He made sure that Nolan, with Jillian tucked under his arm, had cleared him by a couple of yards before he worked up the courage to insult her. "So this is the kind of man you go for now? A pretty-boy muscle-head with a pin-sized brain?"
Around them, the already quiet set stilled to a vacuum of silence.
Nolan stopped, drew a weary breath. As he turned slowly toward Fowler, he caught a glimpse of Wellington and Erica hanging on every word. Might as well give 'em a good show.
"Well, hell. Now you've hurt my feelings." He shook his head, somber and sad. "What do you think, Jillian? Can I hit him? Just once?"
In spite of the tension, she caught on quick. He saw her first real smile in twenty-four hours.
"No, Thor." She patted his arm like he was a pet in need of persuasion and steered him toward the elevator. "You'll just get your hands dirty. Besides, he's not worth your energy."
"So you're saying that I can't hit him." A disappointed Rocky.
"No, darling. I'm sorry, but you can't hit him." She punched the elevator button, both of them aware of Fowler's and everyone else within earshot's stupefied gazes following them. "Come along. I'll buy you a present to make up for it."
He grinned—Forrest Gump on a chocolate high. "Something shiny, OK?"
They stepped into the elevator and the doors swished shut behind them. For a moment, they just stood and grinned at each other.
Then a stilted laugh burst out of her. " 'Rip off your head and shove it up your ass' ?"
Still smiling, he shrugged. "I thought it was pretty inventive."
"Not to mention graphic."
"Yeah. That, too. I figured he needed a real clear picture."
"God." She laughed again, shook her head. "The look on his face was priceless."
So was the look on hers. For the first time in many, many hours she didn't look haunted or hunted. For the first time in longer than that, she'd forgotten about the faceless lunatic who hated her so much they wanted her dead.
Their eyes held for another long moment.
"What?" Other than amusement, he couldn't read what it was he saw in her eyes.
"Would you really have hit him?"
It was his turn to laugh. "In a heartbeat."
She nodded. "Good."
They became quiet then as the elevator hit the main floor and the doors opened. He stepped out ahead of her, checked the hall, and motioned that it was clear for her to follow. Yet she stood there, just looking at him.
"At the risk of repeating myself... what?"
She seemed to consider, then put her head down and stepped into the hall. "I was just thinking that I figured you would be the last person in the world capable of making me laugh."
Yeah. Him, too. "Comes with the service," he tossed out because he
did
get a read on what she was thinking this time.
She was thinking he wasn't such a bad guy after all. She was thinking that maybe, just maybe, he might be someone worth knowing.
She was wrong.
Her next statement confirmed it.
"You should smile more often," she said, her look contemplative. "It looks good on you."
"Plays hell with my tough guy image, though."
Lame. That was so lame. But so were the thoughts rumbling through his head. Thoughts that didn't just tiptoe over the line he'd drawn between them, they leaped over.
He was in trouble again. Those soft eyes and that lush mouth were doing a number on him.
"Speaking of tough guys, how's the cut on your ribs?"
"Fine. I'm a fast healer."
Too bad he wasn't as fast on his feet. If he were, he'd have figured a way out of this by now.
They walked in silence to his car. When he opened the door and helped her inside and all he could think about was how wonderful she smelled, he knew he was going down for the count.
Big trouble.
The kind of trouble it was going to be hard as hell to stay ahead of.
When he slipped behind the wheel and her hand covered his on the gearshift, sending electric shocks zinging up the length of his arm, he didn't see a lot of hope of outrunning it.
'Take me somewhere."
He stilled. Tried not to turn and look in her eyes—and failed miserably.
They were so green. So softly pleading.
"I don't want to go home. I don't want to face another blinking red light on my answering machine. I don't want to face another night in my bedroom wondering when and if this will all be over."
She looked away, looked at her hands, and a single teardrop spilled onto that delicate crease where her thumb joined her palm. "I need something... some reminder that somewhere life is normal, that people laugh and dance and don't think past the moment."
OK, this was the time when he needed to be tough. He needed to remind her the streets weren't safe, that she was vulnerable and, short of her father's estate, her locked penthouse was the best place for her to be. That's what he needed to do.
But she turned that beautiful brave face up to his again. A glittering sea of unshed tears pooled in her eyes and clung to her upper lashes.
And he was a goner.
"I know a place," he said, accepting that he was making a huge mistake but defenseless against her tears.
She smiled, let out a ragged breath. "Thank you."
"Yeah. For sure, this is going to cost you. Thor still want shiny present."
The smile she gave him in that moment was worth any price ... even if he paid it in blood.
He shifted into gear and they roared off into the tropical night and, most likely, into more trouble than either one of them was prepared to handle.
Nolan didn't dare take Jillian to a public place in Palm Beach. It was too risky. After cruising on and off 1-95 to make sure they didn't have a tail, he drove south of the city to a backwater restaurant and bar where the beer was cold and the only silver the place had ever seen was the cap in the cook's tooth.
La Casa de la Mama was nestled in the middle of the block in a quiet and not quite tidy neighborhood. The blue-collar working folk living there were bilingual and raised their kids with kisses and swats and mowed their lawns when they felt like it. When they wanted groceries, they walked to local green markets and the corner store. Whet they wanted a cold beer, authentic Latin cooking, or the best cold stone crab in Florida or maybe just the chance to unwind to a little salsa music, they went to Mama's House. Everyone was welcome there.
