You just know how to hide, how to lie.
—Tony Montana
CHAPTER THREE
EMILY
Arm in arm, Shane and I cross the lobby, and as crazy as it is, for the first time in a very long time, I don’t feel alone. It’s a façade, of course, but one I’m happily wallowing in. A fantasy and an indulgence: this night that can never become another night.
“How’s Jeffrey’s Restaurant two blocks down?” he asks.
“I’ve never heard of it,” I say, “but I’m sure it’s fine.” Because I’m not going with him for the food. It’s for him. No. It’s for me for once.
“It has a mixed menu, a full bar, and it’s relatively quiet,” he replies, releasing my arm to open the building’s exterior door, and wave me forward.
“Sounds perfect,” I say, and somehow our eyes collide, and I don’t know how or why, but that tiny connection has my stomach fluttering. I dart forward and outside, a cold breeze lifting my hair and sliding along the bare skin of my neck. Shivering, I hug myself, chilled on the outside but pretty darn warm in all those intimate places he continues to awaken. I start to turn to face Shane, but suddenly he is beside me, his arm draping my shoulder, dragging me closer, his big body sheltering mine from the cold, and my chest hurts with the silly idea he’s protecting me. No one protects me and suddenly, this dinner seems like a bad idea. I deal with being alone by being alone.
“Don’t you just love Colorado in May?” he asks, angling us left and into the heart of downtown Denver and a cluster of restaurants and shops. “Random snow showers, cold at night, and warm in the day.”
I open my mouth to tell him this is new to me, and snap it shut, frustrated at how easily I almost invited questions about where I came from, and why I’m here. “I should have brought a jacket,” I say simply instead.
“I’m glad you didn’t. Gives me an excuse to keep you close.”
“Somehow, I doubt you’re a man who needs an excuse for much of anything.”
“And you make that assessment based on what?”
“Pretty much every one of the limited, but colorful moments I’ve known you.”
“Colorful,” he says. “There’s an interesting description.”
“I’m just glad it was you whose coffee I stole and not some really cranky person who would have yelled at me.”
“I have my moments, but never over something as trivial as a cup of coffee.”
“The world would be a better place if everyone thought like you.”
“There’s a cynical statement.”
“You’ve obviously not worked retail or you wouldn’t call that cynical.”
“And you have?”
“As a college student,” I say, quickly wishing I could pull back the words that invite questions into my past.
But I am saved as he announces, “And we’re here.” He leads me under a covered overhang toward a wooden door, where he surprises me by stopping, facing me, his hands coming down on my arms. “I’m glad it was me who found you in that coffee shop,” he says, the dim glow of overhead lights catching like fire in his gray eyes, but what steals my breath are the shadows banked behind that fire. He doesn’t want to be alone tonight either, and I find myself wanting to know why.
I dare to reach up and press my hand to his chest. “I found you,” I say, giving him a smile, wanting him to smile. “And you should know that I’m on a roll of mishaps today. The chance that I will spill, dump, or break something during our dinner is high.”
His eyes and mouth soften, any residual effect of those shadows I’d spied disappearing. “Then we’ll laugh and clean it up,” he says, motioning toward the door. “Let’s go inside.”
“I’d like that.”
He opens the door, allowing me to enter the dimly lit restaurant, where I pause to wait on him, glancing around at my surroundings. To my left is a padded leather wall, and directly in front of me are rows of uncomfortable looking wooden tables and chairs with flickering candles in the center of each table. Shane steps to my side, his hand intimately settling at my back as we advance toward the fifty-something dark-haired woman dressed in all black who is manning the hostess stand in the right corner.
She offers me a friendly smile and then glances at Shane. “Good evening, Susie,” he greets.
“Good to have you in tonight. Jeffrey will be sorry he missed you.”
“He’s still giving me a hard time about the Broncos losing this year anyway. Tell him he lives in Denver. He can’t root for Texas.”
Just hearing the name of my home state, which I can’t claim, twists me in knots. I have to get over this reaction.
“We’ve been in Denver for twenty years,” she replies, giving me the impression she might be Jeffrey’s wife. “He’s never giving up the Cowboys. You want the bar or restaurant?”
“Is there a booth in the bar available?”
