Blush Page 21

  While it appeared that Cruz’s attention was focused on the two women at the table, he was minutely aware of the people milling around them. Of the cars, the music, the smells, and the lights.

  The fortune-teller took the worn stack of oversize cards beside her and set the stack in the middle of the table between her and Mia. “Lay your hands on the cards and think about the questions you want answered. When you are ready, pick whatever three cards you wish and lay them out facedown next to each other in front of you.”

  Mia did as she was instructed and cupped her hands around the deck of cards, then slowly slid three random cards out of the deck.

  “Good. Now let us see what the cards have to say.” The fortune-teller touched her finger to the first card on Mia’s left. “This is your immediate past. It shows what has laid heavy on your heart and shaped the point where you are today.” She flipped the card and an image of a knight surrounded by fallen, slain enemies and five swords. “The Five of Swords. There is someone close to you who is making decisions, heedless of what others need or want. They work behind your back with hostility and trickery to get what they want and gain advantage in the situation. You have been lied to by those closest to you.”

  Faux fortune-teller or not, this was a fucking heads-up that he should’ve told Mia the truth by now. She deserved to be told. Oh, by the way, I’m the hit man hired to kill you, but I’ve changed my mind. Yeah. That would go over well.

  “And this one?” Mia pointed to the next card while Cruz admired the way the lights gleamed on her hair and highlighted the curve of her cheek. It also gleamed on the long red scar on her upper arm. A harsh reminder that if it wasn’t him who did the job, they’d send someone else.

  Time was short.

  Tonight. He’d tell her tonight when they got home.

  The woman flipped the middle card. “This is your present.”

  “Well, that’s cheerful,” he murmured, and Mia shushed him. A skull, its empty eye sockets staring back from beneath a metal war helmet, didn’t need much explanation in Cruz’s opinion.

  “This is the Death card.”

  Mia shivered. Fake psychic or not, this was a bad idea under the circumstances. “I’m starving, let’s make tracks. We have a reserva—”

  “Do not fear it.” The woman grasped Mia’s hand, her rings winking in the candlelight. “While it can mean literal death on occasion, more often it is the death of things, situations, and people you have outgrown. A cutting of ties. Those who have lied to you or hurt you being tossed out of your life. A sudden transition into something better.”

  Cruz disagreed. Death meant death in his book. Plain. Simple. Final.

  Mia flipped over the last card herself. “Tell me about my future.”

  “The Ten of Cups. Happiness in your domestic life. People who have experienced trials and tribulations together finding a successful moment of peace.” The woman glanced up at him. “It’s also the card of weddings.”

  Okay, for a moment, just a moment, Cruz thought she had something possibly going for her card reading. Two out of two wasn’t bad. But she was so wrong on the third card, he couldn’t maintain his willing suspension of disbelief any longer, not even for Mia’s benefit. Weddings? Happy domestic bliss? Not. A. Fucking. Chance.

  Then he had a revelation that sobered him instantly. Yeah. Mia could have that. But the man couldn’t be him. Wasn’t that a fucking kick in the balls? She’d get her happily ever after, her long life. But he wouldn’t have any part in it.

  No point spilling his guts, he acknowledged. He’d do his thing and walk away. Same as he always did. It was a relief, really. He wasn’t into confessions or declaration. Clean, sharp. Done.

  Mia stood, thanked the woman, then wrapped her arm around his and nestled her head against his shoulder as they continued their stroll up Royal Street. “You know, she wasn’t that far off.”

  Cruz made a noncommittal grunt.

  “Right now, the only person I trust one hundred percent is you.”

  Mia couldn’t have executed a cleaner shot straight to his gut. Guilt hit with the precise hot aim of a bullet.

  He steered her into a restaurant and hoped like hell the bar was well stocked.

  • • •

  “This is nice.” Mia smiled as she rejoined him at the table and slid into the banquet seat. Mr. B’s restaurant was crowded on a Thursday night. She had no idea how Cruz had managed to get them a corner booth almost right away. People spilled out onto the street, cups in hand, having a party of their own on the crowded sidewalk as they waited for tables.

