For the Bite of It (9 page)

He was lusting after a cop. Who, on the surface, appeared to be an All-American straight cop.

What the fuck was he going to do if John responded? Take a tender moment after sex for a true confession? This was about a bad idea as he’d ever had. He would finish his glass of wine and head home. John probably wasn’t coming anyway.

He hadn’t heard any more from Angelo. But as sure as he knew sugar and frosting went together, he hadn’t heard the last of it. All the more reason to turn tail and run from John Reeder.

He glared into the ruby depths of the liquid in his glass. It wasn’t until someone cleared a throat that he looked up.

He scrambled to his feet, his gaze hungrily raking over John’s well-fitting slacks and polo. Today, his shirt was dark indigo and it brought out the blue depths in his eyes.

“Hi.”
Dio
, was that squeak his voice? He held out his hand, hoping he didn’t have sweaty palms.

“Er…hi.” Just a moment of hesitation before John reached out, his clasp warm and strong, filling Vince’s head with thoughts of that hand on other parts of his body.

Not trusting his voice, he gestured to the empty seat. John pulled his chair out and sat. Vince nodded to the hovering waitress.

She sprang forward and handed John the wine list. “Good evening, sir. Would you like a few minutes or do you want to order your drink?” Her voice low, her fitted white shirt outlining her generous breasts, long blonde hair pulled into a ponytail high on her head, she was a looker. He took heart at the fact that John didn’t react at all.

“Just water to start, thanks.”

“Coming right up.”

Vince raised a brow. “Are you still on the job?”

“What? Oh, the drink? I’m done for the day.”

“Then order a drink. What’s your poison?” He grinned at John. If the misguided
Jurisdictio
had left him with that power, he could have willed John to relax. Instead, all he could do was wish for it.

“Oh hell. Sure. What’re you drinking?”

“Bordeaux.”

John squinted at the wine list in his hand. “Which one?”

“Tour La Roche.”

“That’s pretty dry, huh?”

Vince hid his astonishment. The last thing he had expected was for John to be a wine connoisseur. This was getting better and better.

“It is. I’d say the lower end of the dry scale.”

John nodded. “I’ll have the same,” he told the waitress pointing at Vince’s glass.

“If we’re drinking the same wine, we may as well get a bottle.” Vince nodded at the woman, and she left as her cheery
back in a minute
faded into silence.

John glanced around him, then out the window at the city lights. Vince noticed John’s gaze lighted anywhere but on him.

Okay, awkward silence number one.

“Thanks for—.”

John turned his head and lifted his glass. “Great—”

Vincent chuckled, absurdly happy that John had attempted to make conversation first. “Go ahead.”

“I was just going to comment on the view. I had no idea this restaurant was here.”

Thank God, or you wouldn’t have come.

“Thanks for meeting me here.”

John leaned backed in his chair and shrugged his broad shoulders. “As you said, I had to eat and this looks like a great place. Smells good. It’s usually hectic when we have a murder investigation on-going.”

Vincent didn’t want to get into the case. He wanted to get inside John’s head, find out what made him tick. So he hastened to take the conversation along a different path.

“You seem to know your wines.”

“Well, I like drinking it so I figured I may as well learn more about it. I…” He shook his head as if he’d changed his mind about saying something. “Anyway, about why you called me—what were you dying to tell me?”

The waitress arrived with the bottle of Bordeaux interrupting their conversation. They ordered appetizers and she left.

“Here’s to great company and good wine,” Vince toasted.

John lifted his glass in response.

“So, did you grow up in the area?” Vince wanted to know everything about the man who, with one look, made his cock and balls anticipate what could be.

“All my life. My grandparents run a ranch north of here. We lived in Mesa when I was a kid.”

“Mormon?”

John chuckled. “Yeah, I can see where you’d say that, but no, Catholic.”

“You have any siblings?”

“A brother and a sister.”

“And you’re the oldest?”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“All that serious responsibility. Easy to tell.” Vince chuckled.

John shook his head. “How about you?”

“One brother, younger. And one older sister.”

“Did you always live here?”

