as hell.”
In an abrupt motion, he leaned back, taking his touch with him. His fingers, including the lipstick-smudged thumb, curled into a fist on his thigh. Tension seemed to emanate from his big body, the casual sprawl on the stool abandoned for a posture so straight, so still, he reminded her of that dark predator on his chest.
“Your food should be here very shortly,” the bartender announced, her appearance catching Sophia by surprise. She’d been so caught up in Zephirin—in his bright, heated gaze—that she hadn’t even noticed the other woman’s arrival. “Can I refill your drinks?”
“I need the check,” Zephirin said, not releasing Sophia from his visual snare. “And please box up the dinners.”
“Uh…um…okay.” The other woman cleared her throat. “I’ll be right back.”
A part of Sophia acknowledged that she should be mortified at his instructions. Maria Von Trapp’s Mother Superior could’ve guessed why he’d suddenly requested the check. Still, embarrassment hadn’t sent fire hurtling through her. Lust claimed that responsibility. And the minutes until the bartender returned with the tab and a paper bag with their boxed dinners seemed to crawl and race by at the same time. By the time Zephirin stood, his wide palm at the small of her back, and guided her from the pub, her nerves, strung so tight, wept for mercy.
Ohmigod, I’m doing this. I’m going to have sex with Zephirin Black.
Air whistled in her head, her ears having transformed into a wind tunnel for her shallow breaths. Her heart provided the bursts of thunder underneath.
“Wait,” she said.
Even though it’d been barely above a whisper, he must’ve heard her plea because he abruptly hal
ted as if a barrier had sprung up in front of him. With a dexterity that she could easily picture him using on the field, he maneuvered her out of the flow of pedestrian traffic and back up against the brick wall of an adjacent antique shop that had closed for the evening.
He didn’t touch her, instead slid his hands into the front pockets of his pants. Following his lead, she tucked hers behind her. If she dared to touch him, they might get arrested for indecent exposure.
“Changing your mind?” he asked.
Changing her mind? God, no. Even though, to be fair to him, she should walk away. Let this go. Already, guilt squirmed under the arousal and need that damn near consumed her. This wasn’t her; her determination to be true and honest to herself had been one of the reasons she’d suffered so much grief in her life.
She didn’t lie, didn’t play games.
Yet, if she revealed her identity to him right now, Zephirin would walk away. She harbored no doubt about that. Not when the memory of his comment about lies, spoken in that hard, flat voice, flickered in her head, along with the dark emotion that had shadowed his eyes. He would feel duped, played a fool. Possibly even reveal what she and Giovanna had done to Sports Unlimited. Telling the truth would risk harming her sister’s career.
That’s not your primary motivation. Admit it.
Sophia squeezed her eyes closed, as if the motion could also shut out the nagging, smug voice of her conscience. Yes, she loved her sister—had taken part in this ridiculous charade to help her. But first and foremost in her mind was the need coursing through her veins demanding to be satisfied. How many times had anyone spoken to her the way Zephirin had? Raw. Dirty. Almost desperate. How many times had a man who probably starred in hundreds of thousands of women’s fantasies ever given her a second glance, much less stared at her like he would lose his shit if he wasn’t inside her in the next five-point-two seconds? How many times had she just taken something for herself?
Zero. To all questions.
As long as she could remember, she’d been the “other” twin. And that was one of the kinder references. She’d been called plainer, smarter—a euphemism for unattractive—and in high school, fugly. Those four years had done a number on her self-esteem, but over time, she’d found her niche with computers, and as a result, had gained confidence in that area. Yet inside, she still felt like “Giovanna’s sister.” The one who always lost when it came to comparisons against the gorgeous, vivacious model. The one who would never be quite…enough.