by Luna Joya
“It was hot.” He raised their joined hands and nipped at her knuckles. “You can do that anytime you like.”
She climbed into the passenger seat and slid into a cover up. She enjoyed the show as he hung a towel from the window for privacy while he changed into dry shorts. She tangled fingers in his hair before running them down to the short-clipped sides.
“Do your curls always go back to the right place?” She teased.
He winked at her and tugged a shirt over his head. The curls fell right back into order.
“Some of us have to work for good hair,” she muttered.
He loaded Bogart in the back seat and swung that door closed.
“At least I stashed a hair tie in the glove compartment,” she said as she reached for the latch.
“Cami, no!” He scrambled for the passenger door. The glove compartment fell open. A small box tumbled to the floor.
Her mouth rounded. She leaned down as he reached to snatch the box off the floorboard. Their heads collided. She pulled back to rub her forehead.
“Ow.” She opened her eyes to see him staring at her. He looked mortified and reached for her face with the hand not holding the suspicious package.
“You okay, sweetheart?” He pushed back her hair.
“You smacked yours too,” she reminded him.
“I’ve got a hard head. I’m fine.” He touched her cheek and angled her chin to check for injury.
Her hand snaked out and closed over his fingers clutching the box. “What’s that?”
He gently pulled his arm out of her grasp and tucked it behind his back. His mouth opened and snapped shut again.
“Don’t tell me I didn’t see it, because I did.” She fought a smile. “What’s going on?”
He looked nauseous.
“Hey, it can’t be that bad.” Now she was worried. “You all right?”
“This isn’t at all how I was going to do it. I was going to plan it all out. To make it right for you.”
She gnawed her lip. Was Sam worried? She’d never seen him anxious like this. Irritated, yes. Angry, of course. And completely devastated when she’d left and come back. But not this nervous energy that vibrated off him now.
This couldn’t be so bad. She’d simply stumbled onto a box he seemed direly interested in. A box she hadn’t even seen except for a streak of color. She reached for him. “Sam, whatever it is, tell me. You don’t have to make things right for me.”
“I was going to wait until the end of the summer. I planned to give you time to get whatever boxes you wanted checked off that list of yours. Hell, I had to at least give you a few months to adjust to living with me and Bogart.”
“I love living with you and Bogart. So what has the man I watched take on waves bigger than a truck all stressed out?”
“They weren’t that big.”
“Sam.”
He took a deep breath. “This wasn’t at all what I’d imagined. I thought I had more time but now I don’t want to wait.” He glanced down. “For sure, I thought we’d have more clothes on.” He touched the bikini string at her hip. “Though maybe I should’ve been thinking less clothes. Maybe no clothes.”
“While I’d love to get naked on the beach with you, I don’t think it’s such a good idea this close to the highway.” Bogart whined, and she reached through the back seat to pet him. “In a minute, buddy.”
She looked back. Sam wasn’t there. She glanced down to find him bent on one knee.
“I’m going to do this right,” he said.
“Sam?” Realization suddenly crept into the recesses of her brain. That had been a small box. A very small box. A square shaped box.
“Marry me.” He pulled the box from behind his back.
“What?” She gasped in a sound more of wonderment than inquiry.
He laughed a nervous, uncomfortable huff of air. “Will you marry me?” He opened the box. A beautiful two-carat diamond solitaire with jewel-studded scroll work on the band was nestled inside. “I’ll love you forever, Cami. I promise. There’s a guaranteed life plan for you. If you’ll say yes. Will you marry me?”
She stared at him from the passenger seat, listening to the roar of the waves in the silence between them. He’d proposed at the beach with her barefoot and perched on the taped seat of his beat-up Land Cruiser. Salt from the ocean stained her skin white. She had rough bits of sand all along her toes and legs. Her hair was a disastrous mess of curls. Bogart drooled out the back window. Propped on the rear quarter panel, his board listed precariously to the right from all the commotion. Her head throbbed from bashing into him. And Sam knelt in the dirt, sand, and gravel, looking hopeful. It was the perfect proposal.
She leaned down to seal this with a kiss. “You couldn’t have planned it any better than this,” she whispered against his mouth.
“Is that a yes?” he asked against hers.
“Yes.” She smiled and kissed him. He grabbed her hand and slid the ring into its place on her finger before hauling her out of the truck and into his arm for a spin. He kissed her soundly. She laughed as her body slid down his, her toes sinking into the warm sand. He took her hand and kissed the ring on it.
“Where did you find this?” she asked. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Mina told me.”
Cami stared at him in shock. “Did she see it in a slip?”
“She did. She told me the day we all met at Ama’s that I’d better plan to marry you or walk away. Because she’d seen us married. Normally I would’ve run in terror.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I know it’s fast, but I wanted that future as our reality.”
“You’ve known since then?” She looked up in astonishment. “And I took off. Oh, Sam.”
“No, we’re not going to replay that. We were both scared. She told me. I believed her. I even asked her what ring to get you.”
She gazed at the ring. “It’s divine.”
“It’s a two-carat Asscher-cut solitaire with a scrollwork band. I designed it with a local jeweler and picked it up yesterday.”
“You custom designed it?”
