Rule's Addiction(29)

Garrett slammed out of the hotel and got into his rental, a black Cadillac Escalade. He put it in reverse and spun the wheels, the burn of rubber against asphalt sending an admittedly immature satisfaction coiling through him. As he tooled down the streets of Miami, he knew something was going to have to give and damn soon. He literally couldn’t keep up with what he was doing for much longer.

She was going to have to give in. . . or he was going to have to give up and leave, just as she’d vociferously told him not five minutes before.

But how could he leave without fucking her first? He wouldn’t be able to forget . . . he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind when she had only been a voice in his head. And now . . . hell, no. He couldn’t just leave. It wouldn’t work. His need for her was too strong. And on top of all that, after getting to know her, it was more than just her voice and her exotic good looks. It was the goddamn way she sighed when she was tired . . . it was the way she twisted her neck when she’d been at the computer too long . . . it was the way she smiled when she was pleased about something.

No, he wouldn’t leave. Fuck that shit. He couldn’t leave until this was finished. The orgasm he’d given her the night before would fuck with his brain for the rest of his life if he couldn’t find a way to have her. With a new determination, he braked and then turned around, heading back toward the hotel.

And if he still wanted her even after he’d accomplished his ultimate goal of getting her into bed?

He shook off the thought. He’d worry about that when the time came.











At six that evening, Maria walked into the restaurant bar area where a complimentary happy hour was served every evening from five until eight. It was her habit to pop her head in to make sure that there was at least a bartender in attendance, and then she’d usually leave.

Tonight, however, Luis Calderon and a couple of other guys from their party were sitting at a bar table and motioning her over toward them.

With an unsettling feeling in her stomach that was telling her she was damn glad that Garrett was nowhere in sight, she strolled over to them, her high heels clicking on the brand new porcelain tile. Standing next to the table, she smiled. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

Luis pushed out a bar chair for her. “Hey, hon. What’ll you have?” he asked as he switched to Spanish, introducing her to the Hispanic men he was with before motioning to the waiter who was making rounds.

Maria smiled at the men in greeting, and as she sat in the chair, she made eye contact with Mario, the server in attendance. He watched her carefully in return. The two of them had been through this drill more times than she could count and they had it down pat. “I’d love a Crown and Diet Coke,” she said, and then she lifted her hand, holding her finger and thumb only slightly apart. “But make it light, okay, Mario?”

The word light together with her hand motion was a secret signal that she’d perfected with the waiters and bartenders long ago. It meant that she wanted a Diet Coke only, but both she and the employees pretended she was drinking alcohol, usually because one guest or another expected it of her, and she always tried to please her guests if she could. She wasn’t a teetotaler by any means, but she didn’t care to drink every night and the small deception had never hurt anyone; her drinks were certainly never added to anyone’s tab.

A few moments later, she had a Diet Coke served in a highball glass garnished with a lime wedge. She thanked Mario, and he gave her a small, conspiratorial smile in return before he turned to leave. Taking a moment to squeeze the lime into her drink, she felt Luis’s arm slide behind her seat. He wasn’t touching her person, only her chair, so she pretended his arm wasn’t there as she turned to all three men and began an animated conversation in fluent Spanish about nothing in particular.

Some ten minutes later, Luis’s arm was still hanging on to the back of her seat, and she’d finished maybe half of her drink, when she happened to glance across the room. Her eyes clashed forcefully with Garrett’s as he stood in the threshold watching her, a storm brewing on his features.

He was wearing blue jeans, boots, and a tight black t-shirt that molded his chest, abs and biceps. He looked literally good enough to eat, and the territorial look in his eyes was both alarming her and doing a number on her femininity. Her stomach twisted in knots and her fingers grew clumsy, so she set her drink down before she spilt it.

Garrett’s eyes left hers and lazered in on the arm behind her chair, before moving to study the man next to her. He walked about halfway to the table where she was sitting before coming to a halt. His gaze came back to her, his lips flattened in a distinctive line of displeasure, and he tilted his head with a jerk, calling her to his side without so much as a single word.