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THEY ENDED UP AT CAFÉ Voltaire. Penta drove her minivan and Cash followed on his bike.
He had never been to the trendy coffee shop attached to a local bookstore. Light glinted off the piercings in the barista’s eyebrow and lip, and her tank top revealed several tattoos, but he was still glad he’d thrown a jacket over his T-shirt so most of his ink was hidden.
He regretted many things in his life, including several of the marks he’d had drawn on his body. Like his past, though, they were something he had no choice but to accept.
Penta insisted on buying his drink. He stuck with black coffee while she went for something that involved steaming and frothing and a sprinkle of dark chocolate on the resulting concoction. After they took their seats, she spent an inordinate amount of time fussing with the whipped cream streaking down the sides of the glass mug and avoiding his eyes.
“Are you wishing you hadn’t come?” Her initial dismay at his invite had stabbed a raw spot he’d thought long since armoured and protected. When she’d said yes, he’d allowed himself a moment of joy before stamping it into submission.
He probably shouldn’t have asked her. But she’d looked so forlorn he’d wanted to do something to cheer her up and figured his preferred release of a fast and frantic ride on two wheels down the highway wasn’t an option.
“No.” Her chin lifted at a defiant angle. “I’m being silly.”
“It’s not silly to worry about spending time with a guy that’s been to jail.”
Her brow creased. “You think that’s my problem?”
“Isn’t it?”
She shook her head, brown curls dancing. She’d held them back with a black band so the strands were smooth around her face, but the rest was a riot of ringlets. “I wouldn’t have come if that was an issue. I’m not that spineless.” The last word spit from her lips like she’d taken a sip of something bitter.
“What’s with the face, then?”
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Just thinking about Cyril. And Mark.”
“Ah.” He sipped his own drink. “I never did answer your question.”
She stopped the spoonful of cream enroute to her mouth. “What question?”
“Why I don’t like your ex-husband.” He was careful to emphasize the distinction. “I didn’t like the way he treated you.”
The spoon slipped in and out of her full lips, and he had to look away for a moment. He’d devised ways to control his urges through the long nights of prison and the lonely years since. Penta, however, was constantly testing the limits of his endurance.
“He’s right, you know. That’s what makes it so maddening. I am too easy on the kids. It’s a terribly hard balance at the best of times, and since the divorce—” She blocked whatever she’d been going to say with another mouthful of white foam.
Hopefully she’d be done with the spoon soon. Otherwise, he was going to be very uncomfortable.
“Was he also right about me not being your type?” If she laughed and agreed, maybe his erection would get the hint.
She did laugh, but it was the saddest he’d ever heard. “That wasn’t a dig at you. He was pointing out how boring I am. It was one of the reasons he asked for—” Again she cut herself off.
He could fill in the rest. “Now I really don’t like him. Being sweet and loving and tender doesn’t make you boring.”
“It doesn’t exactly make me a sex symbol, either.” Her dry tone might have been an attempt at humour, but he heard the wistfulness behind it.
He reached across the table and ran his finger over the knuckles of her hand. “Sex symbols are overrated. I’d rather be with someone nice.”
He’d meant it as a compliment, but her downturned mouth and averted gaze told him she’d missed his point. “Nice. That’s worse than being boring.”
The half-formed idea that had snuck into his thoughts after Linda’s visit took a clearer shape. He pressed his fingers to her chin, encouraging her to lift her head and look at him. “Do you want to be a bad girl, Penta?”
PENTA SAT, FROZEN, as Cash swept her top lip with his broad thumb, his fingertips points of fire on her jaw. After showing her the foam he’d wiped off, he slipped the digit into his mouth. She hoped he didn’t hear the tiny moan she couldn’t suppress. Waves of sensuality swept over her, flushing her skin, shortening her breath.
“Well? Want to be a bad girl?”
She watched his lips move. She’d never kissed anyone with such a lush beard. Dazed, she looked away from his mouth as she considered his question. Unfortunately, that just meant she was slammed by the full-on view. He sprawled on the hard wooden chair, one arm draped on the back, regarding her with lazy amusement.
She had never been a rebel. Never wanted to be one. But she wanted to be bad with Cash. Wanted it very, very much. Yet...
