Royal McBride's going to ask me to marry him.
And I'm going to say no.
This is not going to go over very well.
I make it back in time to catch Royal before the newspaper shoot.
He's waiting in the parking lot, still straddling his bike and smoking a cigarette. Even in the ugly gray light from above, his tattoos gleam, arm muscles standing at sharp attention. It's criminal the way his leather vest drapes over those broad shoulders, the way his jeans stretch tight against his heavily muscled thighs.
I stifle a tidal wave of lust and pause for a moment to gather myself, surveying the parking lot for the FBI agents' rental car. Thankfully, it isn't there. Across the pavement from Royal a reporter and a woman with a camera figure out the best angle to catch what little sunlight there is while still managing to get the ocean in the shot. I wish them luck.
“How did it go?” The words burst from my mouth as I click across the cement in my cream colored suede booties. They're about a million times more comfortable than those heels from yesterday and a far cry from the conservative kitten heels I usually wear.
I get close to Royal to keep us from being overheard, but it ends up being too close because I can smell him now, the way he's this intriguing mixture of wild earth and urban decay, like oil and leather and denim. I can feel the heat from his body, too, cutting right through the thin cotton fabric of the front of my jumpsuit. My nipples pebble and harden and my thighs clench tight to fight back a wash of warmth.
Royal knows it and grins, but the expression doesn't reach the dark brown of his eyes.
“Those agents, they're not just wet behind the ears extras dispatched to check on the suicide. They're the leads on the FBI's investigation into the Saldaña Cartel.” Royal sighs and for a second there, he looks tired, stretched thin. His grin fades away as he runs a hand over his face. “I'll tell you the rest later,” he adds, lifting his chin up and waving at someone behind me. A quick glance over my shoulder shows me it's Sketch, moving away from his bike to sit on a bench next to the front doors of the office. “But first, we've got to get through this crap. I hate to say it, Pint-Size, but your little agreement between the Wolves and the city, it might just keep our asses afloat, at least until we figure this out.”
“My dad knows,” I tell him, biting back the urge to blurt out what Glinda told me. Here, now, in the parking lot outside my father's office, is not the time or place for that. “When Royal asks you to marry him tomorrow, you gonna say yes, sugar?” A shiver traces down my spine as I recall her words. “About us. Sully told him.”
“Fuck, I really do hate your brother, you know that?” I make myself smile as Royal and I stare at each other, and I take in the clean lines of his face, freshly shaved and ready to go for the shoot. His hair is slightly damp, making me think he must've stopped at home after the police station to shower. The rose tattoo on his neck is just barely visible against the white of his t-shirt, the words Alpha Wolves MC, Trinidad CA on the front in red. It makes the black leather of his cut stand out, the clean design on the shirt like a backdrop to highlight the patch above his pocket that says President.
Good lord, the man is hot.
I make myself take a deep breath.
“My dad is nothing if not a professional, but I just thought I would warn you. At some point, he's going to tell my mother and then everything's going to go to shit.” I take a deep breath and slide my fingers through my hair, still a little weirded out by the length. “Oh, and I saw Glinda while I was getting coffee this morning.”
“The Good Witch?” Royal asks, and I laugh since I had the exact same thought.
“She really does look like Billie Burke, doesn't she?”
“Who the bloody hell is that?” Royal asks as he drops his cigarette to the ground and crushes it with his black leather boots. When he swings his left leg over the bike and rises to his full height in from of me, I have a little trouble catching my breath. This morning, even though I was still pissed at him, we almost had sex. I can't resist the man. Seriously. It's like a physical compulsion or maybe an evil British spell, cast by the sound of his accent.
I force myself to swallow past the dryness in my throat, and act nonchalant.
“Billie Burke. The actress that played Glinda in the original movie, The Wizard of Oz.”
Royal smiles at me and I notice his tattooed hands curling into fists at his sides. He wants to touch me as much as I want to touch him.
I take a step back and he frowns.
“What did Glinda want?” he asks, feigning casual. But his muscles are too tight, shoulders too stiff. This is important.
“I basically implied she was a moron for instigating that attack on me. She fired back some zingers, and then I threatened to shoot Mia in the foot and make her disappear from the compound permanently.”