“You’re in luck considering it’s been a busy Wednesday night,” she says, grabbing two menus. “We just had one open.”
“Excellent,” Shane says, and with his approval given, Susie motions for us to follow her.
Shane urges me forward, his fingers flexing where they’ve settled on my lower back, and we round the leather wall to a rectangular room with fully occupied high tables in the center, a bar to the right, and cozy booths set on high pedestals to the left.
Susie directs us to the fourth booth of eight lining the far wall. “Can I get anything started for you?” she asks before we sit, her gaze falling on me. “Wine or a cocktail, perhaps?”
“Wine would be great,” I say. “Can you suggest something sweet?”
“I have an excellent German white I recommend often,” Susie replies.
“Perfect,” I say, and she immediately eyes Shane. “Cognac?
“You know me well,” he confirms, shrugging out of his jacket and proving his crisp white shirt is indeed hugging the spectacular chest my hand had promised was beneath. “And let’s break out the good stuff tonight,” he adds. “I’ll take the Louis XIII.”
She holds out her hands for his jacket and he removes his cell phone, sticking it in his pants pocket before allowing her to take the jacket. “I’ll hang this up by the door as usual,” she informs him, “and I won’t ask if the expensive cognac is to celebrate a good day or drive away a bad one.”
“That answer changed when Emily joined me.”
“Oh,” Susie says, giving me a curious, pleased look. “Thanks indeed, Emily, because I have been witness to this man after a truly bad day and it’s not pretty.”
Shane directs a playful scowl in her direction. “Be gone before you scare her off and you’re stuck with me alone.”
She laughs, rushing away, and Shane refocuses on me. “Apparently you saved Susie from my foul mood,” he jokes.
“But who’ll save me?” I tease, trying to be as ladylike as possible as I attempt to climb into the high, half-moon-shaped booth.
“Me,” he promises, gently gripping my waist to help me into the seat.
“Thank you,” I murmur, and when I expect him to move to the opposite side of the booth, he instead slides in beside me, forcing me to scoot around. I make it to the center before he says, “Oh no you don’t,” and the next thing I know, his fingers have closed down over my knee, my sheer pantyhose the only thing between his palm and my skin.
He scoots closer, aligning our legs, tilting his head in my direction. “You’re still running.”
Not from you, I think, but I say, “Not anymore, but I admit, I did judge you at first.”
He inches back to look at me. “Did you now?”
“I did. I mean, that cup of coffee said a lot about you,” I say, calling on the skills I’d once thought would serve me well in a career that now seems lost. “I’m very good at reading people.”
His eyes light, the shadows nowhere to be found, and it pleases me to think I’ve made them disappear. “What did my coffee tell you about me?” he asks, resting an elbow on the table, his body still angled toward mine.
“It was strong and no-nonsense, meant to get a job done, without any fluff about it.”
“That still doesn’t tell me what you think it says about me.”
“Of course it does. You’re a workaholic.”
“A workaholic.”
“That’s right. It was a large triple shot. That says you are running on fumes and trying to stay focused. Oh. And you don’t take no for an answer.”
“The coffee told you I don’t take no for an answer?”
“No. That part I gathered from you not taking no for an answer.”
We break into mutual laughter that fades into a hint of a smile on his lips, the air shifting around us, thickening. There is a pureness to our shared desire that I decide is created by us having no past to color the way we feel about each other.
“Let’s talk about your coffee,” he says, putting me in the assessment hot seat.
“You didn’t drink my coffee,” I point out.
“Actually, I did.”
“What?” I ask in disbelief. “Wait. You drank my coffee after I left?”
“That’s right.”
“On purpose?”
“On purpose,” he confirms.
“Why?”
“Because I was left curious about the woman who ordered it and your drink, like mine, says things about you.”
I can’t believe he drank my drink after I left or that I’m about to invite him to look deeper into who I am. “And what exactly did it say about me?”
“It said—”
“I have a Cognac and a wine,” a waitress announces, leaving me hanging on his words.
“Wine for the lady,” Shane instructs and we both lean back to allow her to deposit our drinks in front of us, giving me the opportunity to discover our waitress is a gorgeous redhead, with deep cleavage exposing DD breasts, which make my D cup feel like an A.
“Are you ready to order?” she asks.
