Illegally Yours Page 2

  My attitude toward him is far from friendly. Not exactly hostile, but something more discomfiting: a wriggle in my stomach and a lurch in my chest. The first I attribute to attraction, the second…I’m not sure yet.

  I release his hand. “I’ve no doubt a guy like you has plenty of friends.”

  “You can never have enough friends, Trinity.”

  “Or friendly bartenders to unload your troubles on.”

  He flicks a glance to Gideon, who’s watching us from a semisafe distance, ready to lunge into action at the first sign of trouble. “Now Treebeard over there doesn’t look so friendly.”

  Treebeard? That’s perfect. I can’t wait to tell Gideon. “Just protective. We look out for one another here.”

  HB holds up his hands, palms facing me. “I’ve been warned!” Then he waves at Gideon, who hipster-scowls back. The exchange makes me smile, but I turn away to grab a bar towel before Lucas can see it. Can’t make it too easy for him.

  “So, Trinity, I have a proposition for you.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Uh-huh. Now, I imagine you get this a lot, working here.” He waves around, somewhat effusively. This guy has an entertainer gene. Probably can sing and dance as well.

  “I’ve had a few…propositions.”

  “I bet. Slimy, handsy old geezers incapable of making eye contact and drooling all over the bar.” He makes a point of looking at a spot two feet south of my face.

  I point at my chest. “Uh, my tits are up here, asshole.”

  He grins. “Just taking the lechery to its logical conclusion. The lecher so drunk he can’t even lech right.”

  “Don’t think lech is a verb.”

  “Is when I do it.”

  This makes no sense, but I laugh, the sound unrestrained and genuine, and catch Gideon out of the corner of my eye. He disapproves. Whatever. I can laugh at funny, hottie, nonsensical Brits if I want to. It’s not as if I’m going to let him banter his way into my bed. It’s just nice to be the target of an attractive guy for once.

  “So, Trinity, about this proposition.”

  “Hmm.” I’m not quite ready for us to go there when I’m rather enjoying the chase.

  “Do you do private tastings?”

  Disappointment chills my gut. HB had been doing so well.

  Maybe he needs inspiration. “I’m always up for spreading the love of hard liquors.”

  He nods. “That’s brilliant. Because I know a woman who would really, really dig you.”

  My brain screeches to a halt, stutter-steps forward, and knocks against my skull. Ouch.

  “A woman?”

  “Right. Now, she’s a bit stroppy, and it’s sort of weird, as she’s the ex-wife of one of my friends, but we’re still friendly even though I hate picking sides, especially when mates are involved. Anyway, you’re exactly her type and I told her I’d set something up and—”

  He stops speaking because I’ve poured three quarters of a pint of ale over his head.

  “Hey!” He stands dramatically, shaking his head like a dog coming out of water—also dramatically—which results in sizable beer droplets landing on a glaring guy two stools to his right.

  “Pervert!” I manage to splutter.

  “How am I a pervert?”

  “Your proposition to a woman you’ve just met is a…threesome?” I think that’s what he offered, but the minute it leaves my mouth the doubts set in.

  Lucas leans over the bar and grabs a towel, a fluid move indicating that this is not the first time someone has unloaded a glass of alcohol over his head. “My proposition to a woman I’ve just met is a business one. A lawyer colleague is looking to set up an after-work event for women in the legal profession and I thought this might be a good suggestion.”

  I freeze, horrified by every word and my actions of twenty seconds ago. “But you said she was my type.”

  “Right. Badass professional who knows her stuff.”

  Rolling right over the compliment, I struggle to defend myself. “I thought—”

  “That I was coming on to you? And using another woman as a tactic? To set up some sordid encounter?” Each question raises the stakes, shooting the situation to a pyramid of idiocy with me sitting as queen in a throne on the top.

  Oh God oh God oh God. How could I have gotten the signals so wrong? But the banter and the smiles and the eyes. I could also ascribe it to my frame of mind these last couple of months since The Incident. I’m easily spooked and ripe for disappointment.

