by J. Saman
“Um. All right,” he says through a laugh.
“You said you weren’t going to hurt me.”
His gaze turn steely as his posture shifts from relaxed to unyielding in a flash. “Is that your question?” His voice is like ice. Cold. Hard. Sharp. But I don’t think it’s for me. I think it’s for the question I asked him.
“Yes.”
“Never.” He stares directly into my eyes, that one single word bleeding from him with raw sincerity. He doesn’t touch me, but I know he wants to. I feel his restraint, see it in the twitch of his hands and arms, and I think I might love him for that. For understanding what I need even if it fights with what he wants.
Jake is a good man. And he’ll never hurt me.
I see it. I believe it. And I nod. “Okay. Where are we headed?”
“Dinner.”
“Then where?”
“East.”
“You’re aware the sun sets in the west.”
“I am,” he grins crookedly, “but the place I want to take you is east of here.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah?”
I wish he weren’t so incredulous. It makes me second guess my decision. “Yeah. What the heck.”
“Heck?” That smirk turns into a full-on smile, complete with dimples and then he reaches out a hand for me. “Shit, you’re so cute. I never stood a chance at resisting you.” His arm snakes around my waist, and he tugs me into his large warm body, my hands fly up to his chest to steady myself. “Look at me,” he commands.
I obey automatically, but there is nothing punishing in his tone and I relax into him. Dipping his head, he kisses me, holding me so close. One. Two. Three kisses, before he draws back, running his nose against mine.
“You won’t regret trusting me,” he breathes against me before releasing me completely.
I already do, I think. But I take his proffered arm and allow him to lead me outside. It’s hot out. Like close to, if not already, a hundred degrees hot. Whomever said dry heat made the temperature more bearable was a fucking asshole. It’s hot. There is no getting around it.
“It’ll feel better on the bike,” he says as we reach what appears to be a private area of the garage, and then I notice a line of cars and motorcycles. Some classic. Some new. All expensive. He guides me to a black motorcycle with chrome in just the right places. I’d be lying if I said this thing didn’t make me wet. This bike is the epitome of sex on wheels. He could approach any woman on this thing and they’d happily hop on the back without any hesitation. The man riding it certainly doesn’t hurt that.
I let out a small giggle at that, when something occurs to me. “Is this a date?”
“A date?” he parrots, unable to contain his grin as he quirks at eyebrow at me. “This is most definitely a date.”
“Wow,” I muse glancing up at the cement ceiling of the garage, thinking about that. “I’ve never been asked out on a date before. I feel like I should have put effort into this. Put on more makeup and done my hair differently.” A date. It sort of makes me giddy.
“You’ve never been asked out on a date?” He’s incredulous.
“Not like a real one, no. My love life was more of a set up than traditional.”
He stares at me with the most befuddled expression I think I’ve ever seen on anyone’s face before. “Right. Um.” He swallows audibly, shakes himself out of his daze and says, “Well, I think you look beautiful the way you are now. Come on,” he urges. “I don’t want to miss the sunset.”
His colorful tattoos slip under the hem of his short sleeves that cling as desperately as ever to his large, very powerful muscles. He slides over and onto the bike effortlessly, and then reaches out a hand for me.
I hesitate. How could I not? But once his dark eyes meet mine, I know there is no going back. My hand slips into his and then I’m behind him, my arms wrapping snuggly around his middle, my chest to his back.
He smells like sandalwood body wash and man and sexiness and Jake.
This moment is everything I expected it to be.
Exhilarating.
Dangerous.
Terrifying.
Electric.
Life changing.
That last one especially, because like I said, there is no going back. More importantly, I don’t want to go back. And I’m not even talking about my former life.
“Put on your helmet,” he directs. “We’re not going far for dinner, but the ride into the desert is a good one.”
I release him to do as he commands and once I’m wrapped in leather and hard plastic that makes me feel more secure than I probably should on this deathtrap, he starts the bike, revs the engine, which is loud and so powerful my body vibrates from the top of my head down to my toes, and then we’re off. I squeeze his middle and squeal out before I can hold it back.
He laughs, covering my hand that’s holding his waist, patting it. “I’ve got you, Sunshine.”
“Hands on the bike, Jake,” I yell out and he laughs harder like I’m being ridiculous.
We flow through the garage until we’re outside, the strip heavy with traffic. And every time we stop, for one reason or another, one of his hands finds one of mine, squeezing or gently caressing or just holding. I don’t think my heart has ever beat like this. His touch feels like everything I’ve never experienced before. Like the softest sand you can’t help but dig your toes into just as the ocean rushes up to greet you. Like the most decadent dessert that both melts in your mouth and makes your taste buds scream for more. Like a cool breeze on a hot day or the sun’s warming rays on top of a snow-covered mountain top.
I can’t seem to get enough of it.
It takes us forever to get out of this traffic and off the strip, but oddly enough, I don’t mind. I enjoy the time, unabashedly people watching, hidden securely under the face visor and pressed against a man who should not make me feel as safe as he does. Women are dressed for a night of fun. Men are watching them with obvious lust. People are drinking. Having fun. Smiling and laughing. Walking and talking and staring at every oddity they encounter.
