More Than Meets the Ink (15 page)

Cole frowned at him. “Well? So you pick yourself up and try again. Make her listen.”

“Or you pick yourself up and go throw yourself onto the feet of another more receptive chick,” Max suggested.

“Max.” Cole growled at him in warning.

“What?” he said, lifting his hands. “Just offering a plan B, man. Everyone should have one, just in case.”

* * *

Tate dragged herself upstairs to her tiny apartment. She was dead on her feet. Stress and adrenaline had kept her going all night, but now the restaurant was closed, her employees had gone home, and she didn’t have to pretend she wasn’t beaten up.

She was supposed to check invoices and scout for new suppliers, but she was too tired. Without turning on the light, she undressed and threw herself on the bed. She should check her computer and see if there were any new reservations for tomorrow. On second thought, no thank you. She’d put up with too much shit already today. After being given the silent treatment by her maître d’, Clint, and after hearing her chef complain all night long, she was too strung out to face any e-mails from Prince Charming. The sicko had been writing every day, as if he knew she’d been on vacation and wanted to catch up on any lost time. Asshole. They were never long, the e-mails, just a couple of sentences each time threatening her with torching the place if she didn’t close it up or sell, pointing out how unsuited she was for running it, calling her a whore and stupid and incompetent. Well, the incompetent part he had down right. She sighed.

Low on battery, her cell blinked in the dark, and suddenly she felt the irresistible urge to call James. God, how she’d love to hear his voice. Check on him, see how he was doing. Laugh a bit. Or a lot. He always made her smile, and she so badly needed to smile. Five days in Boston and her facial muscles were again atrophied. No more laughter for her. Although it was little by little freezing to match her reality, her body still remembered him, shivered in excitement at the thought of him. If she concentrated hard enough and closed her eyes very tight, maybe she could block everything out and imagine she was still with him. Still feel his hands on her, and the tingling and the fuzzy feeling would be back, or so she hoped.

The surroundings were less than encouraging; she’d never been able to override the sadness impregnating this place long enough to give herself any decent amount of pleasure. Not that she truly tried. It felt…wrong. Like laughing at a funeral. But maybe now… Her mind discarded that thought right away; she couldn’t fuck herself the way James did it anyway, so why bother? Besides, her Bob, in whichever moving box it may be, totally paled into comparison with the guy, whose mere voice made her instantly wet. And she hated those tight orgasms she got by herself, so brief they were almost finished before they started. Those short, almost painful releases had absolutely nothing to do with the long and mind-blowing ones James got out of her. Maybe if she really, really concentrated on their time in Florida… No, she scolded herself. She couldn’t pretend she was on vacation anymore, so no, no masturbating to his fantasy. And absolutely no calling. After all, she was the one that gave him the cold-shoulder routine before she left.

She was a big girl; she ought to behave like one.

* * *

He’d thought about the correct approach hard and long, for as many days as he’d managed to stay away from her, which in honor of the truth hadn’t been that many to begin with, but as he finally stood at the counter waiting for Tate, he still hadn’t decided which angle to play. He probably should smile innocently, get her defenses down long enough to cajole her into talking to him, maybe convince her to go out for a beer with him if he got extremely lucky. He wasn’t sure how to behave. He’d go with the flow, look into her face, evaluate her mood, and then go from there. Nothing pushy, though; starting light would be the best option at this point. She was a tough cookie, he knew, and pushing her would get him nowhere.

From his post at the counter, he watched Rosita’s maître d’ walk to the kitchen door and heard him say there was someone there to see her. He didn’t seem prone to long sentences, grunted more than talked. His disdainful expression perfectly matched his manners as he walked away from the kitchen door muttering, “Don’t know who he is, too busy to run your errands.” Tate had said Clint was moody. No hell, Clint was moody. An asshole would be a better description for the guy.

Soon after, a harrumphing Tate came into the restaurant area, her gaze fixed on the rag with which she was wiping her hands, her forehead creased in annoyance. She was as beautiful as ever if not more so. Man, he’d missed her.

