by Tamsin Baker
“Nope.” He leaned back, crossing his arms, watching me beneath hooded lids. “I trust you.”
I blinked, staring down at the blurring black print, hoping he didn’t spot my weakness. It was such a silly, ridiculous thing. He trusted me to order. It shouldn’t have meant something, not even remotely, yet my tummy flipped and fluttered as if he’d given it wings.
And I was too damn taken in to let it bother me.
Gideon fucking Fang.
The man was melting my resolve the way chili-chocolate sauce would melt all over Como Agua Para Chocolate’s raspberry and mango compote.
My body heated, as if that very sauce were sinuating through my blood.
Gideon may have promised to behave, but right now, I wished he hadn’t.
*
Twenty possible pancake creations and I had to choose. It was like dropping a kid into Walmart and telling her to pick only three toys.
I ummed and ahhed, and Gideon laughed and teased, but not once did he try and sway me.
I ignored the warmth fluttering through my chest, finally deciding on The Dark Knight chocolate berry wonder, the Pulp Fiction salted caramel popcorn and almond-vanilla bean ice cream, and the Herbie Goes Bananas banana rum and raisin pecan brittle. Three pancakes with two spoons. We topped it off with a double accompaniment of choc wild berry and caramel smoothies. A sugar-rush that would see me struggling to sleep for days.
I refused to care.
A couple nodded in greeting as they passed our table, hip-to-hip, arm-in-arm. Gideon grinned and nodded back.
Everyone seemed to know everyone, patrons and staff. Perhaps it was a result of the café being off the beaten track. Only those aware of its existence could find it. People stopped at our table, or waved from a distance. The waitress seemed more than familiar with Gideon, and as they chatted, jealousy hit me square in the chest. I hit it right back. I had no reason to feel that useless emotion, least of all for a man who was nothing more than a casual fuck.
The glib throwaway didn’t sit easily on my conscience, but I knocked that feeling right back too. Emotions weren’t a luxury I should—or would—allow myself.
“Do I detect a Kiwi accent?”
My hand froze, a forkful of chocolate and berries floating perilously in the air. “Maybe.” I stuffed the fork in my mouth, the decadence tasting like dust. It had taken years to lose that last link to my childhood, and somehow he’d picked it up anyway. “How did you guess?”
“I have an ear for languages and sounds.” He grinned. “So, why the move to New Orleans?”
I didn’t go there. Ever. I was a NOLA girl now, through and through. He didn’t need the ins and outs, the who, whys and wheres of my decision.
Diversion was my best option. “You speak more than one language?”
“Twenty-one. But that doesn’t include dialects.”
“Fuck me.”
His brows arched, lips sliding into a salacious smile. “Is that an invitation?”
I ignored the rejoinder, just as much as I ignored the heat that followed it. “How the hell did you find the time to learn them all?”
“Once you know two or three, learning gets easier.”
“Right.” I groaned. “Feeling quite inadequate here, with my meager, one language ability. I don’t know what I’ve been doing with my life.”
He chuckled. “Science is a language.”
“It’s not the same. You’re like a walking Google translator.” I sipped my smoothie and contemplated the enigma opposite me. “I won’t ask for a list, that’d be too depressing. What’s the weirdest language you know?”
“Hah. That’d have to be Klingon.”
I swallowed a snort, and ended up spluttering instead. “Is that even a real language?”
“It is for all the Klingons out there.”
“Ha ha.” Gideon’s humor rubbed elbows with mine. He was spontaneous. Fun. Unpredictable in a way that shivered up my spine and weakened my knees. Good or bad, I was still undecided. That didn’t stop me from playing while I made up my mind. “Say something.”
He did that whole sexy brow-arching thing again, his gaze burrowing deep into mine. Then he cocked his head. “Nuq wab chenmoH naHlet HeghDI' chuy chaH?”
Whoa. I’d totally believed he was joking. “Sounds dirty. What does it mean?”
“What sound do nuts make when they sneeze?”
