Rock Chick Renegade (Rock Chick #4)(40)

His head dropped again and he ran his tongue across my lower lip.

I stopped breathing.

“I like it,” he said low and he moved back a fraction and looked at my body then up to my eyes. “I like all of it.” Then he came in close again and his face did the same. “You look good, you taste good.” His mouth came closer and his eyes stared into mine. “I bet other places taste even better.”

Oh my God.

The good butterflies started to beat the shit out of the bad butterflies.

I pulled back a bit. “I’m sorry about the tequila. I had some friends over…” I partially lied, not about to impart the information on him that I needed liquid courage for our date.

“Jules, people drink. I don’t. Don’t worry about it,” he said like he wasn’t worried about it at all.

“Okay,” I replied softly.

Then he did something strange. His hand lifted and he ran his fingers through my hair at the side of my head all the way down the back. Then he pulled some over my shoulder and started to play with it, twisting one of Indy’s curls around his fingers just above my breast all the while he watched his hand as if his mind was somewhere else.

It felt nice. It sent tingles along my scalp and skin, sexy tingles but something else too, something warmer, sweeter.

“Vance?”

His eyes came to mine and I realized his mind was not somewhere else.

I swallowed.

Then I asked, “Are we going out or what?”

He grinned, his fingers still playing with my hair and I could feel the heat from his hand on my chest.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Shouldn’t we, like, go?” I went on.

He kept grinning. “Yeah,” he repeated.

I waited. He didn’t move.

“Well, are we gonna go?” I asked.

“You got a jacket? We’re on the Harley.”

My stomach fluttered, not butterflies, just excitement. I loved motorcycles.

His forcefield intensified when he caught sight of my obvious excitement and he moved in so our bodies were now touching.

“You like bikes?” he asked.

I nodded, trying to be cool (but probably failing).

“You got a jacket?” he repeated.

I nodded again.

He grabbed my hand and moved away.

“Let’s go,” he said.

* * * * *

He took me to The Broker Restaurant.

I’d been there only once before. Nick had taken me there for my sixteenth birthday.

The Broker had been around for years, a fancy restaurant built into the bank vault in the basement of the old Denver National Bank building. You even had to walk through the cage and round steel door of the old vault to get into the seating area. It had burgundy leather, button-backed booths and rich cream tablecloths and napkins. They gave you a big bowl of huge steamed shrimp as a complimentary appetizer.

I was pleased that I was wearing something nice. One didn’t do jeans at The Broker, unless one was Vance Crowe who looked in jeans like most men looked in a tuxedo.

We were shown to a half-oval booth. I stared at it and bit my lip. This meant we’d be sitting side-by-side and I wasn’t sure this was a good thing.

I didn’t say anything and slid in. Vance came in after me and settled, arm along the back of the booth behind me. I leaned forward, slipped off my blazer style black leather jacket and threw it to the side of me with my purse and kept my body forward, the better to stay out of reach.

The waiter asked what we wanted to drink. I wanted tequila neat with a side of Valium and a time machine that took me back to that moment when I shot out Sal Cordova’s tires so I could rethink my actions.

I ordered a cosmopolitan.

“Sir?” the waiter asked, his glance going to Crowe.

Vance didn’t reply. I looked over my shoulder at him. His eyes were looking down and toward my bottom. I glanced around, saw my skin exposed, my torso shot straight and I leaned back against the seat.

Fuck.

Vance’s eyes came to mine. They were soft and sexy and a little amused.

His look scored one for the good butterflies.

Then his gaze moved slowly to the waiter. “Cranberry juice.”

The waiter nodded and walked away.

Vance turned back to me. I snatched my napkin out of the wine glass and arranged it on my knee with obsessive attention to its placement and smoothness.

“Jules.”

“Mm?” I asked, still smoothing at my napkin.

“Jules.”

I looked at him.

“Relax. I’m not going to tear your clothes off in a booth at a steak joint.”

I stared at him.

The Broker Restaurant was hardly a “steak joint”. It was a well-established, highly-rated gourmet restaurant. They had more than just steak, they had fish and lamb and pasta too.

And complimentary steamed shrimp. No one gave you complimentary steamed shrimp. They weren’t rinky-dink shrimp either. They were the good shrimp, the big meaty ones.

I shook off thoughts of defending The Broker’s greatness. “I came here for my sixteenth birthday,” I told him in an effort to lead the conversation away from tearing my clothes off.

He got closer and gave the impression he was supremely interested in this trivial comment. I didn’t realize that it was the first time I’d shared anything personal with him that he hadn’t had to force out of me.