  She’d reapplied Ready To Go red lipstick and a spritz of Blush’s Aphrodite before leaving the restroom, then ruffled her fingers through her hair to give it a sexy tousled look. “Almost like a date.”

  He didn’t return her smile, but Mia superimposed the smile he’d given her earlier over his serious features. He was so guarded, he was hard to read, and he hoarded his smiles like a miser his gold. “Whatever that perfume is you’re wearing must make your company a fortune. I watched men’s heads turn as you walked by—poor bastards were salivating.”

  Holding his gaze, she scooted a bit closer. “I only want one man to salivate.”

  “Then you’ve achieved your goal. That stuff is an aphrodisiac.”

  Taking his hand, which lay on the table, she weaved her fingers through his. “Thank you for everything you’re doing for Daisy and Charlie,” she said quietly.

  Their corner was slightly quieter than the rest of the restaurant, but she leaned against his arm, enjoying the tensile strength and the heat of his skin. “I was so freaked out at the time, that it didn’t occur to me to hire security to keep her safe.”

  “You covered her medical bills.”

  Mia played with his fingers. He had nice hands, with broad palms, long fingers, and nicely shaped nails. She stroked a finger along the ridge of calluses at the base of his fingers. “She doesn’t have family. And I want her as far away from here as possible. They won’t release her for several weeks, by which time I’ll be home, and can do what needs to be done. It depends on how long they keep dickface in jail.”

  His lips twitched. “ ‘Dickface’?”

  She shrugged. “I couldn’t think of anything bad enough.”

  “ ‘Dickface’ works just fine. They’ll add time for his assault on you; breaking and entering, too. He has a cousin who’s not taking his incarceration well. Even with your charges, Hammell told me they could only do a twenty-four-hour hold until Daisy presses charges and he has his day in court.”

  “Hard to do when she’s so out of it. I think she knew Charlie was in the room, but she didn’t open her eyes. It killed me that he had to see his mother like that. The bruising was so much worse today than it was yesterday, and Charlie freaked out seeing all the tubes and hearing the beeps of the monitors.”

  “If he hadn’t run all the way to get us, their story would’ve ended up very differently.” His leashed anger was evident in the tightness of his jaw and the way his fingers flexed in hers. “His being a drunk has little to do with the violence. He’d be like that without the booze. Alcohol just exacerbates the fact that he’s an angry, weak man who preys on those smaller and weaker than himself.”

  Mia realized that he was also talking about his own father, and she turned their hands so they were palm to palm, her hand cradling his.

  “Being a husband and father isn’t about strength,” she said quietly. “It’s about making the right decisions for your family; it’s about fully assessing situations before you put your family at risk. We can both relate to Charlie, because neither of us had a father who treated people with dignity or respect. Yours was like Latour: he ruled with his fists. My abuse was a lot more subversive. But in the end we were both colored by who our fathers were. I’d like to be a part of helping Charlie learn that there are men who are good and kind, and that not every male in his life is angry and violent.”

  The waiter appeared as if by magic.
They ordered bowls of seafood gumbo, grilled redfish, and a bottle of crisp pinot grigio.

  “What happens tomorrow?” Cruz asked as the waiter left with their orders.

  “I go to my mailbox place and pick up the papers. Sign them in front of a notary and overnight them back to the investment company.”

  “I thought no one knew where you were.” Cruz straightened, suddenly alert.

  “I contacted the investment company directly, via email. I had to give the private-equity firm an address to send the papers. Don’t worry. The mailbox rental place is here in New Orleans, and they have a notary. I’ll be in and out in a flash. They open at nine. I’ll drive in, and be back home for breakfast.”

  “Not showing your hand would be better yet. This is still too damned close to Bayou Cheniere for my liking.”

  “Well, the papers have to be signed, and Todd and Miles won’t let me return to San Francisco to sign them there.”

  “Now at least three people know you’re in New Orleans?”

