First Temptation (11 page)

Taft was ready to chew through leather to get to her—for more of that wickedly hot sex they’d had this morning, but also to see more of what was underneath her exterior. He wanted to peel away those layers to see if she was all he thought she might be. Of course, if she was…Taft knew his life would change. Drastically. Which he found equally thrilling and terrifying.

Zoe spun, put her back to the bar, and stretched her arms high. Slowly, she pulled her legs over her head with the precision of a gymnast and the refinement of a dancer, until she was upside down near the ceiling. Hugging the pole close, she opened her legs inch by inch, and inch by inch, her dress crept over her skin, exposing more and more until Zoe was doing the splits in the air and her dress was bunched around her hips.

Holy Mary, mother of God.

The crowd went wild. But Taft couldn’t act surprised or appreciative. He had to act like she did this in the living room every day.

She brought her legs together and wound one around the pole. Arms stretched overhead toward the floor, she pulled her upper body away from the pole and started a slow downward spiral.

Her dress mirrored the descent inching over her belly, her ribs… Taft’s gaze locked on the tattoo he’d seen hints of earlier as it appeared little by little, and the crowd’s applause faded into the background.

Wrapping her side, continuing toward her back and shoulder, the elegant, ornate image of a birdcage decorated her skin. The door open. The cage empty. His mind filled with the memory of her girlie Z on the opposite arm and realized the curlicues weren’t just decoration, but…wings.

When he focused his gaze again, Zoe’s dress had cleared her head and was sliding off her arms, her body covered in nothing but bra and panties.

And holy hell, what…a…body.

Taft had been nursing disappointment all day after their planned second and third rounds of sex that morning had gotten interrupted. Been admittedly moping with the realization those rounds may have to be cancelled completely if she wouldn’t relent on her coworker hang-up. Now, after seeing firsthand all he’d missed out on…his mood was growing seriously foul.

Everyone in the crowd was on their feet now. The applause had become deafening, and mall security hovered at the store’s entrance.

Zoe caught her dress in one hand, gripped the pole in the other, and brought her boot tips gently to the ground. She glided right into another series of turns and spins without even a second of pause and tossed her dress aside.

Taft bit the inside of his lip to keep from growling aloud.

“Do you have an…” Picasso drew out beside him when the applause died down, “open relationship?”

“You mean do we fuck other people?” Taft turned his head and met Picasso’s eyes. “No.”

Picasso’s mouth turned up at one edge. He nodded in understanding, and his gaze roamed back to Zoe. “Do you…share?”

Taft had to process the words before he realized Picasso wasn’t asking the same question in a different way. He was asking if Taft would consider a threesome, and the thought of a threesome with another guy—this guy—made bile back up in Taft’s throat. But he did see opportunities opening up to get the man alone.

He considered the offer as Zoe’s beautiful body and confident, sensual moves hypnotized and seduced him. “The offer would have to be…exceptional. I’ve kept Brooks all to myself. She’s…special.”

“I can see that.” Picasso’s voice grated on Taft. “Which is why I’m interested.”

He forced out a laugh. “You’re not the only man in the room, brother. I can guarantee you that.”

“But,” he said, “I am the only man in the room who can afford her.”

Taft’s spine turned to ice, one vertebra at a time. He didn’t react immediately but slowly turned narrowed eyes on Picasso. “Some things are to valuable to sell.”

“You need money to run the store, no?” Picasso asked.

“We’re doing all right.”

On stage, Zoe executed a series of spins, set her feet, and with one hand on the pole, one held up high, took a bow.

Taft turned toward Vasquez, standing on his left. “Excuse me, dude. I need to get the lights.”

Vasquez stepped back, but only enough for Taft to reach the switches.

He flipped them on and found Zoe swamped by those adoring fans he’d only been joking about earlier. Her gaze swept the crowd until she found his and held.