  Gideon appears about thirty seconds too late and pinches HB’s shoulder. “Okay, out.”

  Lucas is wiping the beer off his suit with the towel. “I’m going to clean up and wait for you to calm down, Ms. Jones.” Slipping Gideon’s grip and shooting me a much-deserved glare, he stalks off to the restroom.

  Gideon looks confused. “What happened there?”

  “You were kind of late defending my honor, dude.”

  “I was on the other side of the bar. As soon as I heard the word pervert, my Spidey sense went into overdrive.”

  “Figures.” I shrug. “I might have misunderstood. I’ve been out of the game for a while.”

  After a few minutes, Lucas hasn’t returned, so I head toward the restroom to make sure he’s not crying, passed out, or bumping a line of coke. (We see it all here.) I run into him in the corridor outside the restrooms. The beer-slick hair and eau de IPA should really detract from his hotness. It does not.

  I lead with, “Sorry?”

  “Sounds a little too like a question.”

  Still with the drama. “Uh, you set me up. If I had a nickel for every time I heard ‘Do you do private tastings?’ I wouldn’t be working here.”

  There’s that lift at the corner of his mouth. I swat him with the bar towel I’m carrying. “That’s what you wanted me to think!”

  “No. Okay, maybe. I was having a little fun. Should have realized a woman like you would use the weapons at your disposal.”

  “Somehow I don’t think I could ever match you for weaponry.” I narrow my eyes when really all I want to do is keep them wide and soak in his beauty. Life is so unfair sometimes. “You a lawyer like Max?”

  “Not like Max. Better than Max.”

  It’s not bragging. We muse on this for a moment until I break the silence.

  “So you really wanted to throw some business my way?”

  “I do, or rather I did before you sprang for the beer-drop option. Aubrey is a lawyer friend of mine who sometimes organizes after-work networking events for my ovary-sporting colleagues. They’re always doing wine tastings, so I thought this might be a fun change for them.”

  It wouldn’t hurt and might get some new blood for the Whiskey, Women, and Song events I’m trying to get off the ground.

  “That’s kind of you. If you still want to pass on my card…” I lower the zip of my catsuit, extract a card from my bra, and hand it to him.

  “Smooth.” His thumb rubs across the card, appearing to absorb the warmth of the skin it was recently next to. He places it in the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pats it once, twice. I shiver at the thought of this sensual connection between us.

  “Here, let me give you mine.” His hand brushes the waistband of his pants, then a flick of his finger and thumb unhooks the fastener.

  Unhooks. The. Fastener.

  Wait, what? He’s not…No, no, no. This cannot be happening.

  He inches his zipper down slowly, slowly.

  Here? No, no, no, not here.

  Finally, I squeal, “That’s where you keep your business cards?”

  He laughs, big and bold. “Nah, just a little payback.”

  My mouth drops open. He wouldn’t have stopped unless…Would he have? I
have no idea. The unpredictability of it—of him—sparks through me, lighting me up. While my life has seen its fair share of events from out of left field, as a rule I crave stability in my day-to-day. I have people relying on me to be their rock, so I can’t afford to…indulge.

  But damn and hell, I wouldn’t mind indulging in Lucas Wright.

  “Not going to make this easy for you, Trinity.”

  “You’re not?” Visions of Lucas not making it easy—in fact, making it very hard—dance through my sex-starved brain.

  “Did you really think I’d ask you out?” He waves around. “In a bar? Just like that?” The cliché appears to offend him.

  I swallow, once again blindsided. He’s not interested. At all.

  I really am losing my touch.

  I laugh it off. “Believe me, I’ve heard everything.”

  “I figured as much, which is why I’m not going to beg for a date. At least, not yet. You’re not sure about me, Trinity. You think I’m too young or flighty or ridiculous. You think I’m as smooth as slime and a bit of a lad. Well, whatever you think, I have undoubtedly heard, a million times over. Want to know what I think?”

