What a change from the woman she was just a few years ago—the dutiful daughter blindsided by love.
The pressure from Maxwell Grant to marry Stephen had weighed heavy. He wanted the young prodigy, the wonder lawyer who won cases left and right, to stay with his firm.
"Your mother would have wanted you to marry a man like this, Zoe."
"He's perfect for you and the firm, Zoe."
"I won't be around forever and you need someone to take care of you, Zoe."
So once again she let her father dictate her future and married Stephen later that summer. He'd been good to her in the beginning, affectionate and romantic. But within the first year, the romance dwindled. He grew less and less attentive, worked constantly. Or so she'd thought.
And during every lie he told her, every deception she fell for, she had pushed her own personal desires into the desolate crevices of her mind. But they refused to stay hidden. The unfulfilled wants and needs would rise within her, take hold, and leave her hollow and unhappy. Stephen never gave her what she craved, and, in hindsight, he never could have.
When the chaos of the divorce settled, she decided to take matters into her own hands. That's when she discovered Entice. Jesus, if Stephen or her father ever found out about that....
They'd never understand. Sometimes even she didn't completely understand. The need drove her; the pure physical enjoyment she received there kept her sane and gave her the wherewithal to face each day.
She opened her eyes, gave the little toy in her hand one last rub and returned it to the box. She only hoped that what she'd agreed to tonight didn't completely mess all that up.
* * * *
Dean arrived at The Haze Bar at eight-thirty with plenty of time to find a good seat. He picked the perfect place, a stool that faced the mirrored wall behind the bar. Through the assortment of booze bottles lined up, the entire corner booth could be seen in the reflection. With his back to her table, he'd still get a full view without the risk of dangerous eye contact. Because if their eyes met, she'd know. No way could he mask how much he wanted her.
Confident in his vantage point, only one question remained. Would she show?
He had a good feeling she would. They were kindred spirits, after all, and he knew it'd be difficult for her to resist a temptation such as this. A few more of these sexy little interludes and he'd have her. The blindfold would come off and he'd finally speak, telling her all he'd kept bottled inside for the last three months.
Gil, the manager and sometimes bartender, not to mention his friend, stopped in front of him and wiped away the remnants of the last customer.
"Dean, my man. What's up?"
"Hey, Gil. Shot and a beer.” He ignored the question.
"Coming up. You off duty tonight?"
"Yeah."
Gil smirked and slid a cold one across the bar into Dean's hand. “What? No hottie? What the hell? I haven't seen you with a woman in months. You feel all right?"
Dean grinned but didn't rise to the bait. “Fine. Thanks for your concern."
"Had to check. Wanted to make sure, you know, all the parts still worked.” Gil laughed at his own bad joke and tossed a shot glass in air, caught it with ease and slammed it on the bar before filling it with whiskey.
"Kiss my ass, Gil."
Still chuckling, Gil poured a second shot and lifted the glass in a mock toast as Dean grabbed the first.
"Here's to you, then. May you leave with a drop-dead gorgeous woman on your arm.” Gil emptied his shot glass with a quick swallow.
Hell yeah, he'd drink to that. Dean shot back the whiskey, hissed through the burn as the liquid traveled down to his stomach, and chased the fire with a swig of cold beer. The alcohol took the edge off and a sudden take-it-as-it-comes attitude flowed through him, put a halt to the what-if scenarios that plagued his mind.
He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to go. An expectant buzz coursed through him and added to the rush the entire evening already held. He removed the remote control from his pocket and squeezed the small device in his palm. He couldn't wait to see the expression on her face when he flicked it on.
His heart thudded when she breezed through the door, and every bit of his body responded. That she'd come thrilled him and proved she felt the same powerful connection. Their bodies belonged together, their souls were intertwined.
The hostess led her through the gathering crowd. When she passed behind him, her scent drifted through the air and assaulted his nostrils. He inhaled deeply, holding her essence inside his lungs while her body's fragrance wreaked havoc on his usual steadfast control. She slid into the booth, her shapely legs bare under a very short skirt, her feet in a pair of heart-stopping black stiletto heels.
