One Taste

by Cari Quinn

  First, he had to contend with the woman in question. The one who had dominated far too many of his thoughts for far too long.

  She stood behind the counter, fidgeting with her chunky gold bracelet and flushing a rosy pink that emphasized her smoky eyes. For six months, he’d been coming into the Quikky Snak every night, trying to get a taste of her. But she couldn’t be had.

  Except in his imagination. He licked his lips. In his imagination, she stripped off her uptight veneer about as quickly as she lost that sickly green uniform.

  “Cash or charge?” she repeated.

  He couldn’t seem to divert his attention from the lavender lace bra peeking over the gaping vee of her work shirt. Maybe he was worse off than he’d feared. “Cash,” he said finally, setting the condoms on the counter.

  He’d selected the most economical size. A man could dream, couldn’t he?

  “Planning a big night?” Kiki asked, tapping keys on the register with her shimmery purple nails. Long nails, perfect for dragging down a man’s back.

  He shifted at the definite stirrings between his legs. Down, boy. “I enjoy a romantic atmosphere.”

  Her snigger turned into a husky laugh, one that seemed more suited to the back room of a smoky jazz club than a harshly-lit convenience store on the iffy side of town. “Right. Your rep precedes you in that arena, King of Romance. $13.71.”

  He pulled out his wallet, trying to ignore the hitch in his chest. He’d just said he liked a romantic atmosphere. It wasn’t as if she could possibly know he was Vicenza Bishop, Scarlet Publishing’s queen of all things erotic. No one did, other than his agent, Jerry, and his dog, Bathsheba. And unlike Jerry, Bathsheba would never give up Vincent’s secret. No wonder four-legged friends trumped the two-legged variety in his book any day.

  He gave her a twenty and pushed a hand through his hair as she counted out change. He wasn’t used to being nervous around women. “Why don’t you come home with me after you get off? You can find out for yourself.”

  Kiki lifted her gaze from his condoms, blinking as if he’d just drilled her with a laser beam. “What?”

  “You’ll be…getting off soon, right?” Vincent’s knuckles whitened around his chili dog tray as she nailed him with one of her infamous frosty looks. “I thought we could get to know each other better.”

  “What happened to the redheaded filly you traipsed through here with last week?”

  He flipped through his data banks. “Bethany’s my colleague.”

  “Your colleague was rubbing your ass.”

  He grinned and leaned on the counter, pleased at her immediate retreat. Nothing was going on between him and Bethany, but he didn’t mind that Kiki thought otherwise. He was used to rumors flying fast and furious about his supposed affairs with his coworkers. He’d had a few, sure, but not nearly as many as the gossip-hounds claimed.

  “We’re a friendly bunch at Comtek.”

  “Lynsay’s told me just how friendly you are, in particular.”

  Vincent’s gaze latched onto her mouth. Her lips looked glossy even when they were bare, as they were now. He couldn’t wait to hear her moan as he coaxed them open with his tongue. “Has she?” He grinned again, but his grin lost some of its power.

  Kiki was friends with Lynsay Paulsen, his assistant network analyst. Lynsay knew her way around her computers like nobody’s business, but she also knew her way around the female form. If she and Kiki were friends, did that mean—

  No. He relaxed slightly. A woman could be friends with a lesbian without being one herself, though what man didn’t enjoy the idea of two females together? Especially if one of those females appreciated men, too.

  He smiled, idly stroking his condoms. Yeah, not so bad.

  “Lynsay’s told me a few stories.” Kiki’s lips wiggled with barely contained mirth. “How’d that conference table work out for you, anyway?”

  “Urban legend,” he said easily, unsurprised she’d heard that particular tale. Once a man dipped into the office pool, a few suggestive—but unfortunately, usually untrue—rumors were to be expected. “So, what do you say? If you’re not busy after work, why don’t we grab a bite to eat?”

  Before I grab a bite of you….

  She bagged his purchases, touching them with just her fingertips as if they were contaminated. “You can’t be serious.”

  “You do eat, right?” Irritation lined the question. “Or have you eliminated that function just like you’ve eliminated dating?”

