Accidentally on Purpose (Heartbreaker Bay #3)(9)

“Me doing my job,” she said in a duh voice.

“Since when is dirty dancing with a felon your job?”

She narrowed her fierce eyes. “You told me to get close to him. You told me to ID him and then keep him distracted, whatever it takes.”

“Okay, no,” he said. “I absolutely did not say whatever it takes.”

She glared up at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Her voice was ice.

“Oh boy,” Joe muttered in Archer’s ear. “When a woman says ‘nothing’ in that tone, it most definitely means something and you should be wearing a cup to finish that conversation. Just sayin’.”

Archer put a finger to his eye before it twitched right out of his head. “I told you to make your exit,” he said to Elle with what he thought was remarkable calm while ignoring Joe, who was a dead man walking anyway. “When I tell you something, Elle, I expect you to listen.”

He heard a collective sucking in of air through his comms and ignored that too.

“Wow,” Elle finally said.

“Okay,” Max piped up. “I have a girlfriend now so I know this one. When Rory says ‘wow’ like that, it’s not a compliment. It means she’s thinking long and hard on how and when I’ll pay for my stupidity.”

“Agreed,” Joe said. “She’s simply expressing amazement that a man can be such an idiot. Abort mission, boss. I repeat. Abort. Mission.”

Shit. Archer ripped out his earpiece and then did the same to Elle’s, stuffing both in his pocket.

She shrugged and walked away, leaving him on the dance floor. Watching her go, an odd feeling cranked over in his chest. Irritation, he decided. Frustration. The woman got to him like no one else.

And yet he’d kept tabs on her, watching her back. He couldn’t explain why, but apparently old habits died hard.

Did she ever think about that night? She’d never made a single reference to it, not once. And he’d never brought it up, not wanting to bring her back to a bad place.

When he walked off the dance floor and headed toward the bar, she was there, right there, picking up the wrap she’d left. Something fell from it and hit the floor.

They both crouched low at the same time but Archer beat her to it. When he realized what he held, he lifted his head and stared at her in shock.

It was the small pocket knife he’d given her all those years ago.

Which meant she did think about that night.





Chapter 3





#TrainWreck



Elle made a move to snatch the knife from Archer’s fingers but the bastard held firm. She started a tug-of-war with him before remembering that she no longer let anyone see her sweat and forced herself to go still.

Not that Archer let go. “You still have it,” he said, a whisper of surprise in his voice.

The equivalent of a full-on double take from the man who was all but impossible to shock.

And yes, of course she still had the knife. Did he really think she wouldn’t? She didn’t blush very often but she felt heat rush to her face now. Regret, partly.

Mostly full-blown mortification.

She’d very carefully taught herself to be strong and confident and to never look back.

Ever.

Sentimentality didn’t have a place in her life. Or so she told herself. So why then had she been carrying the small pocket knife Archer had given her the night he’d saved her all those years ago? Especially since the thought of how she’d tried to repay him—and God, the humility of how she’d actually offered him the only thing she’d had, that being her body, which he’d turned down flat—still made her face flame. The worst part had been when he’d vanished like it’d been nothing to him, when to her it’d been everything.

She might not know why he’d done what he had but she still wasn’t leaving here without that knife. It was a badge. A reminder of who she’d been and who she was now.

Neither of them had moved. Around them the night life in the pub went on. Laughter, conversations, more dancing . . . all oblivious to this tight, little cocoon of just the two of them crouched in front of the bar. They might as well have been completely alone for all the attention anyone paid them.

Balanced with apparent ease on the balls of his feet, Archer leaned in even closer if that was possible, close enough that his knees touched hers. Close enough that she could see every single gold spec in his hazel eyes. Every single black-as-ink eyelash framing those eyes. He was hours past a five o’clock shadow and a muscle ticked in his square jaw.

A rare tell from a man who could be a stone when he wanted.

The rest of him was as big and bad and intimidating as ever. His large body blocked out everything behind him and although he could be terrifyingly scary when he wanted to be, he never was with her. With her he was careful. Cautious.

Distant.

And she hated that most of all.

This time when she tried to tug the knife from his long fingers, he let her. Rising, she stared down at him. “We done here?”

He rose to his feet too. And just looked at her.

“Well?” she asked.

“We’re never done,” he said.

No kidding. But since she had no witty retort for him, she turned on her heel and headed for the doors. She pushed out into the blissfully cool night and strode across the courtyard, which was lit with strings of tiny, beautiful white lights threaded across the shops and small trees that lined the way. San Francisco in February could be just about anything: icy, wet, powder dry, even warm . . . Tonight the sky was a blanket of black velvet, scattered with diamonds. The air was cold and crisp, and it showed in the white puffy clouds she exhaled, hoping for some inner calm.