Jesus, he'd love to see her in nothing but those damn shoes.
Her eyes darted around the bar and stopped on every male in the room. In the dim light, he guessed their color to be a deep chocolate, a perfect match to his ordinary brown ones. The delicate shape of her eyebrows complimented the height of her cheekbones. He smiled at finally being able to take in all of her beauty. Up close and personal, so to speak.
She shrugged off her coat and laid it on the seat beside her. When the waitress stopped at her table and she greeted her, the resonance of her voice seeped into every cell of his body. It differed slightly from her cries and moans, the tone not as deep as he expected. It dawned on him that from a certain point of view, he'd just violated rule number one. He heard her speak. He nearly laughed at his short-lived concern for the rules. They no longer held any importance to him. How could they, when she'd be his prize if he broke them?
He closed his eyes, concentrating on the silkiness of her words. The melodic lilt worked its way straight to his cock and he hardened within seconds.
A moment later he opened his eyes to settle his gaze on her. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she continued to scan the bar. She seemed restless, and he sensed a bit of nervousness from her. Or could that be excitement he picked up on? He preferred to believe the latter, not wanting her to feel any trepidation.
The waitress returned to the table with a glass of dark red wine. When her pouty lips rimmed the edge of the glass for her first sip, he stifled a groan. God, even something as innocent as her taking a drink drove him wild.
He didn't want to wait much longer, but damn, he got a thrill from the fact he could just sit and observe her. The buzz inside him bordered on unbearable. An unfamiliar itch ran up his spine.
Did she have the bullet inside her? Were her juices flowing around it now as she waited for him to turn it on, to turn her on? He shifted the remote in his hand, his thumb poised over the power button, ready for his private—albeit, very public—show.
A sudden persistent beep blurted from her table. She frowned in the reflection, dug inside her purse and pulled out a pager. The frown deepened as she read the display. She reached for her phone, flipped it open and dialed.
"Marie, it's Zoe. You paged me?"
Zoe? Christ, he finally had a name. And one that utterly suited her.
"Oh, God, is she okay?"
That didn't sound good.
"No, no, I understand.” She glanced at her watch and his heart sank to his feet like a rock. “I can be there in fifteen minutes. Let them know I'm on my way. Bye."
She snapped the phone shut, tossed it in her bag, rubbed her forehead, and glanced around as if searching for him, her expression one of sorrowful regret.
Damn it. She needed to leave. He wanted to reach through her phone and throttle Marie-Whoever-She-Is. Incredible how one phone call could fuck up his entire night.
She grabbed a pen from her bag and jotted a note on her cocktail napkin. As she threw a few dollars on the table and slid from the booth, he turned and spun the opposite direction off his stool. Once she passed through the doors, he picked up the napkin and scowled at the delicate script.
I'm so sorry.
Yeah.
She wasn't the only one.
&nb
sp; [Back to Table of Contents]
Nameless Surrender: Chapter 4
His cool demeanor snapped.
Oh, hell no.
No way would he let her walk out like that. He'd planned all week for tonight, and after one lousy phone call she pulls a disappearing act? Not a chance.
Dean threw a twenty on the bar and slugged down the last of his beer as Gil wiped his hands on a towel.
"Hey, what's got you all riled?"
"Nothing.” Dean scowled and stormed toward the door. If he moved fast enough, he could catch her before she got to her car and—and what? What would he do then?
To her, he was a complete stranger. She didn't know him from Adam. Yeah, if he wanted to freak her out, a sure-fire way to make that happen would be to burst through the doors like a lunatic and call out her name.
Zoe.
Shit.
He stopped a second to collect his thoughts, forking his fingers through his hair. Okay, a more subtle approach. What that would be, he didn't know quite yet. But hell, he always performed his best under pressure and excelled at quick thinking. He hadn't become Commander of his S.W.A.T team by accident. Situations like these were what he thrived on.
