After only a moment’s hesitation, the brunette sprang into action, upping her bid to three twenty-five, and thus began a bidding war. Excitement and mayhem ensued. Angelle tossed back the rest of her drink. Her skin prickled, her legs twitched, and when she glanced down, the nails of her left hand had embedded into the soft leather of her purse. It must be the hurricanes because otherwise her reaction made no sense. Any time the two of them ended up alone together, she’d always pushed Cane away. She knew he was no good for her. But the thought of watching him walk off into the sunset with another woman made her stomach turn.
Especially if he walked off with the vixen in red.
Or the crazy-eyed chica in green.
When the latest bid upped it to four hundred, Colby made a low noise and stabbed her drink with her straw. Angelle quirked an eyebrow. And here she’d thought her reaction was baffling. Then she caught the weird look Colby exchanged with her brother and asked, “Okay, what am I missing?”
Colby lifted her chin toward the blonde. “That’s Becca. An ex with Daddy’s money to burn and a scary obsession with my brother. She stalks the restaurant, shows up at his shows. Apparently, they went out a couple times last year, but Cane said that was enough to know the girl was total Looney Tunes. He broke it off, but home-girl refuses to get the memo.” Colby wriggled her shoulders. “I’m telling ya, Angie, the chick gives me the heebie-jeebies. You remember that woman in Fatal Attraction?” Angelle nodded and Colby pointed at the woman creeping closer toward the stage. “Glenn Close has nothing on Becca.”
As if on cue, the blonde cried, “Eight hundred!”
A loud gasp pierced the air. At Colby’s nod of agreement, Angelle realized the sound came from her own throat, but seriously, the woman was nuts. Becca had just doubled the bid—a bid she’d made.
The brunette gaped, blinked, and then frantically began digging through her purse. Becca cackled in triumph.
Swinging her gaze back to Cane, Angelle noticed him send their table a pleading look.
Colby lifted empty hands. “Sorry,” she mouthed before turning to Angelle. “With the wedding in a few months, I can’t be throwing around that kind of money.” She checked her purse anyway, her lips pressing into a thin line. “No one in this town can. And Becca knows it.”
Angelle bit her lip. See, that wasn’t exactly true. What Cane’s creepy stalker didn’t know—what no one in Magnolia Springs knew—was that Angelle had money. Family money. Her grandparents had it in sugarcane, her parents had it in rice fields, but Angie’s bank account was padded. Padded beyond what she made at the stables and fire station, and padded enough to rival whatever Becca thought she had. Angie just never went around flaunting it. She drove a used pick-up truck, shopped sales, and lived in her worn-out cowboy boots. It was how she was raised. Where she came from, money in the bank meant you had security, but it didn’t define you. It didn’t change the person you were.
But in times like this, it sure did come in handy.
The brunette dejectedly lifted her head from her emptied purse. She shook it, and for the first time that night, Sherry’s smile dimmed.
A loud clap rent the air as Becca began walking toward the stage to claim her prize, and the resentment in Angelle’s stomach morphed into red-hot anger.
“Uh, going once,” Sherry said slowly, dragging out the words.
Well, I did plan to donate to Project Nicholas anyway…
Sherry sent her brother an apologetic glance and called out, “Going…twice.”
And if I do this, Cane will owe me…
Angelle rocked in her seat, knowing this could be the answer to her fiancé problem. She watched Sherry anxiously meet every eye in the crowd then hold a silent conversation with her sister. Colby lifted a slender shoulder as Becca reached the bottom of the stairs, cash in hand. Angelle squinted, positive she could see devil horns sprouting on the woman’s head.
Displeasure radiated off Cane in waves as he shifted on his feet and raised his eyes to hers. Angelle’s heart went out to him. This was bigger than her anxiety. Bigger even than her pickle. He needed help, and she was in a position to give it.
Sherry heaved a sigh into the microphone, the joy that had poured from her all night replaced with regret as she said, “If there are no other takers…” She paused to give the room a final hopeful glance, then squeezed Cane’s enormous bicep. “Sol—”
Angelle clamored to her feet. “Fifteen hundred dollars!”
…
“Holy crap monkeys.”
