The animal inside him growled in pleasure.
Red wanted to play . . . and she hated herself for it. Nothing like a little ambivalence to spice things up.
He crooked a finger at her. Come here. Jacqueline responded by chuffing a short, derisive laugh. She handed the shot glass back to the waitress, folded her arms across her chest, and pretended to study the hideous oil painting of a gaucho on horseback that was hanging on the wall above her booth.
The waitress turned and looked at him uncertainly. He nodded, letting her know it was okay, then gave a small jerk of his chin to summon her. She was there in an instant, breathlessly waiting for him to speak.
When he didn’t, she stammered, “The um . . . the girl . . . the lady said to tell you that she . . . uh . . . it was going to . . .”
“I got the gist of it,” he reassured her, “but thank you.”
The waitress glanced over at Jacqueline, then the band, which had segued into another number. “You heard that? Her table’s all the way over—”
“I’m just good at reading body language.” He leaned forward, stroking a finger up her arm. “Send two more shots over to her table, will you, beautiful? And keep them coming. She’s my boss, and I royally screwed up on the job today. I’m trying to get her drunk so she doesn’t have the energy to fire me.”
Hawk sent the waitress a conspiratorial smile, which she melted under.
“Oh—your boss!” Relief flashed in her eyes, followed quickly by shy self-consciousness. Then he couldn’t see her eyes at all because she lowered her lashes as a bloom of color spread across her cheeks.
Hawk felt a sudden rush of pity for this sweet, overworked waitress, past her prime and ignored by the men here because of it. She was lovely in her own way, maternal and a little old-fashioned, not flashy and brittle-hard like most of the women in the bar. If he didn’t have a job to do, he’d take her to bed and give her something to remember.
He reached into his wallet and pulled out a stack of bills. Her eyes widened as he pressed it into her hand.
“No, please, that’s too much—”
“It’s not even a drop in the ocean of what you’re worth, beautiful, but it’s all the cash I have on me.” He stood, leaned in, and brushed his lips across her cheek. Cupping the back of her neck in one hand, he said into her ear, “You’re sexy as hell, and don’t ever let any jerk tell you otherwise.” He pulled back and stared down into her wide eyes. Her mouth fell open. He said, “Do you understand me?”
Speechless, she nodded.
“Say it.”
She said faintly, “I understand.”
His brows lifted. Face flaming, she added, “Sir.”
He nodded, said, “Good girl,” and left her standing in shock at the bar, a wad of cash in one hand, the other braced for support on the stool he’d just deserted.
Jack watched him approach with equal parts dread and fascination.
She’d never seen anyone so primal. So magnetic. Like some elemental force, his presence dimmed everything around him as if he drew all the life and color from the room and absorbed it, appearing more vivid, more real and substantial in contrast. He wasn’t pretty, over-groomed and polished like so many of the men she knew in New York who had massages and mani-pedis and three-hundred-dollar haircuts. He was masculine in the best sense of the word, rugged and beautiful in his raw, unapologetic maleness.
This stranger named Hawk was, simply, devastating.
Unfortunately, he knew it.
He made his way through the crowded, smoky bar, seemingly oblivious to the craned necks, stares, and whispers that followed in his wake. He moved like wind over water, with a grace and lightness that was startling in one so large, and gave the impression he might at any moment shirk the bounds of gravity altogether and float above the floor. Even the men were affected by him, puffing out their chests and raising their chins, posing and strutting like peacocks, trying to compete.
As if a single one could. The instant she thought it, their eyes met. Another of his slow, lazy smiles lit his face.
To her horror, a flood of heat and moisture throbbed between her legs.
The urge to run away became almost overwhelming, but she steeled herself against it, because there was no way she was going to allow him—or her own traitorous body—to intimidate her.
He slid into the booth, taking a seat across from her, and stretched his long legs out and crossed them at the ankle, resting them on her side. This effectively blocked her exit. They stared at one another for a long moment in silence, sizing each other up.
As the band shifted into another song, Jack asked without an ounce of warmth, “You following me?”
Hawk’s lazy smile deepened. “I was here first, remember? Maybe you’re following me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type.”
He leaned across the table, clasped his big hands together on the scarred wood tabletop, stared deep into her eyes, and murmured, “Tell that to your wet panties.”
Jack had never wanted to hit someone so much in her entire life. The urge was violent and total, and she had to curl her hands into fists in her lap to keep them from clawing his eyes out.
Because he was right. Goddammit, he was right.
Blood rushed to her face. She sat there, counting to ten, staring back at him in silence while a storm of withering heat exploded inside her body. Somehow she knew he sensed it. His gaze dropped to the pulse fluttering wildly in her neck, and when he looked back into her eyes, his own were hot and dark.
Danger! her mind screamed.
Oh, hell, YES! was her body’s awful reply.
The surly waiter arrived with her food.
“Veggie burger, no cheese.” He removed the plate on the table and replaced it with the one in his hand, then stalked away again, exuding contempt.
Feeling as if she’d just been flattened by a truck, Jack sagged against the unyielding booth, taking comfort in its rigidity. She wished her self-control would take note and follow suit.