  Okay, not the best approach to take. Kiki swished her tongue over her lips, but he could tell by the flash in her eyes the gesture wasn’t intended to be flirty. She was pissed.

  Why was he even bothering? Sure, he enjoyed their daily ninety seconds of sparring. Lately that number had risen, thanks to his efforts to engage her in conversation. So he liked her. A lot. But a date? He wasn’t used to working so hard for female companionship, at least not anymore.

  During his days at Ridgley Prep, he’d dealt with enough rejection for a lifetime. Then he’d learned how to sweet-talk a woman into separating herself from her clothing, and his loser past had been history. But even now, though he regularly assured himself he wasn’t still the geeky, awkward guy in thick glasses who hadn’t gotten laid until the advanced age of twenty, he didn’t particularly relish getting shot down.

  He’d been with his share of women. Probably more than his share. If he was overcompensating for his many weekends alone in high school and college, who could blame him?

  So why was he still pursuing Kiki? The challenge she presented? Her unpredictability? Or the fact that she turned him on—both his brain and his body—in a way that hadn’t happened in far too long?

  Maybe ever.

  Only problem was, they couldn’t talk without hissing. Not that they’d need to talk much. The language of ardor had its own music. Ask any of the heroes in his books, who got laid all the flipping time and knew just what to say in any situation.

  Vincent frowned. Did it make sense to be jealous of a fictional character? Probably not, but right now he would’ve been jealous of a blow-up doll if it was getting more action than he was.

  After what had to be the longest pause in conversational history, Kiki blew out a breath. “I guess you heard me say I haven’t had a date in…a while.”

  “Three years isn’t a while.” He cleared his throat as she tucked some napkins into his chili dog tray. See, she cared. She wanted to ensure he had a tidy meal. “I thought you might appreciate some companionship. As would I,” he added.

  Would he ever.

  She made a clucking noise and leaned forward onto the counter. The move displayed lots of creamy white cleavage above the scalloped edge of her bra. Occasionally, he’d glimpsed red satin or black silk and he’d assumed she dressed provocatively for the man in her life. Now that he knew she didn’t have a boyfriend, he was even more intrigued.

  “As you must have heard, I don’t need to date to have sex. If you think I’m needy, I’m so not.” She dropped his coins into his palm. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Afraid your daddy would approve of me, too?”

  He didn’t know where his comment had come from. But when her chin jerked up hard enough to send her oversized gold hoops swinging, he grinned.

  Score one for the geek.

  “Actually, you’re exactly the type he’d pick for me.”

  “Oh, really.” Vincent danced his fingertips up the back of her hand. She smelled really good, like Ivory soap and fresh-peeled apples. Her wholesome scent didn’t match her blonde and pink-streaked dark hair, shadowed eyes, and come-hither bra, but his twitching cock had no complaints. She wasn’t his usual type for a lot of reasons, but the usual seemed pretty damn boring in comparison. “Then what’s the problem?”

  She pulled her hand away. “I’m not that hungry for a screw, especially with a guy like you. Sorry.”

  Behind him, the door opened with a grating tinkle of bells. Still reeling from Kiki’s dismissal
, he tossed a quick glance at the stocky man who had entered the store.

  The man wearing a ski mask and holding a gun.

  Vincent shifted, his muscles bunching as he eyed the guy in the doorway. Maybe some people thought he looked like the classic computer nerd who rode a desk, but he benched one-hundred-freaking fifty. He could take this jerk out with one swift uppercut, no question.

  “Shit, not another one,” Kiki muttered.

  As the gunman aimed his weapon at Kiki, Vincent balled his hands into fists. And stepped in front of her.

  Yeah, that made perfect sense. She’d just told him she wouldn’t sleep with him, so what was he doing? Risking life and limb to protect her.

  “Get down on the floor behind the register.” The robber gestured with his gun, a.22 if Vincent wasn’t mistaken. His alter ego, Vicenza, wasn’t only kinky, she also had a taste for violence. “Now.”

