Give In To Me (3 page)

April sighed. But Amber was right. She really had to stop by. She really wouldn’t
want to miss her baby sister’s big night. “Of course. Tell you what. After I take
Gram’s groceries and visit with her a while, I’ll come to the gallery. Then I’ll get
our groceries on the way home.” As an afterthought she added, “It’s probably dressy,
isn’t it?”

“Well, not
super
dressy, but . . . kind of a wine-and-cheese affair.”

April let out a weary breath. “I’ll just leave my suit on.” What was a few more hours
in high heels?

“Thank you so much, April. And I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“Sure you will,” April said teasingly. She loved Amber with all her heart, but she
knew getting her sister to keep that promise would be like extracting teeth. And despite
her previous thought, she added, “You should still make a point of visiting Gram soon.
Like tomorrow or over the next couple of days.”

“Well, between the showing and stuff I already had scheduled with friends, I’ve got
a lot going on right now—but I’ll try.”

A few minutes later, April hung up with Amber and took the call on her other line.
She had just enough time to shoot Ellen an e-mail about Kayla’s divorce case before
her cell rang again, and this time it was her other sister, Allison. The middle sister,
Allison had just turned twenty-nine and was a mother to two toddlers. “Is there any
way you could watch Jayden and Tiffany tomorrow night?” she asked only a moment into
the conversation.

Just say no.
“To tell you the truth, I’m pretty swamped and really need a night to myself tomorrow.”

But then Allison explained that Amber had called about her show. And she and her husband
couldn’t afford a sitter right now, and she knew April was going to the opening tonight,
but she’d promised that she and Jay could at least go tomorrow night. “Amber really
wants us there, of course. So . . . maybe I could drop the kids at Gram’s for a couple
of hours,” she suggested.

Which made April’s spine go rigid. Allison knew good and well that their grandmother
was in no shape to be babysitting toddlers—the very idea was ridiculous, and clearly
designed to bend April to her will. At least when
Amber
needed something, she resorted to honest begging and did her best to express her
appreciation, whereas with Allison, it was generally more manipulative. And April
knew she needed to start handling Allison’s passive-aggressive behavior more directly,
but for now, this moment, she couldn’t come up with an easy answer. So she just said,
“Fine, I’ll watch them. But only for a couple of hours.”

After disconnecting with Allison, she dove directly into her next task—some billing
work that needed to be turned in to the accounting department today—though her mind
wandered. How had she ended up being the only person in her family whom anyone could
really depend upon?
Maybe it’s always been a mistake to be so dependable. Let them all down a few times
and maybe they’ll start taking some responsibility for their own lives.
But April knew better. A person didn’t just wake up one day and become undependable.
It was in her blood, who she was, and her sisters knew it—and relied on it.

Their parents had been killed in a car accident when April was twelve. And the three
girls had found themselves being shipped from Ohio to Florida to live with a paternal
grandmother they barely knew. Gram had been older than most grandmothers of kids that
age; she’d had her son later in life. And she’d done her best, taking in three little
girls and ending up with a family she hadn’t expected or asked for—she’d always been
good to them. But at the same time, as the oldest, April had taken on a mothering
role to her sisters. She’d never planned it, never decided on it, never even realized
it—but she’d become the person who bandaged their wounds, helped with their homework,
advised them on their love lives . . . and so much more.

And somehow, despite her best intentions, she still hadn’t managed to outrun that
role. She’d even chosen to become an attorney with the idea that a good job would
ensure everyone always had enough money to get by on. And as a result, she mostly
supported Amber, who’d worked only at a string of part-time, minimum-wage jobs while
she pursued her art, and she “loaned” money to Allison and Jay on a regular basis,
knowing full well that she’d never get it back.

Though it wasn’t the money that bothered her as much as simply the time it took to
hold them all together. Whatever needed to be done, it fell to her. Groceries for
Gram, babysitting, Gram’s doctor’s appointments, picking up this, doing that—you name
it. And as much as she often tried to say no, she feared that if she didn’t do things,
they truly wouldn’t get done. And that mattered, especially when it came to Gram.