“I haven’t looked at the menu,” I say, reaching for it, and glancing at Shane. “You probably know what you want.”
“Indeed,” he says, the look in his eyes sizzling, as he adds, “Very decisively.”
I flush, quite certain, that yes, he has noted my brief walk down insecurity lane, and while I’m embarrassed, I am quite charmed at the way he’s made sure I know my concern was without merit. I shut the menu again. “What do you recommend?”
“They’re well known for their brown butter ravioli,” he replies, “which I have every time I visit.”
“It’s amazing,” the waitress interjects. “Melt-in-your-mouth good.”
“You had me at brown butter,” I say. “And anything with pasta and cheese, makes my favorite foods list.”
“Three check marks on the list,” Shane says, gathers our menus and offers them to the waitress. “Two of the house raviolis it is then.”
“Got it,” the waitress confirms. “Any drinks, aside from what you have, with your meal?”
I shake my head but Shane motions to my wine. “Try it and make sure you like it.”
It’s an order, which seems to come naturally to him, but it’s also him actually caring that I’m satisfied. I take a quick sip, and the fruity sweet liquid is pure perfection. “It’s great,” I tell him, and eye the waitress. “I love it.”
“Well then,” she says. “I’ll put the order into the kitchen.” She departs and Shane reaches for the glass I’m still holding, covering my hand with his. “May I?”
Heat rushes through me, the idea of his mouth where mine had been more than a little sexy. “Of course,” I say, sounding and feeling breathless. And when I would offer it to him, he covers my hand over the glass, his eyes capturing mine as he tilts it to drink, then savors it a moment. “Sweet, like your coffee.”
“And you think that means what?” I ask.
He considers me a moment, before releasing my hand and reaches for his glass. “I drink my coffee the way I see the world. Harsh and brutal. And I drink my booze with a smooth kick, the way I try and face my adversaries.”
This is a silly game that has suddenly made my world feel upside down and I laugh without humor. “I don’t see the world as sweet, if that’s where you’re going with this.”
“No. No, you don’t. But you do compartmentalize the bad stuff, while I force myself to stay in the thick of things no matter how bad they are. I’m not sure which is worse.”
I’m not sure if I’m more stunned that he’s nailed me so well, or that he’s actually shared something I find quite personal about himself. “And I make this assessment not from your drink, but the way you handle yourself and the look in your eyes.”
The look in his eyes, I think. I was right. We’re drawn together because we’re both dealing with a demon or two that won’t let us go.
“Am I wrong?” he asks.
“No. You pretty much nailed it. If I don’t compartmentalize, I worry and obsess. It’s just who I am. It started young. My mom said I could fret over my Barbie losing a shoe for hours.”
“That fits the profile of someone who compartmentalizes to survive.”
“And you stand in the fire and let it burn you.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I stand in the fire,” he says, lifting his glass and taking a drink. “I don’t let it burn me.”
“Because you’re good at whatever you do.” It’s not even a question.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m good at whatever I do.” It’s confident, maybe arrogant as well, but it works for him. “What about you?” he asks. “Are you good at what you do?”
We just entered dangerous territory and I reach for my wine. “Let’s hope so, since I’m on an unplanned job search.”
“Unplanned?”
“Right,” I say, glad to share one piece of truth. “Unplanned.” I take a drink, steeling myself for his questions and my lies.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he says, obviously reading my discomfort.
“It’s fine,” I say, setting my wine aside. “I relocated here from Los Angeles to work for this very rich man, a stockholder of a big holding company.”
“For him or the holding company?”
“Him. I was to be his assistant, but the job was bigger than the title. I saw it as a chance to learn at the highest level of the corporate world. He said he’d mentor me. It was exciting and the pay was spectacular. Unfortunately, two weeks after I arrived, one of his companies folded and he filed for bankruptcy.”
“Now that’s a fucking bad break.”
“He paid me a month severance—”
“A whole month. That’s generous of him.”
“Hey. It’s better than nothing, and like I said, my pay was spectacular.”
“What did you do back in Los Angeles?”
“I was a paralegal chasing a bigger dream,” I confess, and there is at least some truth to the statement, but here comes the lie. “Every time I thought I’d make it to law school, I hit a bump in the road.”