“I did. I showed the sketch to Mina, and she said that was it.”
“I couldn’t have imagined anything so perfect.” The diamond glistened and sparkled in the light. “Wait. Why was it in the glove compartment?”
“I’d just gotten it yesterday before work. When I got home, you were there waiting all sexy smiles. I tossed it in the glove compartment before you could see.”
She stilled. “You left a two-carat custom Asscher-cut solitaire in the truck?”
“Yeah.”
“And it was sitting here on the side of the road all morning?”
He grinned. “It’s usually not locked when I surf. Or I put the key in a magnet box in the wheel well. You were here to keep the key today.” He shrugged. “So I locked it.”
“I could have watched the truck for you.”
“The whole point was for you not to know it was there so I’d have time to plan.” He laughed until she cut it short with a kiss.
They had a lifetime to plan. Together.
THE END
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Sneak Peek of Magic Touch
Ice Queen. Delia Donovan’s scant file assured him she had more than earned the moniker. Maybe. Maybe not. When she stalked across the dirty warehouse floor, Mark Cavan wasn’t so sure.
The prosecutor’s nickname captured her aloof bearing and couture threads. But he’d seen the way her car hurtled through the back door of the building two minutes ago with a recklessness defying her meticulous reputation. She stopped a step away and glared at him. Razor-thin stilettos put her at his eye level. Heat simmered beneath the regal shell.
He offered his palm for a handshake. She flicked her gaze to his outstretched hand before angling to face their bo
ss. Mark shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged off the awkwardness. He’d survived the outcast treatment for years as a kid. He could tolerate it a few months if it got him back in the cockpit.
“Tie her to the chair, Cavan.”
Mark blinked at his boss’s blunt command. Donovan’s superiority irritated him. She wasn’t anybody’s idea of Miss Congeniality. But restraints?
Circling the chair with an echoing click of heels on the cement, Donovan focused on Special Agent in Charge Anikalapokuti, called “A13” at the boss’s insistence.
“What a direct approach to introductions.” Her voice snapped with a bite that reminded Mark of his stepdad’s moonshine. “Testing already, I presume?”
A13 shuffled color-coded and tabbed folders on the flimsy desk. “We need to push the extent of your abilities. Think of this as a baseline. For your safety, you’ll be restrained.” He tapped a pen on an open file. “Agent Cavan, deposit your handcuffs and any weapons in the lockbox before you assist Ms. Donovan to her seat.”
Mark’s Glock hung heavy at his side, a solidness he’d taken for granted until A13’s order. Why would he need to be unarmed? His assignment as protection detail to the Donovan sisters never made much sense to him. One was a recent college grad and the other a district attorney.
But if he did three months on this task force to keep two women safe and crack one case, A13 had promised him a shot as a helicopter pilot on the hostage rescue team. The steady rotary thump of a helo pulsed straight to Mark’s heart. He’d agreed without hesitation.
He’d met the younger sister half an hour ago, and she’d barely glanced up from the video game she’d been playing with other task force members. She’d yelled a quick hello before threatening to take another asset down. That sister wasn’t dangerous to anything but controller buttons and egos. What was the lawyer going to do? Argue him to death?
“Now, Cavan.” A13’s tone demanded immediate compliance.
Mark stripped his weapons and handcuffs and slammed the safe shut. Donovan settled at the chair’s edge, legs crossed at the ankles, skirt and jacket smoothed to cover every inch of skin possible.
He crouched next to her and hunched his shoulders to take up less space. Scaring the asset would do him no good. He stretched slowly for the bindings near her ankles.
She recoiled as his hand hovered inches away. “Don’t touch me.”
So much for delicate flower. Maybe A13 had been on to something. He held his hands palms outward. “Okay.”
“Ankle restraints won’t be necessary.” She didn’t invite contradiction from A13.
Mark glanced toward his boss who stopped writing long enough to study the two of them. After an uncomfortable silence, A13 shook his head.
Donovan held her upper body rigid above the armrests. Her expression dared Mark to finish the job. Tying her down should come with neon warning labels—satisfying but may result in ramping DEFCON levels of vendetta. She stiffened whenever he neared her.
She glared at him with those blue-grey eyes. “Not so close.” As though she needed to remind him when her rigid posture and scowl screamed “hands off.”
“Only following the SAC’s orders.” He cinched a knot.
She grumbled something about where A13 could shove his orders. Donovan wouldn’t have made a good Marine. She probably would’ve been a dead Marine. Like the rest of his team. The scars snaking along his spine burned with the unwelcome memory.
Her gaze turned hot. “You do everything your boss says? How submissive of you.”
He swallowed past the sudden tightness in his throat. Why a restrained, unarmed woman could make his blood boil was a mystery, but Donovan did. Her words invoked sexual insinuation wound up in condemnation.
She was gorgeous, a knockout. Straight blonde hair he’d bet would feel as silky as that flawless skin. Full lush lips that enticed even as she sneered at him. Part of him wanted to kiss that smart mouth to see how she’d taste.
