Wanted (Most Wanted #1)(42)
Author: J. Kenner

“Not that you’re not adorable,” Cole continued with a grin. “But you’re not my type.”

“What do you mean it’s a good thing?” I asked warily.

“Evan has the most self-control of any of us, and the highest capacity for self-deprivation. You’re sweet, Angie, and Evan doesn’t do sweet. And if he thinks that something he’s doing will hurt someone he cares about, then he simply doesn’t do it. And that’s that. Trust me, Angie. Whatever debt you think he owes you from that alley, it’s going to remain unpaid.”

“Sweet,” I repeated. “He thinks I’m sweet?” My head was swimming. After everything he said to me about taking flight. About wanting to tie me down and fuck me silly?

After the way his tongue had teased my clit? After the way he’d made me come?

After all that, he thinks I’m sweet?

“Aren’t you?” Cole asked, and I could hear the laughter in his voice.

Instead of answering, I signaled for Beth, calling for her to bring me a flight of tequila shots. She arrived with three, and I tossed them back while Cole watched.

“Trying to prove something?” he asked.

“Not a damn thing. I just prefer tequila over wine. What?” I asked innocently. “You didn’t know that?” I pressed my finger to my chin. “Hmm. Maybe you three don’t know me as well as you think.”

“Angie—” There was censure in his voice, but I cut him off.

“No. I told you once I wasn’t dragonbait, and I meant it. You haven’t got a clue what will and will not hurt me, so don’t sit there acting all smug and pretend like you really believe that you three are in cahoots with Jahn to keep me safe. Because that’s bullshit.” I glared at him. “And don’t make assumptions about what I want or need.”

Sweet.

The word grated on me, which was ironic since I’d been playing the role for almost eight years. But it wasn’t sweet that I wanted Evan to see. More, I’d believed that he’d seen under my sugary coating to the gooey center inside. Wild and tasty and very high in calories.

Apparently I’d been wrong.

Apparently I’d just have to fix that.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure how.

Cole reached over the table and put his hand atop mine. “I’m going to go take care of that liquor delivery, and then I’m going to drive you home. We can talk on the way.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m waiting here for Evan, and I don’t particularly feel like talking.”

“Fine. I’m still going to go take care of that delivery. And you may want to wait here, but last I checked, I owned the place and you didn’t. So I’ll be driving you home and you can just bitch about it.”

“Cole—”

“Don’t Cole me. As for the scintillating conversation, we can talk about music. We can talk about movies. Hell, we can talk about that damned Da Vinci notebook. But I’m making sure you get home safe, so you wait for me here, okay?”

I nodded, too defeated to argue. Evan hadn’t yet arrived, and I could hardly dig my heels in if Cole was determined to get me out of there.

In other words, I was screwed. And at the moment, I had no plan B.

He headed toward the back where a guy, presumably Frankie, was holding up a clipboard and some paper.

I sat and stewed and looked around. Some of the nearby men turned to look at me, but no one approached, and I assumed that was because I’d been sitting with Cole. That was fine; I had no interest in these men. No real interest in what was going on in this room. There was lust, true. Lust and heat and attraction. Not sparks, though. Not electricity. This room was about sex and titillation, and while I didn’t have a problem with that, it wasn’t what I wanted.

What I wanted was Evan. The power. The explosion.

I wanted to experience what I’d felt in his arms, and I wanted him to take me where he’d promised we’d go.

And damn it all, it was pissing me off that I wasn’t able to get what I wanted.

And then—like a dream—there he was. Evan.

I actually blinked twice, in fact, afraid that I was only imagining him. Because how on earth could my fervent wishes have conjured him?

But it was true. He was real and solid and despite the dim light, I could see the hard angles of his face and the dark fire of his eyes. He was staring right at me—and he didn’t look happy.

Well, shit.

I started to stand—then sat down again when he turned away and moved toward one of the darkened corners, crooking his finger at a petite redhead who followed him with the kind of sexual confidence I was trying desperately to conjure.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help myself. I stood up and moved across the room, then settled down at a table closer to that corner.

I was looking at him from an angle, unable to see the expression on his face, but not really needing to. I could see the redhead just fine. The sultry expression as she slowly moved to straddle him. The way she bit her lip when he put his hands on her hips. She dipped down, teasing his crotch, brushing against him with the tiny bit of material that covered her sex. Then she rose and leaned forward, her breasts brushing his chest, her face rapturous.

I watched, and I seethed.

At the same time, though, I was strangely fascinated. I wanted to be that woman. I wanted to writhe upon him, to turn him on, to feel him grow hard beneath me. I wanted to be the one making him crazy. Me, and no one else.

Certainly not that little twit of a redhead.

I stood, not certain what I intended to do, but knowing damn well that I had nothing to lose. I tugged a fifty dollar bill from my wallet, then marched toward them. Evan didn’t even look up when the girl turned to look at me.

I handed her the bill. “Go.”

She glanced at Evan, who nodded just once.

The girl scurried away, and I reveled in my tiny victory.

I circled the chair until I was standing right in front of him. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, but I only leaned forward and pressed a finger to his lips.

“Don’t,” I said.

“Don’t what?”

But I just shook my head, said a silent thank-you that my circle skirt had enough material to hide a multitude of sins, and settled myself on his lap. Or, more accurately, over his lap, because while my knees were pressed into the soft leather of the overstuffed armchair, there was no actual contact going on except for the slight brushing of my knees against the outside of his thighs.