Sherry’s response echoed through the quiet room. Cane wanted to laugh, but she made an excellent point. One more second and Becca would’ve won. And if she had, no amount of morning shifts would’ve made up for it. It wasn’t that Becca was dangerous; she was certifiable. From the moment she’d shouted her bid, he’d been planning his escape. If he had to, he’d been prepared to cover the donation to Project Nicholas himself. But then his green-eyed temptress had come through.
Why?
Not even an hour ago, Cane had vowed to satisfy his curiosity with Angelle and move on, and here she was, handing herself over on a silver platter. After months of dodging him, turning tail whenever they were alone, spending the entire auction evading eye contact, she had saved him. He’d like to think it was jealousy—jealousy or attraction, he’d take either—but more than likely it was pity. No doubt, Colby filled her in on all things Becca. Add that to the unsubtle SOS vibes he’d sent her way, and the sweet woman couldn’t help herself.
Guilt punched him in the chest. Followed by a softer emotion he chose to ignore.
As far as Cane knew, Angelle wasn’t rolling in dough. She was a volunteer firefighter and taught horseback riding lessons to kids part-time for shit’s sake. How in the hell did she have that kind of money to throw around?
Did she have that kind of money to throw around?
Sherry snapped out of her daze and quickly exclaimed before Becca could counter the bid, “And the King of Abs is sold to Angelle Prejean for fifteen freaking hundred dollars! Hot damn, Mama needs a drink.”
The silent room exploded. Chairs screeched, glasses clanked, and voices erupted. Angelle blinked, obviously shell-shocked, as women crowded her small table. She reached a blind hand to grasp the back of her seat and slowly sank down onto its cushion.
“What in the hell just happened?” Becca stood at the end of the stairs gaping, her eyebrows scrunched in the lost way he was ashamed to admit he’d once found attractive. That was before he realized that clueless was her usual look—other than the times she looked like a demon straight from hell—and he’d wised up.
Averting his eyes to his woman—damn, the thought of Angelle as finally being his for the night sent a jolt straight to his pants—Cane hopped off the stage to claim her.
He’d only taken a step when the psycho latched on to his arm. “I was supposed to win you.”
Cane gritted his teeth in frustration. If he told Becca that it wouldn’t have mattered, that they were never getting back together and that she needed to move on, he’d only be wasting his breath. She’d heard it all before; she just had selective hearing. Becca saw him as some sort of challenge, the one that got away. He’d been clear from the start that he wasn’t looking for a relationship, back when she’d claimed she wanted the same.
When he was younger he’d always planned to settle down one day, but that was before his parents taught him what a crap investment relationships were. Feeling too much, getting too close to one person, meant getting hurt—or hurting someone else. Cane wanted no part of that, which was why he needed Angelle out of his head once and for all. But first, he had to get past Becca, and from experience, Cane knew responding to reason wasn’t her thing.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” he said, twisting out of her grasp and refusing to meet her intense stare. He stepped back and added, “But hey, happy holidays,” before turning away, leaving her behind him.
I’m never doing this crap again, he thought, catching
the furrowed line between Colby’s eyes as he approached their table. She appeared as confused by tonight’s turn of events as he was.
As for Angelle, she no longer looked dazed. She looked lit. She was face-first in yet another drink, and from his vigilant watch during the auction, Cane knew she’d consumed three hurricanes prior to this one. Four hurricanes, depending on their strength, were enough to knock some men on their asses—and this woman was tiny. Cane made a quick adjustment to his plans. He wanted Angelle in his bed, but he wanted her sober, consensual, and preferably well rested. But as she set down her half-drained drink and cautiously looked him in the eyes, he discovered one upshot to her current condition: inebriated Angelle didn’t hide.
“Ho-ho-ho,” he said with a smirk, watching a pink stain sweep Angelle’s cheeks. “Having fun, ladies?”
Perfect white teeth bit into a full bottom lip as a small, sleepy grin softened her already angelic face. Overwhelming needs to both ravish and protect her hit him at once. The opposing reactions he got around Angelle were unsettling, but far from new.
Colby sighed and answered, “It’s been a night of surprises, that’s for sure.”