All of which was why she didn’t really have time for Kayla’s case. Or to be kissing
strange men in alleys, for that matter.

Maybe making out with him had been a form of stress relief. Maybe she’d just needed
to let go of herself for a few minutes.

Looking up from her paperwork, she absently found herself Googling Ginger from
Gilligan’s Island
. Her eyebrows shot up when she realized that, wow, they actually looked a little
alike. If Ginger’s red hair had been more auburn, and if Ginger had been a little
more conservative—or a lot more conservative.

For a brief second, she let herself feel . . . flattered. Maybe it felt . . . surprisingly
fun to be compared to someone—even a fictional character—who had been so glamorous,
seductive, sought after by men.

But then she shook her head, clearing it. That was silly.

And none of this mattered because it was over now.

Even if she still felt his kisses on her lips.

Even if she still felt his fingers so near, yet so far, from her still-aching breasts.

* * *

A
week later, April found herself walking briskly up Ocean Drive, going to meet Kayla
again. With Ellen’s help and guidance, she’d concluded she could handle Kayla’s divorce
with relative ease. Hopefully it would be quick and simple—no muss, no fuss—aided
by the fact that the couple had no children and few assets to fight over. And hopefully
tonight’s meeting with her client—at a frozen yogurt shop near Kayla’s current place
of employment, a couple of blocks from the Café Tropico—would be a lot more no muss,
no fuss than the last one had been. Her first order of business when she’d called
Kayla to set it up was to explain that it should
not
be in an establishment where her husband hung out with his friends.

“That’s why I was in a hurry last time,” Kayla had explained. “I work right around
the corner at a souvenir store and I was supposed to meet him there. And I thought
it would be okay ’cause he was supposed to work later than me. But he showed up early.
Sorry.” She’d sounded like a wounded puppy, making April feel guilty for chastising
her.

“Well,” April had said on a sigh, “the important thing is that you’re okay, that he
didn’t hurt you. You
are
okay after that, right?”

Kayla explained that she’d spent the night with a friend, but that Juan had summoned
her home the following morning. “He was mad, but he wasn’t too rough on me. He ended
up believing what you said, that we just ran into each other accidentally.”

April had breathed out her relief long and deep. It wouldn’t have been her fault if
Juan had beat the hell out of Kayla, but she still wouldn’t have liked knowing she’d
been involved in anything that had caused that kind of physical violence. And, of
course, eventually he would find out she
was
Kayla’s attorney, but hopefully Kayla would be out of his reach by then.

“You were okay, too, weren’t ya?” Kayla had asked then. “Nothing bad happened to you?
When you disappeared, I worried.”

Even now, a wave of heat swept over April at the memory of how she’d “disappeared”
into that alley, and she couldn’t attribute it to the Miami temperatures. “Sure,”
she’d said softly into the phone. “I was okay. Nothing bad happened.”

But as she listened to the sound of her own heels clicking up the sidewalk, and to
the vague yet sharp melody of Latin music echoing from a club she’d just passed, she
was pulled back in time to that night.
Had
something bad happened to her? She still couldn’t decide. And was she okay? She liked
to think she was, but the fact that she could still feel those kisses so keenly bothered
her. It had been a week, after all. The memory should be fading.

And worse . . . Lord, even now, the spot between her legs wept with a harsh desire
she barely recognized in herself, just from remembering. His tight hold on her. His
brusque tone. The roughness of kisses that she’d somehow felt rush through the entire
length of her body.

It was a highly unusual experience, so of course it’s going to stick with you a while.
It would stick with any woman, but you in particular, after not having been kissed
in so long—well, of course a weird interlude like that is going to affect you.

And yet even when she tried to explain away the fact that the encounter still lingered
with her, it wasn’t just the lingering that bothered her. She knew that. It was . . .
it was . . . oh hell, it was the part of it that she couldn’t quite admit to herself.
It was . . . how much she’d liked it. And not just being kissed. It was how much she’d
liked . . . being manhandled, being held so tightly, having no choice. Good God, the
truth was that she’d liked . . . being forced.

