Total pages in book: 170
Estimated words: 160791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 804(@200wpm)___ 643(@250wpm)___ 536(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 804(@200wpm)___ 643(@250wpm)___ 536(@300wpm)
“We’ll be late.” He gets to his feet and helps me up, collecting my wine from the sand and taking a sip as he tucks me into his side and walks us back to the beach house. Sitting me down, he gives me my drink and crouches before me, collecting my heels. “You look lovely,” he says, stroking across the instep of my foot, smiling to himself when I go stiff in the chair. He looks up at me, and I give him a warning look. His brow hitches. Another stroke.
I shake my head. We’ll never make it to dinner. But I don’t really want to go to dinner, so . . .
I place my wine on the table and push out of the chair, lowering to my knees in front of him. “More,” I breathe, cupping his beautiful face with my good hand, moving in, kissing him reverently. “More, more, more, more.” I rest my hand over his groin. He’s locked. Loaded. Ready.
His groan is quiet but full of want, mixed with frustration. “I need to be slow and careful with you, and we don’t have time for that,” he mumbles, standing, dragging me up with him, our mouths still attached.
“Don’t start what you can’t finish.” I lock my arm over his shoulder, pulling him closer.
“Oh, I can finish.” Reaching back, he frees himself from my clutches. “But you’ll have to wait for me.”
I grumble my displeasure, and he kisses my scowl away before putting me back in the chair and slipping on my heels. Something deep and uncomfortable inside tells me there’s more to his statement.
Wait for him.
How long will he dedicate to hunting down The Bear? How long will I have to wait for him to put that demon to bed? For both of us.
And what if he never finds out the true identity of The Bear?
What then?
* * *
James assured me that it wouldn’t be busy. He didn’t let me down. The seafront restaurant is quiet inside, and the decking outside is spacious and peaceful. We’re shown to a table at the far side by an old, crooked brick wall at the top of a rugged cliffside, with a sandy trail that leads to the beach. The view is breathtaking, the ocean sparkling under the orange glow of the sunset. The breeze is light. Parasols are scattered sporadically between the tables, and fairy lights on strings zigzag above, creating a glowing canopy across the entire deck.
A waiter pulls out a white rattan chair for me, and I lower to the bohemian patterned cushion. He lights the bowl candle in the center before handing me a wine menu as James takes a seat beside me.
“They’re not here yet?” I ask, setting my clutch on the wall beside my chair.
“Danny texted me. They’re running a few minutes late.”
“A lover’s quarrel?” I ask, curious. I can’t imagine Danny Black’s wife is jumping for joy at the prospect of him returning to Miami. We all know what that means.
“Must be something in the air,” James muses, plucking the menu from my hand. I pout, narrowing my eyes on him. “Wine?”
“Please.” I settle back, taking in my view. Not the ocean. Not the sunset. Not the cute winding path to the white sand.
I stare at James. He looks insanely handsome. Casual. Easy. His collar open, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. It’s refreshing. This is James on vacation. I like it. Why we’re here, however, isn’t such a welcome thought.
“What?” he asks, not looking up from the wine selection.
“Nothing.”
“If I’d known they’d be late, I would have indulged you.”
I press my lips together, my eyes widening when his hand lands on my leg and slides up my dress to my thigh. His smirk is very real. So is my warning look. He laughs lightly and pulls away, his attention captured by the waiter approaching. James orders wine and nods toward the restaurant.
“They’re here.” He rises from his chair, and I follow his eyes across the deck to the back of the restaurant, rising too.
“Jesus,” I whisper, taking James’s hand to help me to my feet.
Danny Black looks plain deadly. Furious, in fact. A lover’s quarrel? Good lord, he looks like he’s on a mission to kill. And I remember. He is. His frame is imposing, his eyes cold yet sparkly. The whole restaurant is aware of his presence, attention pointing his way from every table. The scar on his face looks so sinister. And then a woman appears, clinging to his hand as he leads. Tall. Willowy. Piercing blue eyes and rich, dark hair. She’s striking, her skin flawless, her cheekbones outrageous, her lips plump. I’ve never seen such a formidable couple.
“That’s his wife?” I whisper, shocked to my core. I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps a war-torn, sallow, hateful-looking woman. What I have instead is a woman worthy of a perfume ad.