Hard Rules (Dirty Money #1)(13)

“Hey. It’s better than nothing, and like I said, my pay was spectacular.”

“What did you do back in Los Angeles?”

“I was a paralegal chasing a bigger dream,” I confess, and there is at least some truth to the statement, but here comes the lie. “Every time I thought I’d make it to law school, I hit a bump in the road.”

“And yet you took a job that wasn’t leading you to law school at all.”

“I did,” I say, not having it in me to say more.

His eyes search mine, probing and far too aware. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven. And you?”

“Thirty-two. Do you have family or friends in Denver?”

I twirl the base of my glass. “No family or friends.”

“You moved here with nothing but a job?”

Not by choice, I think, but I say, “Just ambition.”

“I’m impressed.”

“I don’t have a job,” I remind him, wishing I deserved the admiration I see in his eyes.

“Anyone who dares to do what you have will come out on top. That takes balls very few men or women possess.”

I grab an opening to turn the conversation back to him. “And you do?”

“Yes. I do.” His reply is quick, but he is quick to turn the conversation back to me. “Aren’t you just a little tempted to go back home?”

Home. I almost laugh at that word. “This is where I live now.”

“Surely leaving has crossed your mind,” he presses.

“No, actually. It didn’t and it won’t.” I cut my gaze reaching for my wine, stunned when he catches my wrist before I succeed. I try not to look at him, but somehow I find myself captured in his far too astute stare. “You’re alone,” he states.

“I’m with you,” I say, cringing inwardly at the obvious, nervously spoken statement so ridiculous that I’ve invited further probing.

His hand curls around mine and he drags it to his knee, and the way he’s looking at me, like the rest of the room, no, the rest of the world, doesn’t exist, steals my breath. I haven’t allowed anyone to really look at me in a very long time.

“Emily,” he says, doing whatever he does to turn my name into a sin that seduces rather than destroys me.

“Shane,” I manage, but just barely.

“Did you say yes to dinner because you didn’t want to be alone?”

I am not sure where he is going with this, if it’s about reading me or if he needs validation that I am here for him, so I give him both. “I like being alone,” I say, and on some level, it really is true. “I said yes to dinner because you are the one who asked.” My lips curve. “Actually you barely asked. You mostly ordered.”

“I couldn’t let you say no.”

“I’m actually really glad you didn’t.”

“And yet you say you like being alone?”

“It’s simple and without complication.”

“Spoken like someone who’s lived the opposite side of the coin.”

“Haven’t we all?”

“Who burned you, Emily?”

I blanch but recover with a quick, “Who says anyone burned me?”

“I see it in your eyes.”

“Back to my eyes,” I say.

“Yes. Back to your eyes.”

“Stop looking.”

“I can’t.”

Those two words sizzle, matching the heat in his eyes, and my throat goes dry. “Then stop asking so many questions.”

He reaches up, brushing hair behind my ear, his fingers grazing my cheek, and suddenly he is closer, his breath a tease on my cheek, his fingers settling on my jaw. “What if I want to know more about you?”

“What if I don’t want to talk?”

“Are you suggesting I shut up and kiss you?”

Yes, I think. Please. But instead I say, “I don’t know. I haven’t interviewed you as you have me. I know nothing about you. I want to know if you—”

He leans in, and then his lips are on mine, a caress, a tease, that is there and gone, and yet I am rocked to the core, a wave of warmth sliding down my neck and over my breasts. He lingers, his breath fanning my lips, promising another touch I both need and want, as he asks, “You want to know if I what?”

Everything. “Nothing.”

“The food has arrived,” our waitress announces, and I jolt, tugging my hand from Shane’s and feeling like a busted schoolgirl and bringing attention to myself I don’t need or want.

“Here you go,” our waitress announces, setting a plate in front of me, the scent of butter and spices teasing my nose, but I am suddenly no longer hungry. In fact, I feel a little queasy. Noting the way the waitress has set her stand in front of Shane’s side of the table, I grab my purse and round the seat opposite him and murmur, “I’m going to the ‘room.” I don’t look at him but I feel him watching me, willing me back to my seat, while he remains somewhat, thankfully, trapped.

“In the back of the main dining room,” the waitress calls after me.

“Thank you,” I murmur, pretty sure it’s not loud enough to be heard, already almost to the bar exit. I pass the leather wall and I stop, my gaze landing on the front door and an easy escape.