Nolan decided it might be the perfect place to take Jillian. She needed a break, but he needed to be careful. He was straddling a very thin wire here. It was more than the fact that she was vulnerable and he had an unfortunate case of the hots for her. There was that subtle difference in the way she'd been looking at him lately to deal with. It wasn't just that she was at the end of her rope. It wasn't just that she was scared. She saw him as a buffer. And she saw him as someone she could depend on, someone she wanted to get to know better.
That was where the trouble had begun. Here, however, he decided, getting it together on the drive, was where it was going to end. Let her see how he lived was how he figured it. Let her see him in his element... in surroundings that were as far from what she was used to as hot dogs were from caviar. Where silk was a luxury instead of a staple and then most likely it wasn't silk at all but something that did a bad job pretending to be.
Yeah. Let her see how the poor folk—his folk—lived. Let her party in a bar where the Latino beat was sultry and loud and people danced on worn and cracked linoleum instead of imported Italian tile. Let her realize he was most comfortable in a world where the biggest financial deal made within a ten-block radius was likely over the price of a very used car.
In short, let her see who he was.
That'd scare her off. And he hoped in the process it would also make her forget about her situation for a little while.
He parked along a street where pineapple palms and wooden planters filled with blooming flowers vied for space with bits of litter. Jillian said nothing as he pocketed his keys and opened her car door, but her eyes were busy taking in every detail. Mama's House sat on the corner of a long lot. But for a flashing neon sign of vivid blue, yellow, red, and green letters blinking "La Casa de la Mama" over the door, the cracked lavender stucco building was unremarkable in a neighborhood of colorful buildings.
He placed a hand at the small of her back and guided her ahead of him through a door painted electric pink. Music, laughter, and the richest scents known to man—Cuban food, wine, tap beer, and cigar smoke—greeted them. Mama's was always jumping, and tonight was no exception.
"No-Ion!"
The shout, full of pleasant surprise and welcome, pounced on him the moment his head cleared the front door.
"Esteban," Nolan called across the room, and lifted a hand in greeting to a short barrel of a man with a snow-white mustache and a headful of Einstein hair.
"jComo usted es?"
"Bueno. Muy bueno, mi amigo."
Esteban scurried out from behind the bar, wiping his hands on a damp towel and affecting an affronted scowl as he wove his way through tables and patrons to get to them. "Where you been for so long now? Mama worries." He paused, a broad smile splitting his face when he saw Jillian, "Ah. Look here.
Usted se ha encontrado un gato verde, pequeno y bonito de eyed, se?"
You've found yourself a pretty. little green-eyed cat, yes?
Nolan cringed and hoped Jillian didn't speak Spanish "Si, ella es muy bonita. Pero ella no es la mina."
Yes, she's very pretty. But she's not mine.
Eyes twinkling, Esteban looked from Nolan to Jillian and grunted.
"Quiza usted tuvo mejores cosas para hacer que vienen y nos ven."
Still, maybe you had better things to do than come and see us.
Nolan laughed, shrugged. "Si usted lo dice."
If you say so.
"Welcome, pretty cat, to Mama's House." With an elaborate old-world gesture, Esteban brought Jillian's hand to his lips and kissed it. "No-Ion ... he's taking as good care of you as I take care of Mama, yes?"
"All right," Nolan cut in before Jillian could do any more than smile. It was obvious by the look on her face that despite the coarseness of the surroundings, Esteban has charmed her. "We're here to listen to the music, maybe get something to drink, not play twenty questions."
"Then sit, No-Ion. You and your pretty cat." With a wink at Jillian, Esteban led them to a table in the corner of the crowded bar. "I'll tell Mama you're here and send Maria over with something to drink. Corona for you, yes? And for the lady?"
"Root beer for me," Nolan corrected, ignoring Esteban's curious look. "Jillian? Chardonnay?"
She nodded, then shook her head. "No. Let's do this right. Make it a margarita. Rocks."
"Smart girl. I make the best margarita east of the Gulf. You will lap it up like a cat eating cream."
With a chuckle, Esteban wove his way back through the tables. He poked his head over the top of the swinging doors that led to the kitchen first, said something in rapid-fire Spanish, then tucked back in behind the bar.
"Word to the wise," Nolan said once they'd gotten settled. "No lapping. Sipping only. I don't want you wrecked on tequila to the point I have to carry you out of here."
The minute he said it, he wished he could take it back. It was exactly the image—Jillian plastered, loose limbed, and snuggled in his arms—he did not want stuck in his mind the rest of the night.
So much for what he'd wanted.
When Maria brought their drinks Jillian gaped at what looked like a liter of Jose with just enough salt and lime for color.
“Christ," Nolan said with a groan.
Jillian laughed. "I'd say lapping and sipping are both off the table. I'm going to have to attack this like I mean it if I plan on finishing it off. Somebody, get me a straw."
18
All right. So it wasn't nice to make fun
of someone else's discomfort, but Jillian couldn't help it Nolan looked so sour and concerned and he'd gone to great extents to take her someplace where she could unwind. The best part was, it was working.
Mama's was so full of delicious sights and scents and sounds, it was a full-time job just taking it all in.
"Where did you learn to speak Spanish?" she asked, sipping her margarita like a good girl.
Beside her, he grunted, Mr. Malcontent. "Here and there. "
"Well, that cleared it up for me."
He merely blinked.
And that word came up again as she looked at him.
Endearing.
Would wonders never cease?
There he sat, stern to the bone, doing his damnedest to give her a little relief from the stalker stress, yet worried she might have
too
good of a time—or, God forbid, worried that
he
might have too good of a time—which could lead to them having a good time together.