He tied the final knot with a snap, glad she’d tugged her sleeves so he didn’t touch her skin directly. He needed space, distance between him and her honeysuckle scent. This was no time for stupid attraction to a woman who clearly wouldn’t welcome it. He paced the length of cracked concrete flooring behind A13, waiting for whatever came next. He wasn’t the one tied down, but he needed to burn off whatever idiocy had possessed him since she walked into the warehouse.
He could imagine this cavernous space filled with massive industrial equipment. Instead, the team had sectioned the smaller back portion for parking, an old lunch room for a television and couch with a few chairs, and a windowed office for A13. Which begged the question why the boss had dragged a desk onto the stripped production floor.
“Cavan, bring these objects to Ms. Donovan’s reach. One at a time.” A13 gestured toward a stack of assorted items tossed nearby.
Mark shuffled through the wrinkled paper bag, stained utility knife, and new rope. He grabbed the blade.
Donovan tapped her heel once, and the click reverberated through the room. “Must we start with the knife?”
Damn her royal highness haughtiness. Mark ground his teeth. Maybe they could start with a gag instead.
She tugged at the cords, struggling to lift her arm. She wouldn’t get anywhere. He’d used the same square knots to hold hay bales twice her weight. Watching her strain, he had the sudden urge to untie her until she lifted her brow.
“I’m waiting.” She tapped her toe again.
He snatched the dirty bag from the table and strode over to her, halting a few steps short. What was he supposed to do? Drop it in her lap?
She wiggled her fingers in a put-it-here-dummy gesture.
“Fine.” He shoved the bag beneath her hand, inches away from the binding at her wrist.
She clutched the brown paper. “I’ll remind you it doesn’t work on command.” She aimed the last barb at A13 who didn’t respond.
Mark straightened and rocked on his heels. Strain played over Donovan’s face, tightening her features. Her eyes closed, and when they opened again, the ring of sapphire circling those light blue and grey irises bled away, revealing silver. He glanced at the skylights above. L.A.’s heavy smog layer must make for some weird lighting.
“Paper bag.” Donovan stated the obvious. Mark snorted. What was the point of this?
She cocked her head slightly to the right. “From a liquor store on Kentucky Avenue, Southeast D.C. A man was escaping with this bag full of money when he was shot.”
She shifted and uncrossed her ankles with a subtle sound of skin sweeping against fabric. “There were gloves in here for an accomplice. The man with the bag blamed the other guy for skipping out until his last breath. He’d never checked the back for another employee or a gun. His friend would have. The robbery was…” Donovan hesitated. “Fifteen years ago? Hard to tell without newspapers or a calendar around.”
She dropped the bag to the floor in a thwack of heavy paper on concrete and rubbed her fingers as though flicking away the memories. Her lashes swept downward, and her shoulders drooped.
Mark couldn’t stay silent. “What just happened?”
A13 ignored him and continued reading a page he’d pulled from the back file. Donovan stared long and hard at Mark, her look appraising. He needed to figure out whatever this was before she completely unnerved him.
Her eyes still shone silver, but a hint of surprise slid across them.
“You don’t know.” She sounded incredulous. “He brought you in here without telling you. It would seem we both need answers.”
What was she talking about? Mark tried to pay attention to what she’d said and not the sexy way her voice rasped or how his heart rate had kicked into high gear.
“Know what?” See, he could put two words together. Progress.
She continued her slow scan of him from head to toe. “What were you told about this assignment, Cavan?”
What did that have to do with anything? Like her eyes changing colors or
the odd stuff she’d babbled while holding a dirty bag. Was this a rookie initiation prank? He searched for hidden cameras.
“Don’t bother checking for working surveillance. The security system is abysmal. Even the dummy cameras outside aren’t convincing.” She glanced at his hand where it hovered near his hip. “Need to call 911?”
Call 911? He was the police. Well, federal police anyway. He’d gone through grueling testing after years of combat tours and gotten the shiny badge to prove it.
“Why don’t you explain what you mean, Donovan? You talk for a living.” Though the idea of her describing how she’d done whatever he’d seen made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
“Your assignment to the task force? What have you been told?” She enunciated each word as if addressing the traumatized. Or stupid.
Screw that.
“I’ve been fully briefed on our mission.” Or at least he’d thought he’d been until he was told to tie her down. Now, he wasn’t so sure, but he couldn’t admit that to her. “Cold case homicide. Crime scene in a downtown L.A. hotel almost two decades ago. Victim: Liliana Peraira. No leads.”
She dipped her chin. “Which would be LAPD’s jurisdiction. So why bring in the Feds?”
How could she make him as dry-mouthed as he’d been in training exams or mission debriefings? He wiped sweaty palms against his slacks. A13’s continued silence hung like a weight on invisible scales stacked against him.
“Suspected interstate human trafficking ring.” Mark aced this one. He was sure of it except the corners of her mouth tugged down a tiny bit.
“From so long ago?” Her voice edged with the same disappointment he’d known as a pilot each time the weather officers had told him no flying the expensive government birds today. “Why bring in me and my sister?” She resumed what had to be her trial interrogation mode.
He straightened. “You’re a district attorney specializing in sex crimes and murders, assigned to downtown Los Angeles for the last seven years.”
“Eight,” she corrected. “Go on.”