James’s chest clenched, the unfamiliar feeling making him damn uneasy. Suddenly he realized what the deal was with him acting out, being twitchy and irascible all those days without her. It was withdrawal. He’d been suffering some kind of withdrawal…from her. He needed a lobotomy. He grimaced inwardly.

The second her gaze met with his, she stopped abruptly. The excited glint in her eyes gave her away; she was happy to see him, although, by the quick and savage way she suffused and replaced it with one of suspicion, it was clear he wasn’t that welcome.

“Hmm…hello,” she greeted curtly while taking a step back, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her chin up. Setting boundaries again, like she’d done the second she stepped fully dressed out of that hotel bathroom. Putting him in his place.

All his good intentions of taking it easy flew out the window. Fuck slowly. James narrowed his gaze on her and shook his head. Enough. He reached for her, grabbed her by the neck, and before she could react, his mouth fell upon hers. He’d missed kissing her. She tasted so good. It was a short but possessive kiss, one she didn’t fully return yet didn’t fight.

“Hi.” He breathed on her lips as she stared big-eyed at him. “I thought I’d take you out to dinner. Any chance of you escaping for a while?”

She shook her head. “No.” She tried again to step back, but he had her secured with a hand on the small of her back. She was going nowhere.

The place was busy, but that wasn’t the reason she was rejecting him. He could see it in the frenetic way her pulse beat in her neck, in the way she avoided looking at him. It was too scary. This wasn’t a silly fling in Eternal Sun miles and miles away from home; this was too real. Too close home. That’s why she was keeping him at arm’s length. She was scared of this thing between them. Good, that made two of them.

“I’ll wait then,” he said, keeping her in his arms.

She seemed too startled by his behavior to fight his closeness, but she wasn’t ready to give in just yet. “I don’t think um…it’s a good idea. You should go.”

His mouth quirked up. Yeah right. “I don’t think so.”

Her lips puckered. It looked like him being his arrogant self was throwing her off. She looked ready to snap at him, but he knew she wouldn’t; the place was quite full. The last thing Rosita’s needed was a soap opera scene, and Tate would feel guilty kicking up a fuss. Guilt. He’d make guilt work. If need be, he could get all sorts of mileage from guilt.

“As you wish,” she said between clenched teeth. “Clint here will serve you a beer. It may take a while though. Feel free to bail at any moment. I won’t hold it against you.”

He grinned, totally ignoring her flippant remarks. “No problem, I’m not in a hurry. I’ll wait.”

After brushing her lower lip with his thumb, he released her. Tate stepped back and retreated to the kitchen, looking dazzled, outmaneuvered, and a bit pissed.

James glanced around and prepared for a long wait. Calling beforehand and getting her to agree to go out for supper would have solved this problem, but that wouldn’t have worked. He didn’t want her to have an excuse to cut him loose. Face-to-face, his chances grew exponentially, and although he liked to believe he was a gentleman, it wasn’t in him to pass up such a clear advantage.

* * *

It took the better part of two hours to get things quieted down enough that they’d be able to make do without her. James hadn’t complained or checked his watch in impatience. She knew because she’d sneaked as many peeks at him as she could get away with. Her hand had three new knife cuts to prove it; it looked like tonight she’d been a bigger hazard to herself than usual. He’d just sat there, sexy as hell, following her every move with an intensity that had her edgy and nervous. She wasn’t sure why he was there, but she couldn’t deny feeling giddy about it. Happy to see him. Expectant. Damn and double damn, she was a moron.

When she’d found herself almost face-to-face with James, she’d got goose bumps even in her damn hair. He’d said he’d stop by, but she hadn’t believed him. Not really. After all, he’d already got to nail her. Repeatedly. The I’ll-call-you line didn’t carry too much weight in her book, especially after the actual deed was done. But here he was, sitting at the counter waiting for her, after she’d been less than civilized before her departure.

Despite how many times she’d wiped her mouth with her hand, she could still feel the warm, commanding weight of his lips on hers. His kiss had pretty much mashed her brain, the easiness and security oozing from him overwhelming. And the way he smelled and tasted…dear Lord, it made her legs wobbly. He was even better than she remembered. And damn, he made her needy. Today hadn’t been a good day, and it was a busy night. The kitchen was a mess, her chef was as usual in full-blown hysterics, and Tim had called in sick. Some weird disease again. Sneaky bastard.