I snorted a laugh. I’d totally expected some cheesy line, and he’d surprised me. Again. “That sounded so much better in Klingon.”
He grinned back. “Want the answer?”
“Enlighten me.”
“Cash-ew.”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “Lame.”
“Would quoting Shakespeare have impressed you more?”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m impressed. Even quoting Baa Baa Black Sheep would have been effective.”
He snagged a fork of banana and I did the same.
Funny, the conversation waned, but the silence was far from stilted. It sizzled. I wanted Gideon, in the most basic of ways. And this time I wasn’t stupid enough to think one time would cut my cravings.
More than a single repeat performance was called for. And why not?
My heart stuttered at the thought, even while the heat in my veins sizzled.
I’d been rash in my “no sex, just talk” proviso for the evening. Sex was where I felt comfortable, where everything fit perfectly into place—pun one-hundred and ten percent intended.
Conversation and heart-to-hearts were the root of all troubles.
I was older, wiser. Some might say jaded, I’d say judicious. I was no longer the naïve, pliable fool I’d been in the past. I could spot the signs and cut our . . . whatever we were doing, short if so much as a hint of anger raised its ugly head.
I was bruised, not broken. Sex had been my sanity for the past three years. Why should I forgo the best experience of my life over a possibility? The change might never happen.
Richard’s smirk, ugly and taunting, rose up before me.
Stupid bitch.
I pushed that face and the burgeoning doubts back down.
It wasn’t the sex that was the problem. Never the sex. It was all the other stuff that landed me in trouble. Well, if Gideon didn’t know me, then he couldn’t hate me. And better still, he’d never need to hurt me.
Chapter 14
Gideon
I’d promised Tiff no sex, but goddam, she was testing that promise.
Her scent filled my nostrils, her every heartbeat pounded in my ears. I wanted to take her and taste her until she lost every bit of control and screamed my name. She topped a fork with chocolate dipped raspberries and whipped cream then slid it between her parted lips.
Fuck me.
I bit back a groan and stuffed a forkful of something—hell only knew what—into my mouth. Her thigh brushed mine and my cock jerked. Any minute now, I’d grab her and to hell with the consequences.
I swallowed and focused on the dregs of our three pancakes. She’d made it quite clear personal was off the table and I wasn’t about to break my balls trying to change that. I’d try another tack. “What’s your all-time favorite movie?”
She licked her lips then slowly curved them upwards. “Yours first.”
I dragged my attention from those lips to her tropical lagoon gaze. My scrambled mind could barely focus beyond the tightness in my balls. I bit out my answer. “Easy. Anything with a Marvel in front of it.”
“Figures.”
“What? I’m that predictable?” Of course I was. I’d tossed her a cliché. Her response was reasonable. My less-than-enamored reaction for it wasn’t.
She raised her brows. “What man doesn’t long to be a hero, even if only in his mind?”
I barked out a laugh. “Harsh.”
“Perhaps, but true.”
A generalization. Again, perfectly reasonable. What one didn’t know, one hypothesized. It was human nature, this need for super-human action a
nd strength.
Vamps were of another cloth.
We didn’t wear capes or fly about saving distressed heroines, but we could leap from tall buildings in a single bound. We could also terminate the life of a killer or rapist and sustain our hunger in the process. The blood may not be as sweet, but the guilt wasn’t as sharp, either. Whether or not that made us a hero was up for debate.
Either way, we didn’t fit the cliché of beasts of the night, transforming into bat form, feeding on innocents to slake our blood thirst. For the most part, we were a race surviving the only way we knew how, searching tirelessly for a way out of our living hell.
“Don’t tell me that as a kid you never wanted to be Superman.”
I wouldn’t tell her. She wouldn’t believe me.
It had been three hundred years since I’d been a kid, at a time when the likes of Voltaire, Benjamin Franklin and John Quincey Adams were idols. Men didn’t waltz around in capes unless they were mad or a Shakespearean actor.
Yeah, not an answer she’d understand.
“Not Superman. The Lone Ranger.”
“Ahh, so you have a Harley in lieu of a horse?”