“And yet you took a job that wasn’t leading you to law school at all.”
“I did,” I say, not having it in me to say more.
His eyes search mine, probing and far too aware. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven. And you?”
“Thirty-two. Do you have family or friends in Denver?”
I twirl the base of my glass. “No family or friends.”
“You moved here with nothing but a job?”
Not by choice, I think, but I say, “Just ambition.”
“I’m impressed.”
“I don’t have a job,” I remind him, wishing I deserved the admiration I see in his eyes.
“Anyone who dares to do what you have will come out on top. That takes balls very few men or women possess.”
I grab an opening to turn the conversation back to him. “And you do?”
“Yes. I do.” His reply is quick, but he is quick to turn the conversation back to me. “Aren’t you just a little tempted to go back home?”
Home. I almost laugh at that word. “This is where I live now.”
“Surely leaving has crossed your mind,” he presses.
“No, actually. It didn’t and it won’t.” I cut my gaze reaching for my wine, stunned when he catches my wrist before I succeed. I try not to look at him, but somehow I find myself captured in his far too astute stare. “You’re alone,” he states.
“I’m with you,” I say, cringing inwardly at the obvious, nervously spoken statement so ridiculous that I’ve invited further probing.
His hand curls around mine and he drags it to his knee, and the way he’s looking at me, like the rest of the room, no, the rest of the world, doesn’t exist, steals my breath. I haven’t allowed anyone to really look at me in a very long time.
“Emily,” he says, doing whatever he does to turn my name into a sin that seduces rather than destroys me.
“Shane,” I manage, but just barely.
“Did you say yes to dinner because you didn’t want to be alone?”
I am not sure where he is going with this, if it’s about reading me or if he needs validation that I am here for him, so I give him both. “I like being alone,” I say, and on some level, it really is true. “I said yes to dinner because you are the one who asked.” My lips curve. “Actually you barely asked. You mostly ordered.”
“I couldn’t let you say no.”
“I’m actually really glad you didn’t.”
“And yet you say you like being alone?”
“It’s simple and without complication.”
“Spoken like someone who’s lived the opposite side of the coin.”
“Haven’t we all?”
“Who burned you, Emily?”
I blanch but recover with a quick, “Who says anyone burned me?”
“I see it in your eyes.”
“Back to my eyes,” I say.
“Yes. Back to your eyes.”
“Stop looking.”
“I can’t.”
Those two words sizzle, matching the heat in his eyes, and my throat goes dry. “Then stop asking so many questions.”
He reaches up, brushing hair behind my ear, his fingers grazing my cheek, and suddenly he is closer, his breath a tease on my cheek, his fingers settling on my jaw. “What if I want to know more about you?”
“What if I don’t want to talk?”
“Are you suggesting I shut up and kiss you?”
Yes, I think. Please. But instead I say, “I don’t know. I haven’t interviewed you as you have me. I know nothing about you. I want to know if you—”
He leans in, and then his lips are on mine, a caress, a tease, that is there and gone, and yet I am rocked to the core, a wave of warmth sliding down my neck and over my breasts. He lingers, his breath fanning my lips, promising another touch I both need and want, as he asks, “You want to know if I what?”
Everything. “Nothing.”
“The food has arrived,” our waitress announces, and I jolt, tugging my hand from Shane’s and feeling like a busted schoolgirl and bringing attention to myself I don’t need or want.
“Here you go,” our waitress announces, setting a plate in front of me, the scent of butter and spices teasing my nose, but I am suddenly no longer hungry. In fact, I feel a little queasy. Noting the way the waitress has set her stand in front of Shane’s side of the table, I grab my purse and round the seat opposite him and murmur, “I’m going to the ‘room.” I don’t look at him but I feel him watching me, willing me back to my seat, while he remains somewhat, thankfully, trapped.
“In the back of the main dining room,” the waitress calls after me.
“Thank you,” I murmur, pretty sure it’s not loud enough to be heard, already almost to the bar exit. I pass the leather wall and I stop, my gaze landing on the front door and an easy escape.
“Bathroom?” Susie asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Please.”
“Behind me and all the way to the back and left.”