  “No. Although, as I told you, I trust them one hundred percent. I only gave the equity company the address, and directly to the personal email of the man in charge of my LBO.”

  “Michael Ordway.”

  “Ye—” Her eyebrows rose. “How do you know his name?”

  “Because you’ve been convinced someone is trying to fucking kill you, and while you only want to know the who, I fucking want to know the why.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question, Cruz. How do you know Ordway’s name?”

  “You told me the name of the company. I know this much about you: you’d only deal with their top man. Ordway is that man. He’s savvy, well respected, and a shark for his clients.”

  Mia mulled that over. She wasn’t accustomed to people second-guessing her, nor was she used to someone stepping in to protect her. It felt odd. Good, but . . . odd.

  He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, a sweetly romantic gesture that made her heart kick up pleasantly. “Trust me. I only want to keep you safe. Let’s forget business,” he murmured, his breath humid on her skin, “and for a few hours, other people’s problems, and just drink our wine and enjoy our meal.”

  “Excellent plan.”

  He reached into his back pocket, and withdrew a piece of lined paper, which Mia recognized as from her pad in the kitchen. She smiled. “So, instead of heavy dinner-table topics, you want to talk about construction and plumbing? Let’s move that hot-water tank to the top of the list.”

  He unfolded the single sheet on the table and smoothed it with his free hand. “Let’s talk about this list.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Are you blushing?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Intriguing.” A small smile curved the firm line of his mouth, and his eyes glittered. He ran the back of his fingers down her cheek, making her shiver. “What does SWS mean?”

  “We have plenty more interesting subjects to talk about—” He raised an eyebrow. What the hell. “Sex with a stranger.”

  He didn’t look shocked. “I presume this check mark is for me?”

  “Other than the entire football team at Stanford, that night of a drunken orgy, yep. You’re the only stranger I’ve ever had sex with.”

  Dipping his head, he closed his mouth on hers. Her lips and teeth parted to allow him entry as her body melted. Oblivious to the crowded restaurant, to the noise, to any observers, her hands fisted in his hair and she sank into the taste and texture of him.

  He gathered her close, fingers tangled in her hair. Mia was always in such a state of heightened awareness around him that she was turned on instantly.

  He was the one who released the hold first. Dazed, she blinked up at him. The look he gave her could melt the polar ice caps. He tucked her hair behind her ear.

  “Eighteen: PD? Pole dancing, I’m guessing. How about number one, LTD?”

  Her lips still buzzed, and her heartbeat thudded in her pulse points. “Learn to drive. Eleven is pump gas, and thirteen was buy a car. I thought the truck was more kick-ass.” Her smile felt strained. She was preternaturally aware of his every small movement, from the flick of his silver-tipped black lashes to the stern line of his mouth. That long dimple was nowhere in sight, but just knowing it was there, to emerge if and when he gave her a real smile, was tantalizing. Her body leaned toward him like a flower toward the sun.

  “You skipped number eight.” He pointed. Just looking at his big hand on the light tablecloth made Mia feel as though she were in the tropics. Flushed, and covered in prickly heat that made it feel as if she had on far too many clothes.

  SIP. Sex in public. The idea, intriguing and titillating when she’d jotted down her long to-do list a month ago, now seemed silly at least, and downright embarrassing at worst. Especially with Cruz’s hot eyes inches from hers, daring her to give up all her secrets.

  “Sun in—” She couldn’t make up anything fast enough, especially when his eyes were filled with heat and humor.

  He saw right through her.

  “Liar.” Cruz grinned, flashing white teeth and that elusive long dimple in his left cheek. His rare smile did something strange to her insides, turning them to liquid fire, which in turn suffused her skin with heat. He was a dangerous, dangerous man.

  “This first letter definitely stands for sex. . . .”

  Mia kept her mouth closed. SIP could represent just about anything.

  “In public?” His smile turned devilishly predatory. “Seriously?”

  She gave him an innocent wide-eyed look as her pounding heart kicked up into overdrive. “Not in this lifetime, Barcelona.”