  “You want money, right?” Vincent’s gaze traveled over the robber’s raggedy red sweatsuit and clunky moon boots. “Enough to get a new burgling wardrobe, perhaps.”

  “Shut the hell up. And you, don’t move!”

  Vincent shot a glance at Kiki as she strode around the counter, dripping mop in hand. What did she expect to do with that? Blind the guy with soapy water? “Dammit, Kiki.” Gripping her wrist, he yanked her against his side. “Don’t be stupid.”

  “He’s right, little girl. You don’t want a piece of this.”

  “I’m not a little girl, Mr. Badass-behind-a-toy-gun.” She shook off Vincent’s restraining hand. “And I’m not in the mood to be told what to do.”

  “It’s a toy?” Vincent pulled her back despite her warning glance. “How do you know that?”

  “Don’t you read the papers? This is the fourth place this punk has hit around here this month.”

  The robber glared at her. “If you don’t open that register in the next five seconds, lady, you’re going to need a new hairstyle to cover the hole in your head.”

  Fury vibrated through her small frame. “I’ve been held up enough times by you creeps. I’ve had it.” She tightened her hold on the mop. “The register’s staying closed, pal. End of story.”

  Even as Vincent grimaced at Kiki’s pseudo-bravado, he reached out to clamp a hand over her mouth. Distracted by her squeaking and flailing, he almost missed the intention in the robber’s panicked gaze.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  He grabbed Kiki and spun around. Fire exploded in his shoulder just as Kiki’s scream sliced through “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer.”

  Not the funeral dirge he’d always imagined, that’s for sure.

  “Oh, God, Vincent! Are you okay?”

  Was he? He felt oddly calm, though he was pretty sure the muffled popping sound he’d heard above the music hadn’t been Christmas fireworks.

  Oddly calm, and really sleepy.

  Vincent stared at Kiki, numbly absorbing the horror on her face. Her cheeks so pale. Her eyes so huge. Her pretty pink mouth hanging open as she gawked at his arm. She didn’t make a sound, just stared.

  Must be reconsidering sleeping with me. Who turns down a guy in glasses? Especially one who knows exactly where to find a woman’s G-spot?

  That’s why she wouldn’t go out—or stay in—with him. He’d forgotten to tell her that. Maybe he needed a dating résumé, something he could hand out like a business card.

  Loves giving oral, won’t roll over and go to sleep, has unerring accuracy when it comes to locating the G-spot. Also cooks a mean omelet and kicks ass at Scrabble. Apply within.

  Fucking hell, his arm ached. His vision swam, dots appearing before his eyes. The dots soon faded, but only because his world had turned gray. That couldn’t be good. The noises of the store faded away. Everything but the sound of Kiki’s panicked cry.

  “Vincent!”

  He tried to answer. Couldn’t. His lips wouldn’t work. Nor would his shaking limbs. He took a halting step, then another.

  And fell on top of her.

  Chapter Two

  Kiki swore her heart must have stopped beating. A funny thing—not ha-ha funny, but ironic—because it felt as if all the blood in her body had rushed to her face.

  Vincent had been shot, by a real bullet that had torn a real hole in his flesh. Even now, his blood splotched a growing circle on his navy V-neck sweater, and he was sprawled atop her in a macabre pantomime of the very scenario she’d imagined for so long.

  Except they weren’t naked. And in her fantasies, he’d been panting from passion, not blood loss.

  “Oh, God.” Cupping a hand at the back of Vincent’s head, she lifted her own to peer around. The store was blessedly free of customers, and the gunman had disappeared after the shooting. She was pretty sure the sirens had scared him off—sirens that got louder with each passing second.

  Help was coming. She’d hit the panic button the moment she had spotted that gun-wielding fiend. Any minute now, the cavalry would arrive.

  She braced, trying to will away the pain of being body-slammed into the grungy linoleum by one hundred eighty pounds of hard male. Glossy magazines from the spinning rack had tumbled down on top of them, along with a few bottles of Coke and a caramel popcorn display. The destruction meant she was in for a long night.

  But she’d worry about the store later. Right now she had only one concern—the man currently crushing her fallopian tubes.