And in that moment, Taft settled for the first time since he’d kissed her before she’d gone up on stage. Then she smiled. And those uncomfortable sensations nudging his heart all day started twisting.

“I am part of a large community,” Picasso said. “One comment from me and your business would thrive.”

Taft returned his attention to Picasso. “We have contacts in just about every community—”

“Not this one, amigo,” he said, grinning for the first time. “I guarantee it.”

Picasso was a good-looking man in his late thirties, tall and fit with strong features. And he wore a gold wedding band.

Taft lifted his shoulder and glanced toward the register where the agent cashiering had a line of customers already. Zoe’s show had gotten more than just Taft’s juices flowing. “Maybe we can talk about it later. It’s getting busy in here.”

“One-time offer, amigo. I’m leaving town in a couple of days. I can understand how you might not want another man to touch her, and I really prefer to watch, so I’ll make you a couple of offers. Twenty thousand dollars to watch you and Brooks have sex for three hours. Ten thousand to have her to myself for three hours.”

Taft’s jaw clenched. He turned back to Picasso slowly.

“Twenty thousand dollars,” Taft repeated, “to do nothing but watch us have sex?”

Picasso licked his bottom lip. Gave Taft a curt nod. A strange sensation slithered down Taft’s spine.

“That’s a hell of a lot of money for porn, my man. You can get it fucking free on the Internet.”

“Not the kind I like. And not live.”

“What exactly do you expect for that kind of cash?”

“Anything I want. I say it, you two do it. And I’ll add another ten if she dances for me beforehand.”

A body bumped Taft from the side. He immediately noted the size, the weight, and lifted his arm to drape it around Zoe’s shoulders without having to look at her. She slid her arms around his waist and cuddled close, her body burning hot. She’d thrown the turquoise dress back on, and her sweet and musky scents mixed, rising to Taft’s nose on her heat and sparking an urgent craving low in his gut.

“Glad you made it in,” she said to Picasso, an innocent, invigorated smile lighting her face. “Hope you enjoyed the demo.”

“More than you know, señorita.” Picasso slid his hand over the arm Zoe had wound tight around Taft’s abdomen, his fingers stroking the Z high on her arm. “Beautiful tattoos. What does the Z stand for?”

“My middle name, Zelda, which is also my grandmother’s name. We were very close, and I got the tattoo in her memory when she passed.”

“Ah.” He lowered his fingers and drew her hand to his mouth. “Very nice.”

Picasso turned her hand over and pressed his lips to Zoe’s wrist. The muscles of her jaw clenched. It was all Taft could do not to put a fist in the fucker’s jaw, but he squeezed Zoe’s upper arm in reassurance, and her shoulders uncoiled.

But Taft was quickly realizing this water she’d swum into was deep, these sharks were great whites, and, in their eyes, Zoe looked like a plump sea lion.

“Oh.” She laughed. “Aren’t you a charmer?”

He grinned. “Only for the very special.”

He let her hand go, and she dug her fingers into Taft’s belt as if afraid Picasso would try to take her hand again.

The way she clung to him, the way her nails bit into his side, struck the match on an old, ugly burn in his gut. A lick of panic followed. Then Zoe pressed her head to his shoulder, and as quickly as it had come, the burn, the fear, the panic…vanished. The clench low in his abdomen released. Everything, just…gone.

Taft waited, sure it would be back. This kind of clinginess always made him claustrophobic. Reminded him of how his mother had depended on him from the age of five for everything, from getting to the toilet to getting her social security check. He’d subsequently hated the way any women seemed to latch on if he dated or slept with them more than three or four times.

But as Zoe continued to chat with Picasso, he relaxed in her presence. The long she held on to him, the long he wanted her to hold on. In fact, in the last twelve hours, he’d found himself wishing Zoe would lean on him more. Want him more. Need him more.