So there. You did it. You admitted it to yourself.

And the result? As she continued up the street, her body literally wept with desire.
Her panties were soaked with her own arousal. With somehow . . . wanting more of that.

You must be insane. Who are you? How could you possibly want a man you don’t even
know to force you to kiss him? Or . . . more.

Suddenly it was hard to take a deep breath. She was a smart, together woman. She didn’t
need romance in her life. Or sex. She was logical and sensible and always had been.
And men like Juan Gonzalez, who used his brute strength to control his wife and probably
any other woman who got in his way, were animals. Lower than animals. They made her
sick.

And yet she, April Pediston, wanted a man to force his attentions on her?

Suddenly, the Miami air around her thickened, making it difficult to breathe. She
couldn’t even begin to make sense of her own emotions, her own yearnings. No wonder
she hadn’t wanted to admit this to herself—it was unthinkable. Almost unbearably so.

Overcome by heat in a flash, she stopped, unbuttoned her suit jacket, took it off.
A delicious sea breeze cooled her at the precise second she needed it most, wafting
across South Beach to reach her. Glancing down, she saw that the silk cream-colored
tank she wore clung to her from the heat, and at the moment, it added to all the strange
sensations pummeling her. In particular, the way the clingy material accentuated her
breasts made her feel sexual, reminding her once more how very aware of them she’d
become just since the brusque mystery man had pulled her blouse closed over them.
The way the fabric slid slick against her stomach, her sides, felt almost like being . . .
touched. The man in the alley had left her feeling more cognizant of her body, her
skin, than anything had in a very long time.

And that was when she saw it. The scene of the crime. Without quite realizing it,
she’d come upon the Café Tropico again.

She hadn’t even thought about that—that the parking spot she’d found would lead her
directly past the very place where all that strange, powerful kissing had taken place.

Maybe that’s why it’s so very
with you
right now. Maybe being here again so soon just brought it all back, even if just
sort of subliminally.

Better thought
: Maybe once you’re past it and you reach the yogurt shop, it’ll fade. At least a
little.
Anything would help at this point.

So she started walking a bit faster. Though even as she did so, she found her eyes
searching the exterior of the place, taking in details, almost as if trying to seek
something out, but she had no idea what. She drank in the faded green paint, chipping
in places. The old sails that made tents over the front, open-air part of the restaurant.
The open windows at other parts of the building, and the shadowy darkness within.
Despite herself, her heart beat faster.

But then she knew why. Apparently, her heart had known something she hadn’t.

“Excuse me.”

She jerked her eyes forward to find she’d nearly collided with a guy on the sidewalk.

And then she lifted her gaze—to see the very man who had kissed her senseless in the
alley.

Chapter 3

S
he pulled in her breath sharply as their eyes met, his shining with recognition. “Ginger?”
he said. It would have struck her as funny—him addressing her as if that were really
her name—if she hadn’t been so filled with shock and horror.

Because this couldn’t be happening. What were the chances? Did he
live
here or what? Maybe he worked here, actually. She hadn’t thought of that before.
But what did it matter?
Don’t just stand here gaping at the big, handsome lug—do something!

Yet the only thing she could think of to do was . . . run.

Because she wasn’t equipped for this. She wasn’t prepared. Even if she’d just begun
to let herself think she could possibly want more of what had happened in that alley—she
couldn’t have it. She couldn’t. And she wouldn’t have dreamed she’d actually have
the option—that she could conceivably come face-to-face with him again.

“Excuse me,” she said—though it came out far too weak, almost whispery, for her liking.
And then she stepped briskly around him and took off up Ocean Drive as quickly as
her pumps would carry her.

Though he said nothing and made no attempt to stop her—thank God—she sensed, felt,
his eyes on her as she went. And despite herself, she wondered what exactly she was
running from. Him? Or some dark, undiscovered part of
herself
?