  “I suspect you’re going to tell me.”

  “I think…that it would be good for us to wait.”

  I barely restrain from screaming at him to just do me. I’m pretty confused at the pinging signals not hitting their targets.

  He inclines his head, his gaze magnetized to mine. My heart is knocking around my chest like a pinball. Another pat on his breast pocket, like my card is a talisman, and my pulse spikes thinking of it next to his heart. Silly, really.

  But his next move isn’t silly. It’s dangerous. One of those long fingers traces its tip along my jaw. His eyes widen, his nostrils flare.

  “Wh-what are you doing?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  Kiss me.

  Do I say it? I have a habit of talking to myself, speaking my innermost thoughts aloud. His lips have not latched on to mine so I’m guessing I didn’t. But something’s happening here. He’s kissing me with his eyes, seducing me with his intensity, with every sharp inhale of breath I see him almost struggling to take.

  His hand anchors to my jaw and sneaks around to my nape. My blood runs hot, and I’m hyperaware of everything: his full lips. The eyebrow scar. The wicked cobalt blues. The supermodel cheekbones. A dash of russet in his eleven o’clock shadow.

  The fact that we have yet to kiss. Gah!

  Yet I am being ravaged. My breasts feel heavy, the spot between my thighs hot and slick. There’s power in the anticipation, though I’m not sure who holds it.

  “Trinity?”

  “Yes?” I’m basking in the glow of gimme-the-good-stuff.

  “Still think we should wait.” The glow dims and flash-freezes. Before I can protest he adds, “Because once we start this, I’ll be going all in.”

  “Once we start what?” I can hardly speak the words. I am furious.

  “The ride of our lives, Trinity.”

  He gives me another smile that leaves me in a daze. I’ve no idea what’s happening here but I feel itchy and very, very dissatisfied with my Lucas-free life.

  “See you around, Whiskey Woman.”

  And then he’s gone.

  Chapter 2

  Trinity

  “I have wine!”

  At the front door, I brandish the bottle of Pinot Noir in my sister’s face and wait for her to crack a smile. Rays of lip-curving sunshine are few and far between these days for Emily, so I cheer a mental touchdown when she lights up.

  She holds the door back to let me in. “I just put Ari to bed and I’m ready for wine and whining.”

  Oh, I’m so here for that. I’m also not opposed to the idea that her five-year-old is sleeping. Arianna is a demon disguised as a cherub-faced innocent, and I’m the only one who sees the evil lurking beneath.

  “Where’s my favorite nephew?”

  “In his room. Brooding.”

  Uh-oh. Unlike his sister, Chase is usually a pretty good-natured kid. The separation has been tough on everyone.

  I hand off the wine. “Open this, Ems. I’ll pop up to say hi.”

  First I take a look inside Arianna’s room. She’s expelling fluttery breaths, and as adorable (looking) as that sounds, I know better.

  I knock on Chase’s door. “Hey, put your pecker away. I’m coming in!”

  A huff that’s half laugh, half acknowledgment comes back. Popping my head around the door, I find him lying on the bed reading a comic book. My sensitive sommelier nose adjusts to the boy funk. Chase’s room is probably typical for any fourteen-year-old kid who likes both the Marvel and DC universes (I know, weird) and has an artistic-sporty vibe. Hunky Spanish soccer players battle for wall space with half-naked lady rappers.

  “Hey, Aunt Trin.”

  “Hey, Whiskey Chaser, what’s up?”

  “Just doing homework.” There’s an open laptop with what looks like a Word document on it. He should be enjoying his break, but he had a less-than-stellar last few months in the school year and has to make up for it this summer.

  “Comic book report?”

  That yields a grin. He really has the best smile that flashes at you so suddenly that when it’s gone you wonder if you imagined it. His dad’s, Brian’s, smile. A light dusting of freckles over pale skin dots his cheeks. His copper-brown hair is standing on end as if his homework has been making him tear it out.