“I’ve made your boyfriend an offer I hope you’ll seriously consider.” Picasso pulled a business-card-size piece of paper from his pocket and slipped the corner into the edge of her bra, peeking out from beneath the turquoise sheath. “You can reach me at this number for the next twenty-four hours. I sincerely hope you will.”

ZOE’S BREATHING had almost returned to normal, but it picked up again as confusion raced through her brain. Picasso walked toward the door with Cantos, Vasquez, and the three gorillas surrounding him like he was the freaking president of the United States.

She snatched the card from her bra and frowned up at Taft. “Walker, he’s
leaving
.”

He had a look on his face she’d never seen. Beyond angry, annoyed, or confused, something gnawed at him. He gripped her wrist and pulled it from his waist. “I have to help with these customers.”

He pivoted toward the register and the growing line. The store buzzed with more activity than it had since she’d been there, and she’d just come off a high of performing pretty damn well…considering. Pole dancing also had the side effect of leaving her wildly sexually aroused, and she’d been ready to take Taft in the back room for a quick ride, which, of course, she couldn’t.

She pulled on his arm. “Walker,” she said, keeping her voice low. His gaze met hers with a warning light. Fuck that. “What offer?”

He surprised her by putting one hand to her face in a gesture far too tender for his exterior mood. His thumb skimmed her cheek. “We’ll talk about it when everyone’s gone.” He lowered his lips to hers for a quick, chaste kiss, but when he looked into her eyes again, his gaze was just as troubled as it had been a moment ago. “You were… I don’t even have words, Brooks. I thought I was impressed
before
your show. Now I’m just…in awe.”

He kissed her forehead and walked away.

Zoe’s heart floated high in her chest and clogged her throat. Her eyes stung with the threat of tears. His approval shouldn’t mean so much to her. Not after meeting him just two days ago. She refocused on getting the customers helped and the store shut down.

She locked the door thirty minutes later and was just peering through the glass toward Fumar to see if she could catch sight of Cantos or any of the others when the store lights went out.

Zoe spun, her gaze toward the counter where Taft had been. He moved around the display, his figure shadowed in the dim lights left on in a few cabinets throughout the store for night security.

“You’re ready to leave?” she asked.

“You sound disappointed. Is this place growing on you?”

No,
he
was growing on her, and she didn’t want to go home to an empty house. An empty bed. And think about where he was and what he was doing all night.

He approached her with that amble he sometimes had when he was evaluating the situation and biding his time.

“We still need to talk,” Zoe said.

He stopped close and caressed her cheekbone with his knuckles. “I thought we could do that over dinner, go back to my house. It’s not put together as nice as yours, but…”

A familiar knot tangled in Zoe’s guts. “Walker I…”

“We’re alone,” he said and lowered his hand. “Say my name, Zoe.”

Shit. She hated this part. But the thought of going over to his house, that awkwardness of being in someone else’s space, of filling—or not filling—every minute of time together. Did she go into the refrigerator without asking? Did she ask about those family pictures on the wall? If she didn’t, would he think she was rude? Then there was waking up together, which just about made Zoe cringe. And the whole morning-after thing in the kitchen. Coffee or no coffee? Breakfast or no breakfast? Shower together or separate? The intimacy of it all made her stomach corkscrew.

There was always that remote nagging fear—could he have cameras planted somewhere…? No. The chances were nil.

But Brent had been law enforcement too. Brent had never been tagged as a perv. Brent had been a nice guy.

And Zoe obviously still couldn’t quite trust…

She wanted to let her shoulders sag but lifted her eyes to the ceiling with the dread of it.

“I can see that idea isn’t winning any prizes,” he said.

“I’m not…much of a sleepover kind of girl.” She looked away and dragged her lip between her teeth. “And that sounded really…”

“Honest,” Taft finished for her.

“I was going to say slutty, but I like honest better.”

His mouth tilted up in a sad half grin, and he turned away to stroll around the store, straightening a box here, a display there. “Is it too soon or…are you just not interested at all?”