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Chapter Fifteen
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Ipushed past him, into the room. Made my way straight to the bar, where I grabbed a bottle of water then the whole bottle of tequila. I’d so kill for a plate of chili nachos and a Gervase triple special with a wedge of pineapple. The Patrón would have to do for now. At least it was the good stuff.
I poured myself a generous shot and downed the thing—watching with narrowed eyes as Shiraz approached on quiet steps. Let my gaze widen as he scooped up the bottle and downed as much as I just had.
“You trying to be impressive?” I quipped it as he took his second swig. Tried, and failed, to disregard the warmth of the alcohol through my muscles and the heat of him through my veins. He’d shucked the search and rescue jacket, so a lot more of his body was on display in just his black, skintight T-shirt and those alpha-guy cargo pants. Gone as well were his shit kicker boots, replaced by a pair of back slip-ons closely resembling the comfortable Vans preferred by surfers back home.
Sheez. We could almost be just chilling at Ez’s place in Venice Beach, the waves of the Pacific pounding the shore beyond the balcony. He could almost just be some hottie surfer-slash-model I’d met at The Whaler, and wanted to know better…
Almost.
But not really.
“Maybe,” he answered me at last, adding such a graceful shrug, I went back to the hottie surfer image. “Probably.” His gaze roamed everywhere but finally settled back over me.
Ohhhh, sheez.
He simply wasn’t going to give me quarter from this, was he? The clutched breath. The sizzling bloodstream. The altered atmosphere that happened each time he was near. Everything so much sharper. Hotter. Needier. Pushing back to that edge between lust and craving, fantasy and reality, wanting and doing…
So painful.
So perfect.
So not happening.
There was too much to lose now, even with the bid for the wedding stricken from the picture. In a way, this risk was even more dangerous. The valley of my psyche was on the line. The cliff dive after Ryan was bone-crushing enough—and I’d had a parachute of common sense to help brace the fall. Deep inside, I’d known Ryan and I were headed for the crash, but Shiraz Noir Cimarron was a ride I wanted to take into the stars themselves…
A ride I wasn’t destined to take.
As stupid as it sounded, his country needed him now more than ever. Fate owed Arcadia a fucking break, and his marriage to Ambyr would be the beacon to guide them there. With a true Arcadian bride in the mix, even the purists would be mollified, making it easier for everyone to accept Camellia and Brooke as well.
So Ambyr got to take the ride.
Which meant I was doomed to take the fall.
Best to get off the rocket now, when the plummet wouldn’t hurt so damn much.
“Why are you here, Shiraz?” I made the subtext clear. Why are you in here, putting us both in this goddamn position, when you should be with your family and fiancée?
Not his fiancée. Not yet.
Nota fact that should’ve given my bloodstream a drop of glory-glory-hallelujah—
But did.
Dammit.
He leaned both elbows on the bar. Stroked the sides of the Patrón with his damnably long fingers, clearly contemplating another douse. With a heavy huff, denied himself. “They found Crista.”
His lead tone fisted the middle of my chest. “Shit.” Made me struggle for air. “And she’s—”
“Alive.”
“Shit.” I clutched his forearm. Dug in tighter when nothing changed about the cloud over his composure. “That’s awesome, right?”
He nodded. Sort of. “She is alive,” he clarified, “for now.”
