Coop watched her sip her wine. She wasn’t happy, and he wanted her to be. She should be.
He took a platter of meats, cheeses, olives, and summer rolls from the refrigerator under the bar and carried it to the closest banquette. She followed him with their wine goblets, steady as can be on those stilettos she detested. She hadn’t believed he’d assaulted anybody. Not for a moment. She’d been impatient when he’d pressed her about it-as if he were wasting her time by bringing it up. No one had ever had such blind faith in him. What the hell was a man supposed to do with a woman like this?
She slid into the banquette, her skirt riding up on her thighs enough for him to lose his train of thought. Even without tonight’s mascara, her eyelashes were long and thick, and her glossy cinnamon mouth was an invitation. He loved her face best scrubbed clean, but he also loved knowing that she’d bothered fixing herself up just for him.
“This feels ceremonial,” she said.
“It is. A celebration.” She’d put her investigator’s license in jeopardy doing whatever it was she’d done, and that bothered him even more than knowing he’d needed someone else to solve his problems.
“You don’t look happy,” she said.
“I’m very happy.”
“Then why are you frowning?”
“Because I’m trying not to act like the animal I am by picturing what’s under your dress. I’m not proud of myself.”
She smiled.
He set down his drink. “Let’s dance.”
“Really?”
“Why not?”
She took his hand and slid out of the banquette. He led her to the floor. It was odd to realize this was the first time he’d been able to dance in his own club strictly for pleasure.
And pleasure it was. The sweet fit of her body against his own was almost painful, although he wished when he’d programmed the music, he’d avoided this off-the-charts sentimental Ed Sheeran ballad. On the other hand, it suited his mood.
“This is just weird,” she said, resting the top of her head against the side of his jaw and leaning even closer into him.
“If only you weren’t such a romantic.”
She laughed. Why did he keep worrying about leading her on when she had her feet so firmly planted on the ground and her head so far below the clouds?
They danced in silence, their hands clasped, their bodies swaying, breathing in each other’s air. The Sheeran song ended and Etta James began to sing “At Last.” He drew her back to the banquette.
She nibbled at the appetizers, taking those dainty bites that always threw him off. He needed to tell her what her trust meant to him. Instead, he asked her to take him through everything she’d done from the time the police had carted him away to their meeting with Deidre.
“I’ll give you the best first.” She told him about finding the man Mrs. Berkovitz thought was her dead husband.
“Incredible,” he said as she finished. “And how much did Mrs. B. pay you to do this job for her?”
“A hundred dollars. I was planning to take her out to dinner, but now I’m hoping I can take them both out.”
“You have a good heart, Piper Dove.”
She speared a cheese cube. “And flexible ethics.”
He rose to fetch the bottle of cabernet from the bar. “Go ahead. Get it all out.”
“I don’t want to.”
“That bad?”
“Depends on how you feel about breaking and entering, not to mention burglary. I also lied to your accuser about the money transfer, but I don’t feel bad about that. Then there’s your ring…”
He set the bottle on the table. “Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on yourself?”
“The end justifies the means? I’d like to believe that, but I can’t.”
“You’re a high achiever, Pipe. It’s the way you’re made.” The way Duke Dove had made her.
She gave him a bright, phony smile. “No more depressing talk. Tell me about jail. Did anybody try to make you his bitch?”
“I was held in a conference room filled with cops who wanted a replay of last year’s Super Bowl. So that would be a no.”
“Disappointing.”
He shoved an olive in her mouth.
The music picked up tempo, and they went back to the dance floor. Before long, she’d kicked off her heels, and he got rid of his suit coat. As the tunes grew more erotic, so did their dancing. Pharrell to Rihanna; Bowie to Beyoncé. Piper on her toes. Pressing that sweet butt hard against him. Rotating, then spinning around to face him, her face flushed, her lids heavy. Rotating again. Butt pressing… If she didn’t stop, he’d have a repeat performance of their first time, so he grabbed her by the arms and pressed her against the wall.
He kissed her. Open mouth. Kissed her and kissed her and kissed her again-mouth, neck, back to her mouth. Long, deep explorations. The two of them making out as if this were as far as they could go. Devouring each other. Clothes sticking to their skin. One song after another.
Marvin Gaye… “Let’s get it on…”
Missy Elliott… “Let me work it…”
And still they kissed. A make-out session for the ages.
Do it all night… All night…
The skirt of her dress was in his fists. Shoved to her waist. His belt opening under her palms.
How does it feel… It feels…
Underpants. Zipper. Wool and nylon scattering on the dance floor.
Up against the wall. In the hall… Hot against the wall.
Freefall…
Her legs around his hips. Butt in his hands. Wet beneath his fingers. Inside her.
Work it. Work it, work it.
Inside.
Like that. And that.
And that…
Her knit dress had survived the thrilling abuse, but her underpants hadn’t, and since it felt weird to wear a bra without underpants, she abandoned lingerie altogether and pulled her dress back on over her bare skin. She touched her lips. They felt puffy. She’d be sore tomorrow, and not only her lips.
Her teeth started to chatter, and her legs weren’t working right. She sank down on the ladies’ room couch.
The worst thing in the world had happened to her.
20
She loved him. She had stupidly, recklessly fallen in love with Cooper Graham. She’d had plenty of warning-the buzz she’d experience whenever he appeared, the delight she took in making him laugh, the rules she’d broken for him. How could she not have correctly identified that intense wash of emotion engulfing her at the most unexpected times?
She was so dizzy she put her head between her knees, which only made it worse. All the signs had been there, but she’d refused to pay heed to any of them. She’d believed she was immune to falling in love. And maybe she had been. Immune to falling in love with anyone other than Cooper Graham. But watching him being led away in handcuffs had broken open the steel trap that had caged her heart for so long she’d been unaware of its existence. Until now.
She made herself sit back up. She didn’t do love. She had no resources to handle it. How could she walk out this door and act as if everything were normal? He was so perceptive, so good at reading her mind. He’d see her feelings on her face. And if he did see… He’d be so kind. So fricking kind.
The minutes ticked by. Any second now he’d barge in to check on her. She wanted to hide in here forever, but she couldn’t do that, and she made herself stand up. There was only one way she could save herself. Only one way to avoid his pity, his kindness.
She had to get out there and finish this.
He emerged from the kitchen with his shirtsleeves rolled up. His lips looked as swollen as hers. Had she bitten him? He’d arranged the silverware haphazardly on their banquette table, along with two neatly plated arugula and apple salads he almost certainly hadn’t made himself.