Too bad this time his dick called the shots.
By the time he got outside, she'd already pulled out of the parking lot onto the highway. A spark of anger flared and he quashed it just as quickly. Being pissed wouldn't help the situation. Besides, her tone of voice and the speed with which she left told him that whatever happened, the person on the other end of the phone needed her. Obviously she was a compassionate person, a trait he would never rebuke anyone for having. At the same time, though, he found it difficult to suppress his own powerful needs for her.
But he would. For now.
He caught a glimpse of her license plate before she drove away and committed the numbers to memory. Maybe he'd pull in a favor or two, have his detective brother, Wes, run the plate for him and get her address. Not exactly an ethical way to find her, but right now, skirting ethics to get to her seemed like the only feasible alternative.
He stalked back into the bar. Fine, so tonight didn't work out like he'd planned. He would deal with that. He'd see her tomorrow night, anyway, at their usual time. Several kinky ideas flowed through his mind about ways to ‘punish’ her for leaving so quickly. He knew she loved it when he inflicted a little pain here and there. This could be the perfect opportunity to push her, get a feel for whether or not the whole bondage fetish was real and maybe a sexual lifestyle she'd want on a more permanent basis.
As he climbed onto the barstool, shouts roared from the billiards room on the other side of the bar. A crowd gathered around two beefy guys, both of them shit-faced and pissed. One held a pool cue, the other an empty beer bottle. They circled each other, fierce in their battle stances, neither one sober enough to make the first move.
"Aw, fucking hell,” Gil murmured, reaching under the counter for his billy club. “Every damn week with these two.” He threw Dean a crooked grin. “I know you're off duty, man, but care to help me throw these assholes out?"
At six-feet, Gil could hold his own in a bar fight. Shit, Dean often witnessed first hand how quick he could dance around an opponent. After years of coming to this bar, though, Gil knew him too well. Frustration radiated off him, so Gil offered up a chance for a little physical release. He jumped at the prospect.
"Sure, what the hell.” He could stand to burn off a little pent-up energy. And since he couldn't do it the way he wanted, roughing up a couple of overgrown sloppy-drunk rednecks sounded just about right. He stood and held out his arm in an exaggerated invitation. “Lead the way, my friend."
They met at the end of the bar and strode into the poolroom together. Dean hung back, waiting for Gil to talk to the guys first. If that didn't work, he'd jump in and lend a hand.
Gil stepped between the men and smacked the billy club against his palm. “I've got to ask you boys to leave. Take your disagreement outside."
"Fuck that, man,” drunk number one slurred and blinked several times in an attempt to focus on Gil. “Denny here, he stole my woman. Can't let that slide. He's gotta pay."
"I didn't steal nobody,” Denny woozily interjected. “She came to me of her own free will. You drove her away, Carl, with your boozing and cheating, you pansy-ass mother-fu...."
"Enough! Outside with it, both of you.” Gil grabbed Denny's arm while Dean stepped forward to escort Carl, whose demeanor changed from drunk-angry to sober-lethal in the span of two seconds. Dean's senses flew into overdrive as Carl dropped the beer bottle. It clattered to the floor while he lifted his shirttail. The handle of a small handgun stuck out of the waistband of his pants.
"Gun! Get down!"
Screams and shouts filled the room. People dropped from where they sat or stood. Dean lunged. Damn it, he was too far away. Carl pulled the gun from his pants and took careless aim at Denny on the floor. Dean gained his footing and rushed him. Grabbing his wrists, he heaved Carl's arms upward to point the gun at the ceiling. A shot rang out a millisecond before he twisted the gun from Carl's fingers.
Dean spun then coiled around to slam Carl with a well-placed elbow directly under his chin. Carl flew backward and landed in an unconscious heap on the floor.
Adrenaline peaked inside Dean. He breathed hard and stared down at Carl, seething.
Fucking asshole.
"Dean? Holy shit, are you shot?"