At the sight of James, her first instinct had been to throw herself into his arms, tell him all about her shitty day, kiss him silly, and drag him somewhere where he could fuck her worries away. She’d suppressed that need pretty fast though, self-preservation kicking in. After all, she’d been the one to draw the boundaries in the first place. Just sex. No follow-up of any kind once back home. Not because she didn’t want to, but because it would be too dangerous for her. He was too dangerous for her. She could so easily get used to him. She’d realized that during their time together, especially during their last night, not that she’d said a word to him. She’d played it
Sex in the City
cool until the very end—so not her.

At closing time, she approached him. “So, you’re still here.”

His smile was still dazzling. “Yep. Hungry as a wolf. Let’s go to dinner?”

She threw a dirty look toward her maître d’. About an hour ago, she’d asked him to serve James something to eat; it was the least she could do seeing as how he’d stoically put up with hours of waiting. Apparently she was also being ignored by her staff on the inconsequential things. What a surprise. What the hell was wrong with Clint anyway? He’d been so supportive after Aidan dumped her, urging her to confide in him and talk about her problems, but lately he looked pissed at her all the time. As if she wasn’t doing anything right.

“Let me make it up to you. Dinner’s on me,” she heard herself say. “Right here. I have contacts with the kitchen, and I can guarantee they’ll serve us. Even at this ungodly hour. And believe me, despite my best efforts, the food here is good.”

His expression was so wickedly pleased, she felt flustered and uncertain, as if she’d walked head-on into a trap. After a quick visit to the kitchen, she directed him to one of the booths at the far end of the dining area. It was an intimate setting, and she should have chosen another table in more neutral territory, but what the hell, there was no neutral territory in Rosita’s, all the tables were intimate even to a fault, and the kitchen personnel were already bringing out the food. “I hope you like Italian. We’re kind of specialized.”

“Perfect.” He grinned, and she felt it down deep in her bones. Damn, this was a bad idea.

They ate pretty much in silence. She was tired and tense and too aware of him, replying to his questions with monosyllables. Any more would get her saying only God knew what.

Soon the last patrons left, and right after that, Rosita’s staff began leaving. In another lifetime, they would have had supper all together, but those times were long gone. Clint looked downright livid. Tina the waitress had to hurry to her kid. The other waitress, Kelly, also left in a hurry, the chef had been spitting fire all night, and the kitchen personnel was too tired of dodging bullets. Talk about team spirit. They couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

“This is a very nice place you’ve got here.” James complimented her when she came back from turning the lights down and locking the entrance door. Although the restaurant was in shadows, she looked around, inspecting her surroundings. Yes, the place looked cozy. Thousands of pictures around of her almost nonexistent family. It might look homey for most people, but to her it felt like the cruelest cosmic irony. So much of the warmth it used to radiate was now missing. Nowadays it was like an empty carcass. Pretty, sure, but soulless.

She shrugged. “You should have seen it before, with my father at the counter, greeting the clientele. Serving them drinks while they waited for their tables. Making them laugh. He was good at that, the same way you are actually. My mom would be floating around the tables, a bit more reserved than my dad, but everyone would feel relaxed and welcome because of her. The food was always good, but even if it wasn’t, it didn’t matter; people would have flooded in anyway. My parents were that good.”

“I’m sure they were, but you shouldn’t underestimate yourself; you’re doing a hell of a job too.”

She gave him a yeah-right look. Tate had spent all morning dealing with her suppliers, which hadn’t done anything to improve her general mood. She really didn’t know how long she could put up with their shit without snapping. She missed her father. And Jonah. They would know what to do and how to keep those assholes in line. And sure as hell, they would know how to keep Rosita’s afloat, which she didn’t. And she was the one doing a hell of a job?
Please, don’t make me laugh.

Trying to regain her composure, she changed the subject. “Anyway, how come you’re already in Boston? I figured you’d still be on the road.”

“I left right after you.”