Staring at her plate, she started another count of ten.
Hawk leaned back, mercifully releasing her from his sex-appeal tractor beam.
“Problem with your food?” he asked, his tone solicitous.
This was a much safer course of conversation, but she still avoided his gaze, afraid of what he might find in her eyes. “Not anymore.”
There was a pause as he waited for more, silently watching her as she picked up the burger and began to eat.
“Are you always this charming, or am I just getting special treatment because I saved your life and you’re too much of a feminist to admit it?”
Jack swallowed. The food slid down her throat in a solid lump. “Try not to break your arm patting yourself on the back about that, Ace. Wasn’t the first time I’ve dodged a few bullets. Won’t be the last.”
She felt him looking her over, felt his gaze on her face, her hair, her hands, a gaze so heavy it was almost touch. A rush of adrenaline made her heart pound. She marveled that she’d been in mortal danger in countless war zones all over the world, yet just sitting there in a booth with this man, not even speaking or looking at him, she felt a thrill unlike anything she’d ever known.
She closed her eyes, unable to resist savoring the sweet sting of exhilaration. She knew she was an adrenaline junkie, and at moments like this, with fear and electricity and anticipation winging through her like a million tiny starbursts, she felt as if she was conducting fire through her veins.
This was her drug. This was what she lived for. Because she was dead inside in so many ways, this was the only thing that made her feel alive.
She breathed into it, a satisfied little smile curling the corners of her lips.
Hawk said, “First time I’ve seen you smile.”
Her eyes snapped open. He was s
taring at her with the strangest look on his face, a combination of intense concentration and slight confusion, as if he was taken aback by something that didn’t fit.
Jack was vaguely aware of her heartbeat, of the pulse of the music, the sway of people on the dance floor, but she was acutely aware of him, as if there were an invisible Tesla coil connecting their bodies.
Channeling an ache and a fever of static electricity, the space between them felt charged.
Truly curious, her intuition screaming that she was on the verge of something big, hazardous, and possibly life altering, Jack whispered, “Who are you?”
Something in her voice or her face made him falter. He swallowed, that façade of perfect, arrogant self-confidence cracked. His voice barely audible above the music, he said, “Lucas Eduardo Tavares Castelo Luna. But my friends call me Hawk.”
His eyes burned. The tension between them was palpable, thick as molasses. Jack was at a loss as to why.
“Why do I feel like I know you?” she pressed. “Or I’m supposed to know you? Or I’m missing something here?”
This trio of questions was met with a brief, telling flicker of what looked like surprise in his eyes—maybe alarm—which was quickly smothered.
In a flash of comprehension that was like a floodlight flipped on, Jack understood.
Her laugh was loud and relieved. “Oh, you’re good!” she managed between the laughter that wouldn’t seem to stop coming. “Damn! She has amazing taste, I’ll give her that, but I am going to kill her!”
Hawk stared at her in silence as she groaned and passed a hand over her eyes, embarrassed at herself that she thought there was anything else going on between her and this impossibly big, beautiful man with the ridiculous nickname.
Jack had girlfriends, most of them childless career girls like her, but only one best friend with whom she shared everything. They’d met in college, and though total opposites in almost every way, had formed an unbreakable bond of friendship when they’d discovered they had something terrible in common, a horror they’d survived in childhood that had left them scarred in exactly the same ways.
Inola Hart was a full-blooded Cherokee Indian, raised on a reservation, striking and statuesque and whip smart, with a devilish sense of humor that often took the form of practical jokes. She now worked as an attorney at the UN, and the last time they’d seen each other, when Jack had gone to DC for a reception hosted by the President in celebration of getting his anti-Shifter agenda pushed through Congress several months back, Nola had threatened Jack with a surprise for her thirtieth birthday. A birthday that was, in fact, this very day.
The surprise was supposed to be a male escort, so Jack, for the first time in years, could get laid. At the time, it had just seemed like a casual conversation; but obviously Nola took it a little more seriously . . . Jack thought back on their conversation.
“If I just didn’t ever have to see him again, you know?” Jack mused as she and Nola stood together in one corner of the grand East ballroom at the White House, scanning the crowd for familiar faces, nursing cocktails and discussing, for the umpteenth time, the problem of their barren sex lives. Neither wanted a relationship, but neither wanted to be celibate either.
“I hear you,” replied Nola, neatly downing the rest of her pomegranate martini. “My last time was supposed to be a one-nighter with this junior attorney I met at a charity function, but he turned out to be a friggin’ stalker. That guy would not leave me alone. Do you know I came home one night and he was hiding in the bushes by my front door? I literally had to beat him with my purse to get him to go away.”
At that point Jack turned a critical eye to her friend, giving her tall, elegant figure, nut-brown skin, upswept black hair, and aristocratic features a swift once-over. “Can you blame him? If I were a guy I’d go all stalker on you, too, lady. You look like one of those Indian Disney princesses.”
“Please,” Nola scoffed, “don’t insult my intelligence! Those Indian Disney princesses are just white girls painted brown. Tell me I look like Beyoncé instead. She’s beautiful and she isn’t sitting around waiting for some dim-witted prince to come along and save her incompetent ass.”