I couldn’t help but grin. “I guess you could draw that analogy. What’s your favorite, then?” I speared a chunk of pecan brittle-topped banana and waved the fork her way. “Don’t tell me.” I studied her face and got nothing. So I took a stab. “Pride and Prejudice.”
Her lips twisted. “Not likely.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Frances Ha.”
She said the name as if I’d no chance in hell of knowing it. She wasn’t wrong.
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s not mainstream. There are no superpowers or super-human battles.”
“What’s it about?”
She tilted her head, a little like a bird contemplating how to attack a worm. “One woman’s journey to learn who she is before she can become who she should be.”
“Deep.”
“Authentic.”
“So, not a romance.”
The shake of her head was categorical. “Not even close.”
“Don’t most movies have at least a hint of romance?”
“Not the real ones.”
There had to be a clue somewhere in that statement. Something to provide insight into the whole “fucking without friendship” thing she had going. “You think romance isn’t real?”
“Oh, it’s real all right. It’s just less raindrops on roses and more sex with strings, stupidity and a dash of exploitation.”
The words cut, regardless that the rationale didn’t relate to me. “Wow. Where does love fit into all that?”
“It doesn’t. It fits into my world about as much as unicorns and vampires.”
She barely blinked as the statement left her lips. I wasn’t sure what should have annoyed me more—her flippancy over my existence or her adamant disbelief in love. Both jeopardized my future. Our shared future.
Unless I could convince her she was wrong on both accounts.
Her thick lashes fluttered, her gaze fixed to mine as she slicked moisture across her lips. “What does fit into my world is very hot, very dirty, very immediate sex.” She squeezed my thigh, her fingers digging into flesh just shy of my straining cock.
Was it a test? The few still operational brain cells couldn’t fathom another reason for her behavior. And they didn’t particularly care.
I wanted her fingers there, and higher, cupping and squeezing, her mouth sucking and fucking my aching dick until I exploded.
Thoughts that weren’t helping me retain control.
I wanted this, but I wanted our shared future more. If I slipped up now, any chance of winning Tiff, of winning her trust, would be as short-lived as a virgin in a brothel.
I grabbed her hand and threaded her fingers through mine, dragging them away from my cock and insufferable temptation.
Luckily, or not so luckily, Jet chose that moment to leave his double-grill for a snoop and a chat. “Gideon. How’s it hanging, bro?”
Normally I’d stand and we’d man-hug, but certain bodily impediments made it impractical. Unless I wanted Jet to believe I suddenly preferred cocks over clits.
We fist bumped and he dropped onto the cushion beside me, eyeing Tiff with interest I wanted to punch square in the face. “Hey, I’m Jet.”
She nodded, brandishing him with a smile that pricked at every nerve I owned. “Tiffany.”
I elbowed his ribs, regaining his attention. “Pancakes were perfect, as usual.”
He stroked his impeccably manicured moustache. “Of course.”
The man was anything but humble. With good reason. He’d been perfecting his batter for centuries. He’d also perfected that twinkle-in-his-eye good boy look and he brandished the whole caboodle on Tiff.
Another elbow broke the spell. “What dragged your sorry ass out from the kitchen?”
“You. Or, more accurately, the lovely Tiffany.” He smiled her way and she returned it, easily. Readily. “I had to see what made you stray from your usual order.”
The bastard was messing with me. He knew I was under cover at Hagen. And he knew from Tiff’s scent, she wasn’t one of us.
No way could I have ordered my usual without revealing myself to her.
“It was all Tiffany’s choosing.” I squeezed her hand. She didn’t squeeze back.
“You chose well.” Jet tapped the menu in the little menu-holder thing on the table. “Two out of my three favorites.
She dipped her head, shooting the bastard a smile that made me want to deck his sorry ass. “Only two? Which missed the mark?”
“Dark Knight. It’s been on the menu for longer than I can remember, and every time I try to spice it up, I get a backlash from my regulars.”
I grinned. “Why mess with perfection?”
“Why, indeed?”