  “The book.”

  Vincent’s voice sounded drowsy, and as ridiculous as it was considering the circumstances, sexy as hell. Kiki swallowed, trying to push down her fear. “Vincent?”

  “The book,” he murmured while she scooped her fingers through his hair. “I wondered…how I’d do it. Blocked.” A cross between a laugh and a wheeze escaped him. “No need to wonder now.”

  What was he talking about? He’d wondered? She’d always wondered, too, but about how his hair would feel in her hands. Now that she knew how soft it was, how thick, she couldn’t seem to speak.

  Of course, stark raving terror always had that effect on her, too.

  Grunting, she fought to shift his weight so she could examine him. Though he let out a groan, he didn’t so much as bat an inky eyelash.

  But he was still alive. Still breathing. Still crushing her bones into shards.

  His glasses were lying beside them, the frames bent, and he’d yet to open his eyes. She trailed her hand down his neck, dismayed to feel the disturbing coolness of his skin. She hadn’t dealt with anyone in shock before, but she suspected the faint droplets beading on his unusually pale forehead didn’t have a thing to do with the store’s sucky heating system.

  This was bad. So bad she couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t lapse into shock right along with him.

  Her hand shook as she lifted her sticky, wet fingers from his shoulder. She didn’t have to look to see how much he was bleeding. The coppery scent of his blood filled her nostrils.

  Tears sprang into her eyes. Vincent had tried to save her, and he’d gotten a bullet for his trouble.

  It wasn’t fair. He was a decent guy. Between her parents’ endless harping about her love life and her miserable job and the stupid loneliness she’d endured ever since she’d heard Nico and his new wife, Megan, were having a baby, she hadn’t been much fun to be around. But Vincent always made her laugh. He had a talent at coaxing her out of her bad moods, which were plentiful lately.

  Seeing him every day had been one of the brightest spots in her life. Not that he knew that. Not that anyone knew that.

  So what if Lynsay had told her he slept with any woman who sashayed past him? Had it really warranted her telling him she’d never screw him—which was such a total lie—and causing him to get shot?

  “I wondered,” he said, softer now.

  “You wondered what?” Kiki asked, giving in to her need to touch him. This would be her only chance. She pressed her trembling fingers over his wound, her heartbeat kick-starting at the pulse of blood beneath her fingers. His life was right there, gushin
g out under her hand. “God, I’m so sorry, Vincent.” Her voice broke. “So sorry.”

  When he glided his lips over her collarbone, her skin prickled, warmth buzzing deep into places that hadn’t felt any buzzes for a while. Wrong. This was all so wrong. The contours of his body, so hard and heavy and long, pressed into hers from her breasts to her ankles. At the moment, losing all feeling from her thighs down didn’t seem like such a bad proposition. Besides, certain parts of her anatomy were getting enough activity for the rest of her body combined.

  She wriggled to get free and let out a gasp as she bumped the thick length between his legs. Holy hell. This was the closest she’d come to intimate contact with a man in what seemed like forever, though in reality was only about six months. But apparently, her body was ready to play hide-the-sausage despite the dire situation.

  The sirens were getting closer. Another few seconds and the EMTs would arrive to help him. Kiki lay still, her breath puffing between her lips, until the heat flooding her face subsided.

  What had she done to deserve this?

  Her gaze drifted over the wiry black hair curling over the vee of his sweater to the thin gold chain that glinted against his neck. Though it was almost December, he appeared a burnished brown compared to the paleness of her own skin.

  God, she’d always had a weakness for Italian men. There was just something about them. They were so male and dominant and decadent, like a dessert that went straight to the hips. Vincent didn’t fit the typical mold, which probably explained why she wanted him even more. She could withstand sex appeal. Sex appeal, brains, and a sense of humor? Not so much.

  She shifted again, and her nipples, flattened oh-so-deliciously against his chest, rubbed against the lace of her bra.

  He groaned again, shifting his family jewels right into the juncture of her thighs.

  Shoot me now.

  She winced. Really bad choice of thoughts.