  He gave her a wicked look that made her nipples peak and her mouth go dry. “I’d hate for you to not fulfill your wildest fantasies, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart? “Learning to drive wasn’t a fantasy, smart-ass. Nor was learning how to bake cookies for that matter.”

  “That’s because you seeded all the fun stuff in between.”

  “Not intentionally. I never expected anyone else to read this.” When she reached for the paper, he quickly folded it along the same fold lines, picked it up, and put it in his back pocket. “Give it back.”

  “No. I’m keeping it as a memento.”

  Mia shook her head. “To put in your scrapbook?” She couldn’t imagine Cruz being sentimental.

  “I’ve never been one to keep trophies.” His voice was dry. “Too incriminating.”

  “I can imagine— What are you doing?” she asked, startled, as he ducked under the table, completely disappearing from sight under the shroud of the tablecloth.

  “I dropped my napkin.”

  “Ask for another one when the waiter—” She’d never seen anyone disappear beneath a table to pick up a napkin. His palms glided up her thighs under her dress. Her blood heated, and she felt a thrill of excitement. Surely he wouldn’t . . . No way! Cruz? No way!

  “I’m bored waiting for dinner.” His voice was slightly muffled. “I thought I’d snack while I wait.”

  Mia looked around the crowded, noisy restaurant as his hands skated up her thighs. Goose bumps rose on her skin. “You can’t be . . . be—” Hooking his fingers into the top band of her bikini panties, he slid them down her hips, until the crease between belly and thigh prevented them from going any farther.

  “Oh! My. God! Serious.” She was already wet, already highly aroused, already flushed from head to toe.

  “Lift.”

  “Hell no!” She pressed her butt down harder on the seat to prevent whatever he intended to happen next. The pressure in turn made her body throb and pulse. Her mind, her strongest erogenous zone, did the rest. “You’re cra—”

  Cruz’s breath felt hot and humid on her hip, followed by the cool nip of his teeth against her skin. Then Mia felt, rather than heard, the small riiip.

  She sucked in a shock breath. Sure everyone in the restaurant must’ve heard rending fabric. “That’s my favorite pair!”

  �
��I’ll buy you two dozen,” she thought he said. Hard to tell as he kissed his way around her navel, his voice muffled.

  A quick, frantic perusal of the diners around them showed that no one was looking their way. But for how long? They were in a booth in the corner, so only the tables in front of them would be able to see—what? Mia almost giggled. God. What if other dinners saw Cruz’s feet protruding from beneath the tablecloth?

  Dear God, this was an arrest just waiting to happen. And yet—heated blood roared through her veins, and the sensation of Cruz’s smooth lips exploring her tummy while the people at the next table drank their wine and laughed and talked was such a turn-on that she pretty much didn’t care.

  She contemplated, for about two seconds, that getting arrested at this juncture could possibly ruin her LBO. But it would be worth it. She was beginning to realize that she was willing to give up just about anything for Cruz.

  The next table over was practically an arm’s length away. If she concentrated, she could hear snippets of the two elderly couples’ conversation. All it would take would be for one of the sweet-faced grandmotherly types to turn her head, glance down . . .

  Mia had a flash image of the scene from the movie with Meg Ryan pretending to climax in a restaurant, and tried to press her knees together. Cruz was having none of that as he wedged his shoulders between them, separating her legs, and at the same time sliding the damp scrap of fabric across her labia so that she jerked in response to the stimulation.

  The waiter stood beside the table with their bottle of wine as Cruz teased and tormented her with his mouth, his tongue hard against her clit, so that all Mia heard was her own heartbeat in her ears.

  “May I pour or would you like to wait for the gentleman to return?” She didn’t hear him—she read his lips through sex-hazed eyes.

  “No—I. Go ah-ahead and pour, I’m sure it’s fine.” Mia was positive if she picked up the glass to sip her wine to ease her dry mouth, she’d snap the delicate stem. She curled her fingers on the edge of the table as Cruz’s tongue slid in and out of her slick folds, lingering, sucking, blowing.