Gil charged up next to him and gawked at his arm. Dean followed his gaze. Blood oozed from a long tear in the white cotton of his button-down dress shirt. Odd that once he saw the blood, an intense fire seared through his shoulder. “Dickhead must have grazed me.” Muscles tensed as another wave of anger rushed through him and he fought the urge to kick the unconscious Carl in the gut.
"Pretty big graze there, buddy. Here, sit down.” Gil pulled over a chair.
Dean disregarded the offer. “I'm fine. Did someone call 911?"
The waitress spoke up. “I did, from my cell phone as soon as you yelled gun."
He nodded and blew out a breath, thankful things hadn't gone any worse.
Within minutes the bar filled with officer after officer. Most couldn't resist giving Dean shit, a good ribbing from one cop to another about being in the wrong place at the right time. Some just shook his hand on a job well done. Statements were taken, and both Denny and Carl sat in the back of separate cruisers. He hoped to hell the reality of what they'd done sank in. Even though the whole incident only lasted minutes, a different outcome could have changed many lives.
He'd soaked through what must've been his tenth gauze pad since the commotion died down. The flow of blood had slowed, but the wound needed stitches.
Gil ambled over, a bit sheepish. “You know, I never would've asked if I'd known—"
Dean chuckled. “And you would've what? Confronted him anyway? Please. It's my job. I deal with assholes like that every day."
Gil stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets. “Still. Thanks, man. Sorry it went so far. And sorry you got hit."
"Yeah, me too. Fucking hurts. Tell you what. Make it up to me by driving me to the hospital. I sent the paramedics away, but this thing needs to be sewn up.” He tilted his head toward his shoulder. The intense ache increased with each minute that passed. A good numbing would work wonders right about now.
Gil gave a half-grin at the unspoken acceptance of his apology. “Sure thing. Let me tell the staff to head home. We're done here for the night anyway."
They drove most of the way in silence until Gil sliced through it. “So, what got you all up in arms tonight? Or should I say who?” He slid him a knowing smirk. “Yeah, I saw her. And I saw you watching her."
Dean clutched yet another gauze pad to his shoulder and smiled. “Sorry, my friend. Got to keep quiet about that for now."
Gil nodded. “Whatever, man. She's got to be pretty special, though. Not sure I've ever seen you act like that before. Good for you."
Y
eah, good for him. If he only knew. The silence, the unknown. Dean had been one step closer tonight to the end of all that. Another surge of angry regret blazed through him at the missed opportunity.
Christ, give me strength.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Nameless Surrender: Chapter 5
Dean lay on the hospital gurney and wished the entire night would come to an end. Tedious waiting always got to him, but tonight his lack of tolerance seemed to triple. He felt as though he could jump clean out of his skin.
Dainty footsteps shuffled outside his exam room. About damn time. He wanted to hurry this the hell up and get out of here. Nearing an impatient point of no return, he nearly choked when a pair of familiar shoes appeared under the exam-room curtain from the other side.
He sat a little straighter.
Hell, those weren't exactly shoes. Nope, those were stilettos. Elegant, sexy-as-sin, come-fuck-me black stilettos.
The curtain flew back with a swish and his heart stopped.
There stood heaven, chart in hand and a drop-dead smile on her lips. “Hello. I'm Dr. Grant. And you are...?"
Who am I? Holy hell. One lucky son of a bitch, no doubt about it. A grin slid to lips. “Captain Lucas. Dean, please."
"Well, Captain, you seem overly happy for a man who's been shot.” She tossed the chart on the counter, washed her hands in the corner sink and cocked her head toward him.
He shrugged, playing it cool. “The bullet grazed me. Could've been worse, Doctor—? Sorry, I didn't catch your name."
She dried her hands and smiled. “Grant."
Yeah, he'd heard her the first time. He just really liked the way she said it. “Grant, right."
She turned toward him and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He read from the blue nametag on her stark white lab coat. “Zoe Grant, M.D., Emergency Medicine.” He lifted his gaze to hers, and a sense of pride coursed through him. “So, Zoe Grant, M.D, think you can fix me?"
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