“Great. Thanks.” Following her directions, I cut left, away from the exit, relieved Shane hasn’t shown up, and actually thankful I haven’t made it out the door. If I’m to start a new life, I can’t hide in my apartment out of fear. I have to pay the bills, which means navigating Shane and every other person, and situation, I might face. This is my life now and I have to learn to cope with questions I don’t, and won’t, answer.
I pass through the dimly lit dining room that is far too long, giving me way too much time to think and yet I can’t think. I reach a long hallway that cuts left. I’m almost at the bathroom door when suddenly my wrist is shackled, and another second later, I’m against the wall, with Shane’s big body crowding mine.
My hands land on the hard wall of his chest, his legs framing mine. “What are you doing?” I demand.
“You’re upset.”
“You just shoved me against a wall in a hallway,” I say. “Yes. I’m upset.”
“That’s not why you’re upset.”
“I’m a very private person.”
“Good. So am I.”
“You have me shoved against a wall,” I repeat. “In a public place. And you kissed me. In a public place.”
He cups my face. The act is possessive, a claiming driven home by the way that autumn scent of his teases my nostrils. “That wasn’t a kiss,” he declares, his mouth closing down on mine, his tongue pressing past my lips. The instant it finds mine, the taste of spiced cognac fills my senses. Another lick and I moan, my fears, the public place, and my secrets fading away, for the first time in an eternal month. This, him, is what I craved this night. Not brown butter ravioli and fancy wine. I don’t fight to remember the privacy I’ve declared I value. My fingers curl around his shirt, and suddenly I am kissing him back, my body swaying into his, the warmth of his seeping into mine, but it doesn’t last.
As if he was waiting for my total submission, he tears his mouth from mine, denying me his kiss, and I’m left panting. “That was an appetizer,” he declares, his voice a low, sultry rasp. “And you were right. Alone is better, which is exactly how I planned to spend this night. Until I saw you and alone wasn’t better anymore. And now I know why. You want what I want.”
“Which is what?”
“No complications.”
Relief and the promise of the escape I now know I’d hoped for rushes over me. “Yes. Yes, but you keep—”
“Thinking about kissing you. That’s all I could do sitting at that table. And I should warn you. When dinner is done, I’m going to do my damn best to convince you to go somewhere else with me where we can be alone.” He covers my hand with his. “Come. I’m going to feed you, because if I have my way, you’re going to need your energy.”
He starts walking, taking me with him, and I grab his arm. “Wait.” He pauses and turns to look at me, those intense gray eyes of his stirring a giant dose of nerves in my belly that I shove aside. “I don’t want to go back out there.”
He narrows his gaze on me, his big hands settling on my shoulders. “What are you saying?”
“I prefer somewhere else,” I say, and my voice is remarkably steady considering I’m so out of my comfort zone with this man and my actions tonight that I don’t know what I’m doing. But what I do know is that I don’t want to spend the one night I have with this incredible man at a dinner table.
He stares down at me, his expression unreadable, seconds ticking like hours before he asks, “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” I confirm, and it’s a relief that I mean it, that nothing dictates this choice but my own wants and needs. “I’m sure.”
Again, his reply is slow, and he seems to weigh my words before one of his cheeks presses to mine, his breath a warm tease on my ear and neck as he whispers, “I want you to leave with me, but be clear. That means I will fuck you every possible way, with the full intent of ensuring that I’m the man you compare all others to.”
Every nerve ending I own is suddenly on fire with the bold words that I know are meant to test my resolve. I do not intend to fail. Not this night. “You can try,” I whisper.
He eases back to look at me, the gray of his eyes now flecked with pale blue fire. “You, Emily, are a contradiction I cannot wait to explore.” I don’t have to ask what he means. I am a contradiction, and in ways he can’t begin to understand. He takes my hands again. “Let’s pay the bill and get the hell out of here.”
“Yes,” I agree, barely speaking the word before he’s walking again and this time I let me lead me forward.
Together, we enter the dining room, side by side, walking through the rows of tables toward the hostess stand, and I am more affected by my hand in his than anything else before this. It’s the unity I think, the sense of being with someone, a façade of course, and that alone cuts deep. I am not with him. I am not with anyone at all and yet tonight I am pretending I am. Maybe that’s the appeal of one-night stands. You get to live the fantasy, experience human touch. Pretend you matter to someone, and them to you, until it’s over.
