Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(13)

And now the taxi, tired of waiting for us to argue, abruptly pulls away from the curb and abandons me.

“Hell,” I curse, watching him go. Now it’s just me and Tank. And he’s propositioning me. I think. Maybe he’s just trying to rile me up as payback for acting like an awkward idiot at the party. “You know what? I’m not twenty-one anymore.”

“But wouldn’t you like to be?” he asks in a low voice. “Happy Birthday, by the way. I’m still really good at celebrating.”

I open my mouth to argue when he raises two fingers to his lips and lets fly with a sharp whistle. Another yellow cab pulls an illegal U-turn and stops at the curb. Tank opens the door and steps back, waiting for me.

I’m stuck to the sidewalk, staring at him. Because parts of me really want to be twenty-one again, damn it. My pulse is racing and my skin feels hot. Nobody has made me feel like this in a really long time. Nine years, actually.

“Get in, Bess,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t have to be a big decision.”

Says you. But standing here on the sidewalk gaping at him isn’t a really smart move, either. Anyone leaving Nate’s party might spot us.

So that’s my justification for getting into the cab—it’s better to have this conversation privately. I slide across the seat to make room for Tank. My dress rides up, so I smooth it down primly.

Tank lowers his muscular body onto the seat beside me. “The Marriott at the Brooklyn Bridge, please,” he says to the driver.

And then? He puts a possessive hand on my knee, and gives it a dirty squeeze.

It should feel wrong. But instead it just feels familiar. My breath hitches. Nine years later, and I’m still anticipating his firm grasp and the heat of his skin.

This is a terrible idea, I remind myself. Get out of this cab at the next traffic light. The Marriott is barely a mile away. I probably have less than five minutes to prevent myself from making another big mistake.

My stomach dips as I imagine what might happen when we arrive. It’s been a while since I’ve been with any man. Maybe it would be awkward and terrible between us.

But maybe not.

Spoiler alert: I don’t jump out of the cab.

The driver looks over his shoulder, and then unleashes a torrent of fan-boy ramblings. “Holy fuck! I got Mark Tankiewicz in my cab! You play for Dallas, da?”

“Yessir. Recently.”

“You know my countrymen, Sergei and Igor Petrov?”

“Of course,” Tank says. “Good guys. I was taking care of Sergei’s dogs this summer. He keeps vodka in the freezer that will scramble your brain.”

The cab driver laughs uproariously and demands an autograph.

Tank agrees. He isn’t even looking at me, but his naughty hand slides slowly up my thigh and under my skirt. I hold my breath.

The cab pulls up to the hotel, and Tank’s hand vanishes as the bellhop opens the cab door. Tank pays the cabbie and autographs his newspaper. I’ve almost recovered my wits when Tank hops onto the curb beside me and tucks an arm around my waist.

“Spasiba!” the cabbie calls. “Thank you!”

Tank doesn’t bother responding. He’s following the bellhop into the hotel lobby, tugging me along. He marches me toward the elevator, and the doors part as if he’s commanded them to.

“Well, you have one fan in Brooklyn,” I say, trying for nonchalance.

“Only one?” he asks. Then he takes my face in his hands and gives me a smoldering look.

I gaze back at him in wonder. I’d forgotten how it feels to have Tank’s undivided attention. The heat in his eyes gives me a high like no drink or drug ever will. I stare at him until he says, “The elevator is here, Bess. Get in.”

Jesus. My heart is racing. I have to get a grip. “Look…” I clear my throat as we step inside. The doors slide shut as he punches one of the buttons. “I’m sorry about the party. I’m sorry I implied that I didn’t remember you.”

“Oh I know you remember me.” He smirks. “That was never in doubt.”

Right. “Here’s something you don’t know, though. I remember something you said to me the first night I met you. And I never forgot it.”

“Was it, ‘Oh baby, don’t stop’?”

I’m trying to make a point. So I step forward, squaring my shoulders to his, and look directly into his eyes. “Shut up a second, would you? I’m trying to pay you a compliment.”

His eyes widen.

“That night we met at Sparks, I was new to the city and new at the agency. I read your file before dinner so I could memorize facts, but I didn’t know what the heck I was doing. I was terrified of screwing up. But you sat across the table from me with that fifty-dollar glass of wine in your hand, looking as comfortable as a king…” I can still picture the whole scene like it was yesterday. “And even though I knew you were just a rookie in a strange city, you didn’t show any fear. In fact, you told the whole table that your motto was: ‘What can I get away with?’”

His smile turns wicked. “That sounds like something I would say. Not that I remember saying it.”

“Well, I never forgot. And I’ve been saying it to myself on and off for the last nine years. When I don’t know what to do, or I don’t understand the rules, sometimes it just comes to me. ‘What can we get away with?’ So…” I clear my throat. “Thank you for that.”