  “Just taking a break before I get back to it. I have to analyze FDR’s relationship with Winston Churchill.”

  “Ooh, I got this one. Fuddy-duddy white dudes talking a lot about, uh, cigars.”

  He makes a play of typing something on the laptop. “The extra piece I needed!”

  “Shut it, ya cheeky boy.” I take a seat on the bed. “Seen your dad lately?”

  The air chills. “He came to soccer practice last week. Took me out for a chocolate malt after. Like I’m six.”

  “Hey, I’m thirty-four and you won’t see me saying no to chocolate malts.”

  He shrugs. “It’s just weird. I mean, he doesn’t even…” The words peter out.

  “He doesn’t even what?”

  “Nothing.” His fingers trace the cover of the magazine. It’s Wonder Woman, looking like she’s ready to kick villainous ass.

  “Anything else going on?”

  Another shrug. We used to talk more, but he’s at that awkward age where he doesn’t want to be too friendly. His parents’ situation isn’t helping and I’m trying to be supportive, yet not interfere. Interference—or running it—is generally my jam.

  “Want to catch a movie on Saturday? New Ant-Man’s out.” I hold my breath, worried he’ll push me away.

  “Most underrated superhero.”

  “He is quite small,” I confirm, and that makes us both laugh.

  “It’d have to be the afternoon. I have a soccer match on Saturday morning, not that I’ll get much time on. Been playing like crap lately.”

  Chase used to be a whiz on the field, but I suspect he’s going through a phase of bored resistance.

  “Maybe I’ll come see. Any hot single dads there?”

  He rolls his eyes. “More like desperate married moms who have it bad for Coach.”

  “Then I’m definitely there.” I pinch his cheek because I know he hates it and head back down to see my sister. She’s in the living room with a serrated steak knife, a torn-open package of Dubliner cheese, and a box of Ritz.

  “Classy,” I say, and we both giggle.

  Emily—or Ems as I like to call her when she’s not pissing me off—is a blond, petite porcelain doll who, now that she’s hit thirty-two and is going through hell with Brian, is starting to show her a
ge. (For the record, I found my first gray hair at sixteen and it’s been the greatest cover-up in hair science ever since.) We couldn’t be more different: me with my big-boned sturdiness, brown skin, and rebellious hair, her looking like a cross between Baby Spice and Disney Princess.

  That’s right: different dads.

  Mine died when Mom was six months pregnant, a boating accident at twenty-five. She married Evan, one of my dad’s friends, right after I was born, and Emily was dropped off by the stork eighteen months later. Evan and my mom packed it in when I was eleven years old. He was a good stepdad, but his first love was always Emily. I get that. It hurt a little, but I’ve gotten over it.

  Once it was just us three girls, we would have the odd “uncle” stop by to try us on for size, but nobody who stuck around. Mom was pretty encouraging of us to “be our own person,” which was code for I’m going out on a date and you need to babysit your sister, Trinity. To say I feel protective over Emily is a massive understatement. There might be less than two years between us, but I practically raised her. All my efforts as a teen went to ensuring she was safe, that homework was checked, bullies were crushed, boys were vetted. Sure, Mom was there on the periphery, but I was running the Jones household with an iron fist.

  Then my mom and stepdad died in a car accident during a rare interlude when they’d decided to give it another shot. I was nineteen, Emily was seventeen, and it left us raw and a little bit wrecked.

  Emily hands off a glass of wine. “How’s His Highness?”

  “Grouchy. Having to do schoolwork when it’s summer is the worst.”

  “Well, he has to catch up.” She takes a slug of wine from a glass that is already half empty. “I know this last year has been hell on him, but it’s been hell on us all.”

  “True.” I take her by the glass-free hand and lead her to the sofa. “What’s the latest?”

  “He just switched lawyers because—oh, I don’t know why. Now he has some shark who’s telling him to push for sole custody!”