I mean, let’s face it, women in bejeweled bikinis with feathers on their backs are not a rarity here. This city is a spectacle. But it gets in your blood and under your skin, and suddenly you find yourself staying in the last place you ever thought you’d be.
Once we get off the strip, the streets open up, the wind on our faces, whipping against our bodies. I hold on tight, terrified to let go, yet so intoxicated I can’t seem to stop smiling. We hit a flat stretch of nothing and I hear him yell, “Are you ready?”
“Ready for what?” I scream back, but if he responds, it’s lost in the wind and the roar of the powerful engine because in the next second, we’re flying, racing so fast. I scream again, only this time it’s all nonsense. And if I thought I was holding on tight before, then I was so very wrong. We only do this for a few minutes before we’re pulling into what can only be called a dive bar.
Jake parks his bike, cuts the engine, and then helps me off before doing the same, removing his helmet in the process. I take mine off, shaking out the wind and helmet hair.
“Don’t judge, okay?”
I stare at the dirt-colored building that does not look like it’s in the best repair and then back to him.
“I’m not.”
“You are, and I don’t blame you. It looks like a shithole, but they make the most incredible Spanish tapas here and I swear, the inside is very different from the outside.”
“Tapas?” I snort out a laugh, because this place does not look like they do tapas.
“Trust me.”
That word again. Trust. It might be my least favorite word in the whole of Webster’s dictionary. “Sure. Who am I to question anything on my first official date?”
He throws me a funny look before taking my hand and leading me inside. And he’s right. The inside is completely different than the outside. It’s…romantic and funky. The walls are blood-red velvet with variou
s pictures of scenic Spain everywhere. The lighting is dim, but not dark, glowing from crystal chandeliers and sconces, red roses on the tables next to flickering votive candles. Multicolored beaded curtains separate the entrance from the dining area and every table is small, quaint, and private.
“This is perfect.”
Chapter Nineteen
Carolina seats us at a booth in the corner. It’s not all that crowded here. A half a dozen tables filled, and if you’re not a local or don’t know about this place specifically, you’d drive right past it without a second glance. We’re surrounded by those nineteen-seventies type crystal beaded curtains. Surprisingly, it creates a more intimate atmosphere than being a cheesy cliché. Sunshine leans down and presses her nose into the rose adorning the table, holding her dark hair back so it doesn’t catch fire in the small flame of the candle that’s next to it. Her eyes close and when she breathes out, she smiles. I can’t help but watch her.
I told myself earlier in my apartment and then again on the ride over here, that I didn’t care. That her secrets don’t matter to me. That I was protecting her from whatever messed up shit had her running. But I still find myself sitting down on the crushed-velvet bench seat across from her, debating my next steps. This woman has me tied up in knots.
I’m potentially risking so much for a woman who won’t even tell me her name.
And for what? A pretty face? A connection? That doesn’t exactly make her the love of my life. I sigh at that. Luke said not to continue with this unless I was in love. That the risk is too great.
Love.
Is that what this feeling is? I have a connection with her unlike any I’ve ever experienced before. I felt it that first night in my truck, and I felt it in the bar when she first looked up into my eyes with her startled expression, and I’ve felt it every moment with her since. I can’t brush her off. Can’t put her aside. Can’t get enough of her. The idea of another man touching her makes me psychotic with jealousy. I want to touch her. Pleasure her. Make her smile and feel nothing but happiness for the rest of her life.
Shit.
And when she leaves in a few days or weeks or months, it will be like she never existed in this town. That’s how I’ll force her to be for me, too. After a few days, maybe a week or two at most, it will be like she never existed. But even as I try and convince myself of this, I know it’s a lie.
She’s not someone you forget. She’s someone who gets under your skin and stays there. An itch that can never be scratched. The one you think back on when you’re eighty and regret you didn’t do everything differently with. That you didn’t put a ring on her finger and make her yours for life. That’s Mia.
A bitterness settles over me. Mia. She’s not Mia. She’s someone I don’t even know and my natural desire and inclination to protect her is obscuring my decision making. I won’t be blindsided again.
Her eyes flit around the restaurant, taking in everything they can. My eyes don’t leave her.
“Who are you, Mia?” Her head snaps in my direction, eyes wide and lips parted as she sucks in a rush of air. “I know I said it didn’t matter, but it does. It fucking matters because you fucking matter and I can’t do this. My eyes are always open. I see everything. But I didn’t see that goddamn sniper and I didn’t see my father’s heart attack and now I can’t see anything beyond you. I don’t even know your name.”
“I’m just a girl who needed a new life.” Her eyes close slowly before they reopen, and she pins them on me as she steeples her fingers, laying them against the wood grain of the table. “I get I’m asking a lot of you. None of this is lost on me. And if you want me to go, leave that hotel room and your hotel and this date, I will. I probably should anyway. Things are getting… complicated. I like you too much, and I think you like me, but I’m not someone you should like, Jake.”