“God no.” He had a cover story, one he had worked out with Angelo. “I was born and raised in Italy, then moved to Boston.” They decided that would account for the slight accent he had, not that he couldn’t disguise it, but it would have been difficult.

“I’ve always wanted to hike the Alps and swim in Lake Como.”

Vince smiled.
I would love to chase your naked butt in the water.

“Yes, the town we lived in is on the cusp of the Italian Alps. The land is breathtaking. I have a cabin near there still.”

“So how did you end up here?”

“I was restless, looking for something else to do. And I got tired of the snow.”

Just another lie piled on top of the hundred or so he would tell John.

Vince loved the stark winter landscape of his homeland. Even now, he lived for getting away to his cabin in the Italian Alps, where the sun glinted blindingly on pristine white snow, and the bracing air cooled the heat in his blood.

“So, when the bakery came up for sale, I thought, why not?”

John eyed him with that sharp gaze that seemed to see too much. “So how does a baker afford a cabin in the Italian Alps?”

Vince shrugged. “Family money, that’s how. Nothing I did. Just lucky I guess.”

“You miss living in Boston? It’s different from here.”

He considered that for a moment. If he missed any place, it was Italy. But he’d learned to deal, lemonade from lemons kind of thing. Most of the time.

“Not really. I have friends and the bakery keeps me busy. How about you? Ever wanted to live anywhere else?”

“I tried it. I was on the swim team at UCLA. Hated the crowds, loved the ocean so took up surfing and sailing. Finally, to be near my family and the less hectic lifestyle won out. I attended the Police Academy, and here I am.”

John topped off their glasses and set the empty bottle down with a slight thud.

Vince gestured to the waitress for another bottle. John was nervous. It was there in the telltale tapping of his fingers on the table, the hand swiping his neck despite the air-conditioned chill in the room.

The waitress came back wearing a broad smile. Two bottles of wine and she had high-hopes for a big tip. Vince ordered the scallop special while John went for the prime rib.

“How would you like your prime rib done?”

“Very rare.”

Vince winced at John’s request. He’d have to avoid glancing at his plate. The smell alone might be enough to cause his fangs to protrude. Never had he had so little control over his urges. Had to be the combination of stress and not feeding enough.

Their conversation seemed to be going nowhere and everywhere. Slowly, Vince formed a picture of John and his life.

John loved football. Of course. His family wanted him to get married. Of course. But did John? Vince hoped John didn’t notice his own lack of details about his life. But who was he kidding? The man across from him was a cop, and a good one.

As John leaned back in his chair relaxing, his face lost its rigid lines. Vince tossed out a few more tidbits about his life. That he tolerated football—almost—loved creating flavorful but interesting cupcakes but hated thinking up clever names; swimming kept him in shape. He smiled, for the love of water was one thing they had in common. Oh, and he played the piano, although he did it for himself not at performance level.

It wasn’t like him to divulge even this much. He could have let the conversation veer toward football and work, but he wanted John to know him. At least the innocuous details he could reveal. Something about seeing the tiny life in the crib that had been in Vince’s family for centuries had him hankering for connection with another person. Even if that person was human.

He was even more convinced John liked men,
really
liked. He might be in the closet but he was as gay as they came.

The furtive glances checking him out when he thought Vince wasn’t looking; his gaze honing in again and again on Vince’s lips—all tell-tale signs that the boy liked boys.

The evening passed in a haze of pleasant conversation and that two-step dance as attraction progressed. They started on their second bottle of wine. He couldn’t have described the food if his life depended on it. Lust flickered then caught fire, fanned to a simmer by word plays laden with innuendo, by brushing fingers as they passed each other bread or salad, by veiled once-overs that spiked desire back and forth.

“Would you like dessert?” The waitress handed them each a one page menu with scrolled print.

Vince studied John’s eager expression as he read the list of choices. The man had a sweet tooth. He’d remember this next time John came into the bakery. Maybe he could entice him with a special cupcake; oh, therein lay endless possibilities.

John ordered the chocolate torte. Vince passed on dessert, opting for an espresso.