“Girlfriend, I hate to break it to you, but you look nothing like Beyoncé.”
Nola pretended outrage. “I so do! Okay, Halle Berry then.” She stood waiting for Jack’s response with her head tilted back as though for inspection.
Jack asked, “Are you operating under the mistaken impression that you’re black, crazy person?”
She answered in all seriousness, “I’m just talking general chocolate hotness here.” At which point Jack laughed so hard vodka sprayed out of her nose.
“You see—that.” Nola watched in amusement as Jack mopped her face and chin with a cocktail napkin. “That right there should be enough for any sane man to fall in love with you.”
“No love,” Jack emphatically replied. “Remember? No complications. No relationships. Just a little . . . relief every once in a while would be perfect.”
Nola brightened. “What about an escort?”
“Uh, no, thanks. I’m as liberated as the next girl, but that’s kinda weird.”
“What if he was JFK Jr. hot? Like that guy?” She pointed out the tall figure of a man crossing the ballroom. Dark-haired and lean, he was unexpectedly good-looking in the dull crowd of attorneys, pundits, and politicians.
Jack pondered it, then shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. That phone call is not something I could ever see myself making. ‘Oh, hi, is this the man-whore agency? Great, please send over your best, pronto.’ So not going to happen.”
“Maybe I’ll surprise you with one for your birthday,” Nola countered with a smile, and the two of them laughed and moved on to another topic.
Jack thought Nola had been joking. Clearly she hadn’t been. And if anyone could arrange for a hot male escort to wine and dine her in Brazil, it was Nola. The rescue bit was a little over the top . . . God, he must have followed her to the market, too! Unbelievable planning. Touché, girlfriend. Touché.
“You’re going to kill who, exactly?” Hawk’s voice was gruff, his expression puzzled.
Boy, he was good at this!
“Okay, then, I’ll play your little game. Hawk.” She had to stifle another laugh as she said his name. He pretended to scowl at her, which made her laugh even harder. The forty-something, busty waitress she’d seen him talking to on the other side of the bar arrived with two shots of tequila and set them on the table, one in front of Jack, the other in front of Hawk. His came complete with batted lashes and a simper.
“Oh, thank you!” Jack smiled broadly at the waitress. She reluctantly dragged her attention away from Hawk to scrutinize Jack in obvious disapproval, lips pursed.
“You’re welcome.” After a pause and a glance in Hawk’s direction, she added, “He’s really great, you know.”
Ah. This bar was Hawk’s normal hunting grounds. Jack wondered if Nola had even gone so far as to instruct the concierge at the hotel where to send her, and decided it was completely within the realm of possibility. Her best friend had wanted to make it seem as realistic and coincidental as possible. This was getting better and better.
“Oh, totally.” Jack nodded emphatically and leaned over the table. “I can totally see that. I mean, look at him, right?”
Hawk’s jaw was clenched so hard she thought all his teeth might shatter. The waitress glanced back and forth between the two of them, and hesitantly said, “It’s not my place to say this, but . . . but you shouldn’t fire him. He’s . . . there aren’t many men like him out there.”
“Fire him!” Jack scoffed. “Oh, no way! I’m getting my money’s worth! Well, Nola’s money’s worth, anyway.” When both the waitress and Hawk stared at her as if she’d lost her mind, Jack said happily, “Oh, never mind, it’s all good. Thanks for the tequila, I’m probably go
ing to need it!”
Jack downed the shot in one gulp, savored the burn, set the glass back on the table, and smiled broadly at both of them.
A male escort! This was going to be so much fun! No strings, no attachments; he’d leave afterward without all that awkward Uh, I’ll call you BS. As long as he had condoms—plenty of them—she was good to go.
The waitress turned and fled. Jack happily watched her go, then said to Hawk, “So how exactly does this work? Do I need to tip you afterward or anything, or is that all taken care of?”
That lazy, seductive smile from before had turned to a mean-looking scowl, which Jack decided was utterly adorable. God, she couldn’t wait to get her hands on him. Just look at those arms! Those abs! That bulge in his jeans! She almost hopped up and down in her seat with excitement.
This way, she could be absolutely free. She could let herself go. There would be no consequences, no ugly recriminations, no relationship whatsoever. She hadn’t a single hesitation about the ethics of bedding a male prostitute—it was called the oldest profession in the world for a good reason, and they were both consenting adults, and he was beautiful—she wasn’t worried about the possible dangers of having a strange man in her hotel room because Nola would have paid a high price to ensure the quality of the merchandise, and the safety and total anonymity of the transaction. In fact, she’d probably had an extensive background check run on him and made him sign a nondisclosure.
The cherry on top of this delightful sundae of sin: there would be exactly zero emotional entanglements. She’d wake up tomorrow morning and he’d be gone, never to be seen again, and she’d be on a plane on her way back to the States.
Her glee was only briefly marred by the cold pinch of anxiety she felt every time she thought about having sex. With an efficiency born of years of practice, Jack ruthlessly squashed that feeling before it had a chance to flower into fear.
Darkness Bound (A Night Prowler Novel) Page 3