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Oh no. Ever since she'd hightailed it out of Taz's and Bianca's engagement party, everyone in the office seemed to be keeping tabs on her and tracking just how much the freelance investigator had been appearing at the B-Squad's headquarters. She'd barely noticed, of course. Isaac Camacho and his overabundance of sex appeal was just another thing she didn't have time for.
So why is you belly doing that triple-flip thing as you watch that handsome hunk of hotness in tight jeans head straight toward you?
Stapling her inner hussy's lips shut, she forced her gaze back to the monitors. "I suppose you’re just in the neighborhood. Again."
"Something like that. I come bearing churros." He held up a brown paper bag, drawing her attention back where it had no business being. "They're still hot from my kitchen."
God save her thighs. Living a life of culinary denial for the past thirty years had given her a sweet tooth that couldn't be denied—just the kind of thing that called for friend dough rolled in cinnamon sugar.
Sure. Blame your fascination on the churros. Not Isaac's biceps and pecs shown off to perfection in a black T-shirt or his confident strut or his tempting mouth that you imagined all over you while you circled your clit until you came last night.
"You made them?" Yeah, more like someone angling for a second night over at Casa Camacho had whipped them up while probably naked except for a frilly pink apron.
Not liking the sizzle of jealousy that thought caused, she turned and headed back down the hall toward her office and away from the man who seemed determined to drag her off task.
"You doubt my prowess?" he asked, ignoring her brush off and following a few steps behind her.
"In the kitchen?" she scoffed.
"Trust me, darlin', I've got skills for every room in the house. Your kitchen, however, has shoes in the stove."
She jerked to a stop just inside her office and spun around to face him, heat beating at her cheeks. "What do you mean my kitchen? What were you doing in my house?"
The smug bastard didn't even have the smarts to look embarrassed. He looked pleased. And like everything else, it looked good on him. It wasn't fair.
"I was beefing up Lash's security measures." He leaned one broad shoulder against the doorjamb and crossed one booted foot over the other—the picture of a man at home no matter where he was. "It seems you weren't exactly honest with him about your needs in that department."
Pushing away any question of what it would be like to be that comfortable anywhere while buying herself some time to figure out what to say next, she walked to her desk and sat down. Her heart was still hammering, but she didn't have to worry about her shaking knees giving her away once she was settled in behind her desk. Sitting in the ergonomically adjusted chair, she opened her laptop with its alphabetically organized virtual folders and color-coded email notification system. Happiness was a perfectly organized desktop and brand new Manolos on her feet. She had one, if not the other, and she'd learned to accept that. Her life had taken a left turn from being all about getting what she wanted to doing what she needed the moment her sister expended her last breath on asking Tamara to keep Essie safe. It was the only thing that mattered.
She logged in to her laptop, but Isaac didn't go away. He just stood there sucking up all the oxygen in the room and making her pulse erratic. The stubborn jackass obviously wasn't going anywhere until he got the answer to his unasked question.
"I told Lash what he needed to know." She scrolled through her email, fighting the instinct to look up at Isaac and drink in every detail about him from the scuffed toe on his right boot to the way his jeans rode low on his hips to the smug grin on his lips that she wanted desperately to either slap off or kiss off—it was a toss-up which would eventually happen.
Isaac didn't take the unspoken but clearly telegraphed hint to skedaddle. He strolled deeper into her office, stopping in front of the photo of her sister with baby Essie, and picked it up. The way he looked at it made it seem as if he could see more than what was there in front of him in black and white—as if he wanted to get a peek at what was below the surface to whatever was real and raw and true. Maybe he could see the light in Amelia—her sister always had it—but he sure as hell wasn't going to get a good look at what was underneath Tamara's icy facade.
No one knew the importance of keeping up appearances better than Tamara. What was it her mother had always said? Oh yes. Don't let them see the ugly until you've already talked them out of a prenup and the ring's on your finger. It was the only way, her mother had warned again and again and again until it had been imprinted on Tamara's brain, to prepare for the inevitable day when her looks faded and her
rich husband realized there was nothing else to her but sagging tits and a fast-widening ass.
You've got exactly one thing going for you, Tamara Anne—and the clock started ticking on it the second you got your first period.
There was nothing quite like her mother's loving pep talks.
"For someone who hates being in the dark, you sure do tend to leave others playing guessing games." Isaac sat the photo down with a reverent gentleness and turned to her, something serious lurking in his gaze. "That'll catch up to you one of these days."
Shoving the rest of her mom's little gems of advice back into a deep, dark mental hole, she started typing an email composed of total gibberish. "Well, that's not something you ever have to worry about."
"But I do, because I spend hours just wondering about you." His large shadow fell across her keyboard. "So tell me, Tamara darlin', what other needs can I help you take care of?"
Her fingers faltered on the keyboard before speeding up. "You could help with my need for quiet by leaving."
"I'm wounded." He slapped his palm onto his muscular chest. "And after all I've done to make that messy little bungalow of yours safe enough so you could go home without worry."
Despite her best intentions, a sense of gratefulness settled in her belly like an unfamiliar snack. "I never asked you to."
"That's alright, you can thank me over dinner. What night this week are you free?"
No matter how tempting it was to follow up that kiss in the garage with a hard, slow, and thorough fuck, she didn't have that option. Like every other luxury in her life, the ability to let down her guard with anyone was a thing of the past.