Angelle nodded. Wrapping a long strand of auburn hair around her index finger, her gaze dipped to his bare chest. Her eyes gave a slow blink. “King of Abs,” she drawled, reading his sash, her roughened, whiskey tone as sexy as ever, before turning to Colby. “Does that make you Sister of Abs?”
Colby laughed and slid Angelle’s glass to the other side of the table. “That would be a no.”
“What would be a no?” Jason asked, slapping Cane’s shoulder on his way behind Colby’s chair. He slipped his arms around his fiancée’s neck and pressed a quick kiss against her lips. Then he asked Angelle, “That the size of Cane’s sizable ego shrank after that cat fight?” He grinned to show he was joking, then caught sight of his co-worker’s obvious condition and frowned. “You all right there, Ang? You look a little wasted.”
Angelle waved a hand in the air. “Nah, I only had a couple—”
“You had four,” Colby interrupted.
That seemed to surprise her. “Four, really?” But at both Colby’s and Cane’s nods of confirmation, she kept on trucking. “Perhaps I’m a bit buzzed, but it’s all good.”
Watching that lazy, sexy smile cross her face was indeed all good, and it gave Cane his perfect opening. “How about I drive you home, just in case?”
And there was the wide-eyed panic he was used to inspiring. “No. No, no, no. That’s not necessary.”
He leaned his forearm on the table, biting back a grin when he saw her fidget at his proximity. “Oh, but I think it is,” he replied. And not just for the safety of our citizens.
“We could bring you home,” Colby offered, her lips twitching at Cane’s scowl. “Or you could wait for Sherry, since you’re heading to the same place, but since she’s in charge tonight, I have a feeling she’ll be a while.”
Angelle looked at her half-empty drink, tilted her head, and closed one eye. Then she nodded. She pulled the drink closer and wrapped her pink lips around the straw.
Cane had never been so jealous of a straw in his life.
Jason cleared his throat and Cane lifted his gaze. His friend chuckled as the opening notes of Etta James’s “At Last” began to play. “I’m gonna dance with my fiancée for this song,” he said, taking Colby’s hand and helping her up. “Ang, meet you at the door when it’s over?”
Angelle nodded again, and then they were alone. Cane watched her sip her drink, strangely amused as her eyes focused on the crowd, the table, her straw, briefly his eyes, and finally his chest again. Obviously, if they were going to discuss the elephant in the room, he’d have to be the one to bring it up.
“So, our date,” he said, grinning as she gasped around the straw and pushed away the glass. “Any idea what you want to do?”
She licked her bottom lip, then dragged her teeth across the plump skin as she ran her hands along the sides of her lap. Her eyes widened and then narrowed as her mouth opened and closed. She had something in mind, all right. But then she shook her head and attacked her drink again.
Interesting.
She lifted her head a long sip later, eyes sparking like she was committing some sort of internal dare. “Will you be at Robicheaux’s tomorrow? I’d like to come by and proposition you.”
Holy hell.
Now it was Cane’s turn to widen his eyes.
Angelle slapped her hand over her mouth and sputtered. “Shit, that’s not what I meant.” It was a tossup what was funnier: hearing her sweet voice issue a curse or watching her wince and flail her arms. “I meant to say I have a proposition for you. Not that I want to proposition you. Not that there’s anything wrong with you, but I just don’t—you know. I mean, you’re probably used to being propositioned. Happens all the time, right?” Then she screwed her eyes shut and stage-whispered under her breath, “Oh my God! Shut up, Angelle.”
She was adorable. The flush on her cheeks, the uncomfortable squirming. Cane knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. Resting his other arm on the table, he pressed close and said in a low voice, “Just so we’re clear”—he placed his hands on hers—“you can proposition me any time, angel.” Her eyes shot open, and he grinned. “But yeah, I’ll be at the restaurant tomorrow.”
For one long moment, they stayed like that. Eye to eye, her sweet labored breath fanning across his chin. Close enough that if he wanted to press his luck, he could lean in and steal a kiss from those lips. But Angelle was like the skittish horses she loved so much. He couldn’t rush her. This was a marathon, not a sprint, and he was confident she’d be worth the pursuit. So he settled for staring into her haunting eyes. They drew him in every time. One look and he knew everything she was thinking, everything she was feeling.