We’re almost to the hostess stand when abruptly, Shane stops walking. A moment later, he’s in front of me, his back to the entryway, blocking it from my view, his hands on my arms. “My father is here and he’s the last person I want to see right now. I’m going to grab a waitress and pay the bill. Wait for me at the back door.”
Stunned, confused, I stammer, “I … yes … okay.” Embarrassment follows, and I turn on my heel, intending to dart away, only to have him snag my hand, and angle me back toward him. “I’ll be right there,” he says, his voice thick with promise.
Unable to process the wave of emotions overwhelming me, I manage a choppy nod and he releases me. I pretty much lunge forward, and still, the short walk feels more eternal than his long, gray-eyed stares. He doesn’t want to be seen with me. He doesn’t want to introduce me to his father, and that is fine, I tell myself, but it feels bad. Really bad. Why would he bring me to one of his regular places, if this is how he was going to react if we ran into someone he knows? Why do I care? It doesn’t matter. I do. Illogical as it might be, I do care. What was I thinking coming here in the first place? Low profile went right out the window and it’s time to get myself back under control.
Rounding the wall to the hallway again, I continue onward and cut the corner where I spy a BATHROOM sign right next to one that reads the EXIT. Exit wins. Double-stepping, I close the distance between me and it, hoping to escape before Shane follows, if he follows. That he might not is a humiliation I really can’t stomach right now. I reach the door and forcefully shove the heavy steel open, finding myself on a street with mostly retail stores that are now closed. I scan for someplace to disappear to, not about to be some sort of obligation to a man I barely know. I cut left when I spot an open coffee shop.
I all but run toward it, a gust of chilly wind lifting my hair from my neck, and I swear this Texas girl pretending to be a Cali girl will never get used to chilly summer nights. Reaching the entrance, I glance right without meaning to, at the same moment the back door of the restaurant opens. My heart leaps and I quickly enter the coffee shop, traveling the narrow path between the vacant round wooden tables.
Passing the register, I wave at the person I barely look at behind the counter. “Bathroom before I order,” I murmur, entering yet another hallway and immediately finding the bathroom. I turn the knob, entering the tiny box intended for one and lock myself inside. Falling against the door, I shut my eyes and touch my lips, remembering that kiss Shane had surprised me with, and I swear I can still taste remnants of cognac on my tongue, remnants of him. I bury my face in my hands, dreading my empty apartment and bed that might have been filled with Shane. Yet another part of me is relieved. I push off the door, dragging my fingers through my hair, staring at my pale face and now messy chestnut hair, and I swear, I look like my mother and I’m making the same mistakes she did. Only she could have turned back time, and made them right, and I can’t. And I was about to add tonight to the list. If anything had happened to me, no one would even miss me. But that’s the point I guess. For one night, I wanted someone to know I exist again. Actually, I wanted him to know. Just him, and I don’t know why.
It hits me then that I haven’t even checked my phone. I dig it from my purse and look for the call I’m expecting, and find the screen blank. Blank, damn it. What the hell is going on? Nothing I can control, that’s for sure, or I wouldn’t be in Denver. I wouldn’t be doing a lot of things. I drop the phone back in my purse. I need to go home. Okay, not home. That apartment is not home. I just … I need to go. I grab the door, yanking it open, only to gasp at the sight of Shane standing there. “What are you doing?”
He holds up his hands. “Just hear me out and if you want me to leave, I will.”
“I do. I want you to leave.”
“He wasn’t with my mother.”
I gape. “What?”
“The woman my father was with wasn’t my mother.” There is a rasp to his voice, and steel in those gray eyes. “I couldn’t have you be a part of that potential confrontation.”
The wall I’ve placed between us, falls away, my chest pinching with the familiar emotion of betrayal he must be feeling. A feeling I know all too well but wish I did not. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry. I know what I made you feel. Like I was embarrassed to be with you and that simply isn’t the case.” He offers me his hand. “Come with me.”
I could say no, but I don’t want to. And I should ask where we’re going, but very out of character for me, I simply don’t care, nor do I think about any of the reprimands I gave myself in that bathroom. This isn’t about an agenda I must follow. This is about one night with this incredibly sexy man. I slide my hand into his.