Forbidden To Taste. JC Harroway
of my blouse has already become transparent.
‘Well, you have my attention.’ His eyes narrow, as if he finds my bullshit decidedly suspect. ‘And what type does she look like?’
Why would he care what I think of his date? Or perhaps she’s his girlfriend. It would be a first for him, but then what do I know? This man is a virtual stranger—despite all the years we’ve known each other. And would he leave a girlfriend to chase after a woman he barely tolerates and hasn’t seen for years?
‘She looks like your type, Drake. Sorry for the interruption. Goodnight.’ My tight smile sticks on my frozen face as I spin away. But then I’m brought to a halt by the touch of his hand on my arm.
‘For fuck’s sake—you can’t just leave like this.’ He peers down at me, his irritation lessened but still brooking no argument. ‘Not until you explain what’s going on.’ He drops my arm, pinning me in place with the force of his intense stare alone.
I tilt my chin, my humiliation already complete. ‘It was a stupid long shot. I should have remembered that you owe me nothing.’ Absence, it seems, doesn’t make this man’s heart fonder. I cross my arms and grip my elbows in an attempt to conserve some heat and hold myself together.
‘Explain. What was a long shot? And why did you run out?’ He waits, his jaw tight and his breath whitening the air as his order echoes in the alleyway.
I press my lips together. I’ve nothing left to lose. I came here determined to seize the day but, now I’m face to face with this somehow different but equally stand-offish Drake, I’m not sure I want to expose myself or justify my fragile fledging dreams to his cool indifference. If he’d treated me to one whiff of welcome, a hint of pleasure at my appearance, perhaps I’d find the extra courage.
When my teeth rattle he sighs as if abandoning his search for answers, shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it around my juddering shoulders.
‘Thank you.’ I look down, too cold to protest, and tug the lapels across my chest. And then I’m hit with his scent, a waft from the fabric, a heady cloud of deliciousness that’s foreign and yet vaguely familiar.
I look up, my breath caught in my throat. We’ve never stepped this close before. A rare, awkward, one-armed hug constitutes the sum of our physical contact.
But he doesn’t back away.
‘You’re welcome.’ His voice drops, low enough to sound seductive to my rusty eardrums, although the remnants of the scowl linger behind his eyes.
I roll back on my heels, my frozen toes protesting at the surge of blood with a vicious throb. I should abandon the fight. Walk away from further explanation. But my feet have forgotten the way. I’m frozen with indecision, clinging to the lip of my coveted new life. Not a great position for a woman on an audacious mission...
In a last-ditch attempt to save myself the shame of exposure, I toss out, ‘You know it’s rude to keep a woman waiting, right?’ Since when did fleeing the effect his stare has on my pulse trump talking my way into a life-changing opportunity?
He grins a humourless grin and looks away, shaking his head as if he can’t believe my obstinacy. And yet here we are, his evening in tatters, my plan abandoned, standing in the rain at a stalemate.
‘Come back inside. We’ll talk in the warm.’ He scoops up my elbow in one of his big hands and directs my stiff form towards the kitchen’s entrance.
I dig in my heels, heart hammering. The last thing I want is to return to the scene of the crime. To explain my sad, lonely, unemployed status to both loved-up couples... But I’m too cold, damp and bone-weary to put up much of a fight beyond backtracking.
‘Look. I’ll call you tomorrow. Explain everything then. That’s probably what I should have done in the first place,’ I wheedle. Yeah, that would have been a better plan. Why didn’t I think of it sooner? ‘Go. Enjoy what’s left of your evening.’
He sighs, casting me a withering look. ‘I sent her home. I sent them all home.’
I gasp. ‘Why?’ A stupid flare of hope flickers in my chest, gooey and warming.
‘Because dinner’s over and I want to hear your explanation.’ He pauses on the top step and I want to look away from his semi-transparent shirt, which clings to the defined muscle he hasn’t lost since leaving the army.
He wants to hear my sob story—isn’t that why I came?
Of course, now my elevated heart rate and clammy palms have less to do with nerves or humiliation and more to do with hormones. Because his hand on my elbow, even through two layers of fabric, is deliciously alien enough to remind me I’m a woman.
A woman on a mission to reclaim her life.
All areas of her life...?
I bite my lip, stifling a groan. His innocent, non-sexual touch—strong, in control, commanding—is that good. Because it’s been three long years, and something about Drake—his confidence, the control he wears like the discipline of the soldier he was—it’s sparked my long-dormant body to life.
I slide my arm free of his hand, my fickle stomach rolling at my traitorous turn of thought, and he keys in the entry code on the panel beside the door.
The breath judders into me, delivering another dose of warm, Drake-scented air from his jacket. But there’s no margin for whimsical flights of sexual fancy here. I’m here for a job, and he’d never think of me in that way.
He’s Sam’s best friend.
Sam, my dead husband.
I swallow acid. I’m simply overwhelmed, my body’s reaction to his dismantling looks and his warm touch a product of too long without any sort of male contact. Or perhaps I can blame the stress of formulating and then executing my plan, the chance of new purpose in my life now my sister is grown.
The electronic click sounds and he swings the door inwards. ‘Let’s get you inside.’ His stare slides over my face and then dips lower, taking in my sodden clothes. ‘Get you warmed up. And then we’ll talk.’ Those green eyes of his penetrate. ‘You’ll talk.’
My belly rolls again, bossy, commanding Drake not something I’ve ever experienced. That it warms me more than irritates makes me snappy. ‘Huh? What is this, an interrogation? Gonna shove bamboo skewers under my fingernails? You’re not in the army now.’ My petulance forces heat to my stinging cheeks. I need to get a grip before I blow this chance to smithereens. The ultimate in self-sabotage.
‘Yes, but I still have the moves.’ Drake smiles, an unguarded twitch of his lips an expression I’ve rarely seen directed my way.
My breath turns to thick syrup. Is he...flirting?
The flare of warmth in his eyes and the mischievous twist to his full mouth thrusts my neglected body into meltdown. I expect a cloud of steam to start rising from my head.
He holds the door open, the welcoming light and warmth beckoning. ‘It’s your call, but we can do this in comfort or out here where it’s pissing down.’ A shrug. ‘I’m happy with either.’
He waits, as if he has all the time in the world. As if he’s immune to the sub-zero drizzle. As if he’s still used to the discomfort and discipline of the army.
Now I’m not certain if the shivers racking my body are temperature-related or a tug of war between my conflicted urges—to run from his dark, unfathomable looks or to follow him and prolong the conversation, which is already our longest and most addictive.
I step inside, dragging my attention from the wet shirt plastered to the contours of his chest. I shouldn’t find this man in any way attractive. He doesn’t need me, would never want me, and just acknowledging his good looks and the effect they have on my only-human pulse floods my throat with the bitter taste of betrayal.
But Sam’s not here. I’m