And tonight Cane saw confusion, fear, and—his absolute favorite—desire.
As the long, drawn-out words of “At Last” signaled the end of the song, Angelle lowered her gaze to the table. She grabbed her purse and slid off the chair, wobbling the moment her feet hit the floor.
Cane cupped her elbow to help steady her on her heels, smiling at her soft gasp. He lowered his mouth to her ear and said, “See you tomorrow.”
He heard her squeak and then watched her walk away. But for the first time since he’d met the feisty redhead, Cane knew she’d be back.
Chapter Three
Hangovers were inventions of the devil. Angelle was convinced of it. They were punishment for drinking in excess, and in her case, trying to ignore the unignorable—namely her giant pickle. And as if sluggishness and a migraine from hell weren’t enough, thanks to last night’s unwise inebriation, she’d also landed herself in an even bigger scrape than the one she’d been trying to forget.
If it were possible for faux pas to be an art form, Angie was an artiste.
Sweat pricked her forehead as she parked her trusty pickup in front of Robicheaux’s. It was midday, and as Sherry had promised, the lot was deserted. Angie released a relieved breath. She still didn’t have the foggiest idea how to explain the disaster she’d made or why she so desperately needed Cane’s help, not to mention how he’d react to the whole thing. The fewer witnesses they had for this humiliating conversation, the better.
Angelle frowned as she pocketed her keys. Why on God’s green earth did she drink last night? She was enough of a hot mess as it was without adding to it. She needed her brain fully functional to stand toe-to-toe with Cane, not wrung out from getting epically sloshed. But since she’d already poured this batch of lemonade, the only thing left to do was drink it. So Angie faked a sunny, confident smile, winced as even that small movement hurt her head, and hiked up the restaurant steps. Closing her hand around the doorknob, she inhaled a deep breath and then let it out as she tugged it open. Here went nothing.
Bells dinged overhead as she walked inside and she flinched as the sound reverberated through her skull.
“Jumpy there
, sweetheart?”
Angie’s tummy fluttered, and for once this morning, it wasn’t from nausea. She shifted her eyes toward the sinfully rich voice and felt the world drop out beneath her.
It should be illegal to look that good.
Cane’s dark brown eyes danced with amusement as he folded his thick, muscular arms against the gleaming mahogany bar top. The soft cotton of his black T-shirt stretched across his broad torso and wicked flames peeked from the edge of his sleeve. Call her a victim of the classic bad-boy syndrome, but just thinking of the artwork left hidden gave Angelle the baffling urge to trace the designs with her tongue.
Before Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dangerous walked into her life, men with tattoos never held any appeal. If anything, they intimidated the snot out of her. Cane intimidated her, too, but it had absolutely nothing to do with the designs on his skin.
He made ink look good.
Cane cleared his throat, and Angelle realized she’d been gawking. Drooling a puddle onto the scuffed hardwood would be more accurate. Mortified, she averted her gaze to the back deck overlooking the bayou, wondering if a day would come that she’d be in the man’s presence and not embarrass herself.
Angelle was used to being…less than poised. Awkward Angie was one of her childhood nicknames, after all. But whenever Cane came within a half-mile radius, she left awkwardness in the dust. Her brain straight up short-circuited. A reaction that was not in the least helpful, since she hoped to be spending the rest of the week with the man. Alone. With no more hiding.
Rolling her shoulders back with renewed determination, Angelle forced herself to meet his eyes. “Is now an okay time to talk?”
The corners of Cane’s mouth twitched. “Well, we are kinda slammed at the moment.” He glanced at the one remaining straggler from the lunch shift and shrugged. “But I guess I can squeeze you in.”
Two deep dimples appeared in his cheeks that, coupled with the low notes of his voice and the sexy wisp of ink peeking under his sleeve, turned Angelle’s legs into cooked noodles. The man could make anything sound erotic…although it wasn’t as if she had a ton of experience with that sort of thing. The one time she’d actually attempted to watch a porno, she’d been alone and way too embarrassed to finish it. And too concerned about what the camera crew was doing. Or if the men and women filming ever farted during a scene. But from her very limited knowledge, Cane would make a killing in the industry.
Seven Day Fiance: A Love and Games Novel (Entangled Bliss) Page 3