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He wants to know me. I want to know him. Instead, I say, “I told you. Now is not a good time.”
“Now is exactly the right time. Do you want to know me?”
“I don’t know if I can trust you.”
He studies me a long moment, his eyes never leaving my face. “I work for Walker Security. Check us out.” He picks up a pen and scribbles information on the napkin. “That’s us,” he says, sliding the napkin in front of me. “I gave you our company name and Blake Walker’s number. He’s one of the founding brothers and my direct boss. He’ll be easy to check out. He’s widely respected, even as high up as the White House.”
“White House?” I ask, ever so curious now. “What exactly does Walker do?”
“We handle protection, recovery, even airport security, and supplement law enforcement investigations at all levels. Check the references.”
“Even if I do, and they’re all wonderful, that doesn’t mean you, or people around you, can’t be bought.”
He tilts his head, and quite astutely says, “You think someone close to you is dirty?”
“The defendant loves to turn good people into bad people, including law enforcement. Witnesses in protective custody have died. Others are running scared. What do you think?”
“And you think you’re a target?”
“An FBI agent told me to watch my back because I could be a target today. So yes, I do.”
“I’m ex-FBI. That doesn’t mean you’re a target. It could be a power trip. It could be pure caution. If there was a real threat, you’d be under protective custody. What does the DA say?”
“He says to win the battle. We have to win. And I don’t disagree. It’s the King Devil of the Devils biker club. He’s bad, really bad. Evil, even.”
He studies me a moment, no perceivable reaction as I might expect. In fact, all he says is, “Are you going to make him pay?”
“Yes,” I say, firming my words, wanting to convince us both. “I am.”
Approval lights his eyes, and his mouth, which has been on my mouth, curves. “Then let’s eat a cookie and celebrate.”
“The cookie is for the pre-trial stress. The jury giving him life and a hundred years is a champagne celebration.”
“Well then, it’s a date. Champagne to celebrate.”
A date, I think. That is somehow so much more than a kiss in the bathroom. “I doubt you’ll be around when this is over,” I say, sipping my coffee. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be done by Thanksgiving, but I doubt it.”
“I’ll be here,” he promises, taking a bite of his cookie and I do the same, before he says, “Hmm. Damn good cookie. I forgot how good everything tastes in Texas.” His lips quirk and it’s clear that he’s not talking about the cookie.
Heat spikes between us and with good reason. He wants me to think about his fingers in my hair and his mouth on my mouth, and it works. I do. God, how I do. I shift in my seat and ask, “Where do you live now?”
“Walker’s based out of New York City, but I’m hardly ever home. I’m always away on a job. Last year, I spent a few months in Europe, traveling with an heir to the Stradivari empire.”
“Really? Wow. The Stradivari family? As in the famous violin makers?”
“Yes. That was her.”
“That’s amazing. Maybe one day you can actually tell me about it.”
“One day,” he says. “You mean when you’re past seeing me as the bad guy, I will.”
“I don’t see you as the bad guy.”
“Then let me walk you home,” he counters.
“I still don’t know you.”
“Let me rephrase: I’m not letting you walk home alone.”
“I can take an Uber.” I laugh bitterly. “But I guess the Uber driver could be my assassin, too. And at least I know you smell good.”
He smiles. “I smell good.”
“Well, you did the other night. I’m pretty sure you smell the same way I do tonight—essence of coffee beans.”
“Well, here’s my pitch: the good news is that, aside from my alluring coffee bean smell, I have skills. I’ll get you home safely.”
“Unless you’re here to kill me.”
“Without another taste?” he says. “Never.”
He’s flirting and I’m falling under his spell, which is why I say, “I have a gun. I know how to use it.”
His lips quirk. “Good. That’s good. I’ll be sure to ask before I kiss you again.”
“You asked the first time.”
His voice lowers, “And you said yes. Say yes now to me walking you home.”
There is something about this man, something that draws me to him and pulls me under in all the ways a woman wants to be pulled under. The timing might be horrible, but somehow, it’s just right. It’s perfect. It’s what I need. He is that little escape I need.
“Yes,” I say. “Please walk me home.”Chapter EightPRI
Now that I’ve decided to trust Rafael and let him walk me home, I’m relieved for the company, proof that Agent Pitt’s warning is wearing on me. I shut my MacBook and put my work into my briefcase before pulling out my flats from my bag, and holding them up for Rafael to see. “These are so you don’t have to pick me up from the ground.” I replace my heels with my comfy walking slippers and stand up. Rafael does the same, and now we’re both at the end of the table, so close we’re almost touching, every part of me hyperaware of his closeness.