“I’m willing to take the risk,” I tell her, knowing just how much I mean it. “And you’re right, I do like you. Like you cannot even imagine. I don’t need details. I don’t. I just need…something.” I close my eyes and drop my head back against the seat. I hate that I’m begging her. It’s weak. And pathetic. And evidently ineffectual. “Christ, I don’t even know what I’m saying. I don’t know how to navigate my way through anymore. I just want you to trust me. I feel like if you tell me something real, it doesn’t even have to be a big something, then I won’t go crazy the way I’ve been going.”
I feel her hand on my face, running along my cheek, my eyes open and I drop my chin to face her as she leans across the table to touch me. She’s touching me. It’s the first time she’s initiated contact with me and the significance of it is not lost on me.
“My eyes are right on you, baby. I see you. And I feel like I’m climbing all these walls and chasing you up mountains when I’m not even sure you want me to catch you. I don’t even know what I believe anymore. Just please, say something. Anything. This is never going to go our way if you can’t trust me with the truth.”
Sitting back, she stares at me. One. Two. Three seconds.
“My name is Fiona Ramsey-Foss.”
Foss. Fiona Foss. Fiona Ramsey-Foss.
I know that name. Why do I know that name? I search my brain, threading small pieces together that eventually form into something substantial. “You’re Foss Industries?”
Tears well up in her eyes. “My father was Foss Industries,” she whispers achingly soft. She’s an heiress. Why does an heiress run off in a shit car, get themselves stranded, sleep outside and then work in a bar in Vegas? “My parents are dead, and I want nothing to do with the life they left me with.”
I don’t know how to make sense of those words. “What does that mean? You don’t like the life of money and privilege they planned for you?” I realize the second those words tumble from my mouth, I shouldn’t have said them. They’re hypocritical, first of all. But they’re also wrong. There is so much more to her story than that. Someone has been hurting her and I have no place to judge her. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I know that’s not the situation.”
But I’m angry at her because the only reason I know her name specifically, other than her last name, is the fact that I saw her picture online about four years ago and she was as memorable back then as she is now.
“You’re married,” I continue on, the contempt in my voice unmistakable. “You’re married to Niklas Vaughn. Your last name is Vaughn. Not Foss. It was plastered all over the news when you got married. I can’t believe I didn’t put this together sooner. So, you’re running from your husband and now you’ve wrapped me up in your drama.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” she snaps, those tears running down her cheeks, and even though I’m pissed, I can’t stand that I made her cry. “You read the bullshit they wrote about me in the paper or on the internet and think you’ve got me all figured out. Well, fuck you. I didn’t ask for your help. You offered it. But maybe it’s better this way.” She moves to get out of the booth, but I can’t have that, so I grab her arm, pulling her back down. She yanks herself free of me like my touch is acid on her skin. “Don’t touch me,” she hisses.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I trusted you,” she accuses. “You asked me to trust you and I did. I told you my name and you threw it back in my face.”
“You’re right, I did that. I did exactly that and I’m sorry. I’m so unbelievably sorry. But I need to know…”
Her arms cross over her chest as she stares defiantly out into the restaurant. She’s not running. Not yet, but it’s right there. I can feel it. “What else do you feel you’re entitled to know?”
“Are you running from your husband?”
“Yes.”
“Fiona?” She doesn’t respond. “Look at me, please.” She does, but it takes her a very long, stubborn minute. I give her that because well, I fucked this all up. “I’m sorry,” I say again once I have her full attention. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I don’t give a shit your fat
her was Foss Industries. I really don’t. But I do care about the fact you’re running from Niklas Vaughn. And I really care about the fact that you’re married to the prick.”
Now that I know who she is, it’s going to be impossible to think of her as Mia. But I have to. I despise the fact she’s Fiona Foss-Vaughn. This thing just went way beyond complicated. Niklas is the CEO of Foss Industries. And she’s married to him. He also has a reputation for being a ruthless asshole. And Gavin Moore must work for him. That’s who he was messaging with in German on the dark web.
Jesus Christ, this is the craziest thing I’ve ever been involved in and I fought in Afghanistan, run hotels and casinos, and am friends with Maddox Sinclair.
Her lips twitch and I find mine doing the same. Why? I have no freaking clue. “You care that I’m married, huh?”
“Yes,” I tell her, no longer able to contain my grin. “I do. It’s bothering the shit out of me, actually.”
“Would it make you feel better if I told you he never really asked? He just put that ring on my finger and told me I belonged to him. It was all very Princess Bride.”
“Very romantic. Sounds like a great guy.”
She giggles, and I swear I’ve never heard a more beautiful sound. “Well, he sort of was once, which is why I didn’t see it coming. But that’s a story for another time. I don’t consider him my husband and I don’t consider myself married. I left him and my ring behind along with my name. If it were up to me, I’d be divorced by now.”
“Noted,” I say, still smiling like the idiot I am, because we do this well. This fight and tease and makeup stuff. It’s like we can’t stay mad at each other. Even for a few minutes. “And your father’s company?”
“That…” She looks away. “I can’t talk about that with you. You know my family name and you know about Niklas, but that’s as far as I want to go right now.”
I sigh. I hate that answer, but I respect it all the same. She’s just looking out for me. At least, I hope that’s her reason. She did say she trusted me, so I guess that’s what I’m going with.