The post-coital glow was not something that Hanna ever really bought. It was a cheesy thing movies that tried to convince virgins was a real thing, that men would cuddle them and bask in the beauty of making love. It never happened. But there Hanna was, in Roarke’s arms, not caring how their skin stuck together with sweat and other fluids that passed between them. His arms were wrapped around her and it was hot and only making her sweat more but she wasn’t about to move.
She was pretending she could feel the baby in there already, though she knew it was a little more than a bundle of cells at the moment, it was there, pressed safely between their bodies. She wanted to ask him what he would name it, which sex he hoped for. She wanted all the domestic fantasies, things she’d never wanted before. She wanted them with him now. She meant it when she said he was beautiful. He was a gorgeous person and she saw it every time they were alone.
“One of these days I’m going to take you to one of those five star hotels in Vegas and we’ll have rose petals on the bed instead of holey blankets from my sister’s linen closet,” he said.
She snorted. “A little romantic don’t you think?”
“The mother of my kid deserves romantic. Besides, I want to prove that I have other places I can take a lady than the basement of my own bar,” he said, laughing.
“Me. Not a lady. There are no other ladies,” she said, feigning a sharpness in her voice but giving him a smile.
“Not a single woman on Earth exists besides you,” he said, kissing her forehead.
It was the overly sentimental talk driven by hormones and overly active glands. But she was okay with it. She’d hold him to these things he was saying. She wanted all these things. She’d laugh for a while, but the idea of having a romantic weekend away of champagne and rose petals and mirrors on the ceiling was any girl’s fantasy. She wasn’t exempt just because she needed to put on this tough exterior.
The magic was broken, however, when there was a crash upstairs, followed by several pairs of feet moving.
“The hell?” Roarke asked, sitting up, sliding her off of him.
He stood and pulled his pants up, looking up at the ceiling as the feet moved quickly. There seemed to be a lot of them. She worked on getting her clothes back on, forgoing the underwear that was a little too ruined with her own arousal. She’d find them later and toss them. She slipped her shirt on and followed his gaze as he watched dust knock from the ceiling with heavy boots.
“Something’s not right,” he said gravely.
“A fight?”
“No fights in my bar, even Rick knows that. This is something else,” he said.
Before she could ask more questions or they could discuss the possibilities of what was waiting for them upstairs, the door to the room swung open and several guns and flashlights were pointed their direction, telling them to come out with their hands up.
***
Roarke knew Isabelle was behind this. It wasn’t just because he was sure she was the orchestrator of everything awful that happened to him in recent weeks. And now the police were staring him in the face, pointing the rifle end of a fun at him, while they trashed his bar and stormed down into the room below. He hoped they could smell all the sex that had just happened down there. At least they’d know he was getting some.
“Roarke Withers?” the cop said, staring him in the face and talking louder than he needed to.
“That’s me.”
“And you are?” the cop asked.
“Hanna Isaacs,” she said, glaring at him.
They stared at them both, writing the information down or at least looking like he was to feel important.
“Have we done something wrong?” Roarke asked, his eyes moving around the bar to see half his gang being questioned or put into handcuffs.
“Besides the fact that there is a warrant out for your arrest?”
“Isabelle dropped the charges,” Hanna said, calling the police officer’s bluff, he gave her a look but went back to scribbling on his notepad.
His attention, however, was pulled towards the police officers scanning behind the bar, likely looking for drugs. He felt himself gulp, however, and tried not to be too obvious, keeping his eyes trained on those officers behind the bar. He knew that, waiting to be found back there, was something more important than drugs or unregistered guns and ammunition. The old Tequila Jack bottled, seamlessly blended in with the others, held the ledger of the gang and the fates of everyone in the room if it were found.
He began to sweat.