A yelp sounded from beyond the solid keypad-locked “staff only” door. Dana and Sally acting up to relieve the boredom in the second, more private section of the café. Their antics were as routine as my bi-weekly visits and my blood cocktail order.
Jet pushed up. “That’s my cue.” He reached across the table and Tiff twisted free of my grasp to entwine her fingers with his. “Lovely to meet you, Tiffany.”
“Likewise.”
“Come back again. Next time I’ll prepare a special Breakfast at Tiffany’s pancake just for you.”
“Sounds tempting.”
“That’s the idea.” He grinned, a dimpled, pussy-drenching grin he reserved for the ladies.
A screech followed by a clatter hijacked our attention. Jet’s expression made me spare a brief thought for the two women. An angry head chef—particularly this one—was less than a pretty sight.
Yet, I couldn’t say I was anything but glad to see him go.
His fingers flew over the keypad and we both watched as the door slammed at his back.
More clattering punctuated the low murmur of conversation around us. A siren wailed outside and a child began to cry. Much as Jet’s arrival had called an end to Tiff’s teasing, it had also shattered the ease in our conversation. Silence stretched between us.
Tiff twirled her fork, contemplating the remains of our meal. “He seems nice.”
“More importantly, his pancakes are unrivaled.”
“No disagreement here.” She underlined the statement with a mouthful of berries and cream.
I attacked the last of the popcorn and salted caramel. With my dick no longer hogging the blood flow, my brain was once again operating full-throttle.
“Speaking of movies.” We weren’t, but it was a good opener to get us back on track. “Want to know what makes a great movie?” I tapped my fork on the plate and snagged a couple more popcorn. “Great actors like John Wayne, Clint Eastwood and Marlon Brando.” I popped the fork in my mouth. “And if we’re talking twentieth century, a little intrigue and a killer twist. Like The Usual Suspects.”
“Twists are
good. Predictable bores the shit out of me.”
I nodded. “I’ll second that. No action movies on your list?”
“Atomic Blonde. She’s totally kick-ass, with a strength and sass I always envied.”
“Why?” I covered her hand with mine. “You’re strong and kick-ass. And don’t get me started on your sass.”
“People only see what we want them to see.” Her gaze shuttered, as if my comment had flipped a switch.
“What does that mean?”
She pulled her hand free, avoiding my gaze. “Nothing. I am who I am. That’s it.” Her hand dropped beneath the table, and this time there was no mistake. Her palm rode my cock as if it were a travelator. “And what I am right now is horny.”
Chapter 15
Tiffany
Gideon stalled my hand. “Don’t think I don’t get what you’re doing. Every time conversation gets personal, you hit ‘divert’ with a come-on.”
Damn. He was on to me.
I hated that. Most men couldn’t read me, they were just glad for the whole sex-no-strings scenario. What guy didn’t want that, for fuck’s sake?
I speared him with my best take-no-shit stare. “And that’s a problem, how?”
“What about the whole ‘no sex’ thing?”
He slid along the seat, breaking all contact. Not quite the reaction I’d been looking for.
I licked my lips, a tactic which always saw his gaze darken. “I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter?”
He studied me beneath hooded lids. “Yeah, it kinda does.”
He was exasperating the shit out of me. If he wasn’t so goddam good in the sack, I would have hightailed my ass out of there way before now.
I huffed. “I’m horny and you’re here. Do we need a deeper meaning than that?”
Something cracked in his expression. I closed my mind to what that crack might signify. We shared nothing past sex. Dinner was a mistake, but we could rectify that—with more sex.
“What about the fact that I like you? Where does that factor in?”
A door closed in my brain. A big, double-bolted, steel-reinforced door. Anything outside sex required emotions and emotions hurt. I didn’t want to hurt again.
“It doesn’t.” I inhaled. Deep. “I don’t do relationships, and I definitely don’t do liking,” I air quoted, to make sure he got the point, “or all that emotional bullshit. What I do is sex, and I’m good at it. Turns out, you’re pretty good at it too. I figure we may as well be good at it together.”