When John licked the last of the icing off his spoon, further torturing Vince with that wily tongue, his blood rolled to a boil and his erection threatened to make walking difficult. He chugged ice water to cool off and suggested they leave.

John’s brows rose in surprise. Maybe he wasn’t ready to exit the restaurant but Vince had every intention of ending the night with his arms wrapped around John’s hard body. And very soon. But he didn’t think it was wise to tell John.

To Vince’s immediate excitement, it was obvious John had drunk just enough to make driving out the question. Brushing aside John’s insistence on calling a cab, he asked the owner if they could leave John’s car outside the restaurant. He also murmured a question about the bill, hoping to slip his credit card to Dominic discreetly, wanting to avoid an argument with John about payment.

“Of course, take care of it later,
cara mia
. You take that boy home and keep him safe,” crooned Dominic, with an exaggerated accent and much waggling of the eyebrows. He was an old friend of Angelo’s and he knew where to find Vince.

Vince was too content to let Dominic’s teasing irritate him. Giving Dominic a wide grin in response, he guided John to his convertible.

“Top up or down?” he asked his hand on the control.

“Down,” said John, after thinking about it for a moment. “Definitely down.”

Vince thought his mouth might split if he grinned any wider. They buckled themselves in and John leaned back in his seat, his hands laced around the back of his head, his face lifted to the wind. Vince called on all his will power to keep his concentration on the road, and not pull over and kiss that upturned face.

Twenty minutes later, John directed Vince into a quiet cul-de-sac off Mill Avenue, lined with low-rise condos. “It’s the last one on the right.”

Vince parked by the curb and hit the button to close the top. Above the soft whirring of the machinery, he heard John thank him.

“No worries. You want a ride in the morning to pick up your car?”

“Nah, I’ll get a ride from someone at the station.” He spread his hands in a shrug, seemingly nonplussed. “So, thanks again. That’s my place.” He pointed to a six-story brick building and Vince assumed he meant a condo on the upper level.

“I’ll walk up with you. You know, just make sure you make it okay. That it’s safe.”

In the light of the streetlamp, John shook his head as his mouth quirked in a smile. “I’m a cop. I can handle it if someone mugs me in the hall.”

“I know.”

“I don’t need you to see me safely to my door like some goddamn date.”

“I know.” Vince smiled, letting his desire show openly on his face.

“You’re not going to go away quietly are you?”

“No.”

John slid out of the vehicle and closed the door, Vince following him, clicking the remote to lock the car. They strode up the narrow sidewalk, bumping shoulders.

“Just don’t do anything until we’re inside, all right?”

Oh, his scared, closeted detective! It might kill him not to reach out for John but he would do it. His lust was at fever pitch while John unlocked his door. Shouldering in behind John, he kicked the door shut with his heel. John turned to face him just as Vince stepped forward. Their bodies met in a rush, heat rising between them, as their erect cocks pressed into each other.

“John.” Vince dragged the word out, burying his face in John’s neck. He licked the clean tang of man and sweat, running his hands down John’s back, all hard planes and angles, cupping his palms around that tight sweet ass, pulling him tighter against his aching dick.

“Jesus—” John’s speech cut off as he angled his neck sideways to accommodate Vince’s nuzzling mouth.

How had he ended up in his apartment and in Vincent’s embrace?

Vincent.

Male and hard.

Slender muscles and sharp planes.

He liked it, liked the masculine smell emanating off the man, liked Vincent’s strength and restless sexual hunger. It never felt this righteous.

With a spinning head, he broke his cardinal rule. He grabbed Vincent’s face and kissed those sensuous lips. He wanted more. Parting his lips, he allowed Vincent’s tongue to invade his mouth, a shock of a sharp taste hitting the back of his throat. Lips soft but firm, and experienced. Kissing a guy, this guy, felt damn good. He wished he’d known how good.

“So you know now,
amante?”
drawled Vincent, his tone teasing, as his lips nibbled John’s. “I’m not complaining.”

“Know what?” mumbled John.

“Kissing.”

Oh, hell! How did Vincent know he never kissed? He tried to push away to ask him but Vincent swept in closer, bumping him back against the wall.