* * *

R
ogan sat on the same bar stool he often occupied at the Café Tropico, talking to the
same pretty bartender, drinking his usual beer. But it was Friday night and business
picked up earlier than usual, so Dennis’s niece was busy, leaving him to do more thinking
than talking—which suited him fine.

He still couldn’t believe he’d nearly collided with the buttoned-up redhead that way.
South Beach was a bustling place, so a chance meeting seemed unlikely. That was why
he felt safe hanging out at the Café Tropico so much—enough people came and went each
night that he felt fairly inconspicuous, even after getting involved in that tussle
with Martinez.

Though today the redhead hadn’t looked nearly as buttoned-up as before. He’d had a
much better view of her body this time and he’d liked what he saw. Her expensive-looking
little top had clung to her tits. Tits he couldn’t help thinking would fill his hands
nicely.

Of course, she’d still
seemed
just as buttoned-up. She’d looked like a deer in headlights, something he’d seen
more than a few of back in Michigan. Meeting up with him again had clearly scared
the shit out of her.

He’d thought about chasing her. But he had work to do. And if she was that dead set
on getting away from him, who was he to try to stop her?

You stopped her from getting away last time, though. And you both liked it. A lot.

His groin tightened now as he remembered the heat of those kisses last week. He’d
had
sex
that hadn’t been as good as those kisses.

And still . . . it had been a moment in time, nothing more. After all, hadn’t he decided
he was just fine with short liaisons that revolved around heat and sex? And this had
definitely been about heat—and sex, too, even if that part hadn’t actually happened.

And no matter
what
he wanted from a woman these days, other things generally took priority in his life.
There was little Rogan held sacred: his H.O.T. brothers, his real brothers—and now,
lately, his work.

But not women? Love? Ever?

What about Mira? Is Mira sacred to you?

He swallowed back the small sting of pain that still pierced his gut when she came
to mind. But it
was
small now, barely there. And yeah, Mira
could have
been sacred to him. If she’d wanted to be. But she’d made another choice, a choice
he even respected because he knew damn good and well that it was probably the best
one for her. And life went on.

As for his H.O.T. brothers, he’d trained with them at police academy more than ten
years ago now. He and a select group of guys from his class had been placed on the
Hostage Ops Team, given special training after showing aptitude for handling hostage
and other high-pressure situations. He knew that particular feather in his cap had
been part of what had gotten him a job on the Miami force—and that he’d be ready to
use those skills whenever they were needed. And even when they weren’t put to use
directly . . . well, the same skill set that made him good in hostage situations also
made him an effective cop every single day.

But more than the training he’d received, what had lasted was the bond he’d formed
with the other guys on the team. They were his best friends. They got together each
summer now, sometimes more than once, and those long weekends were always like coming
home, no matter where they happened to take place. And sure, he was closer to some
than others, but he considered each and every one of them brothers in a way.

And his real brothers? Hell . . . the truth was, he didn’t want to think about them.
He missed them, and most of his memories of them were sad ones. But they were still
sacred to him and always would be.

Taking another drink of his beer, he spun on the stool and took in the whole room.
Like usual on a Friday night, the crowd was heavier—the same mix of tourists and locals,
some eating, some drinking, a few dancing.

It had been just about this time last week that all hell had broken loose in here
and he’d—somehow—ended up making out with Ginger outside. His groin tightened a little
further as a slow smile overtook him. Hell, maybe he should have chased her.

If it had been only a moment in time, after all, what had caused this
second
moment in time a little while ago? And she very clearly hadn’t come past the Café
Tropico looking for
him
, hoping to see him, or it wouldn’t have panicked her so much. So the more he thought
about it, the more it seemed . . . almost fated or something that he’d run into her
again.

But that was silly. He didn’t believe in fate. He believed in learning from the past
but leaving it behind. He believed in living a life that made you feel good. And what
made him feel good right now was bringing down bad guys, making a difference. When
he was young, maybe he hadn’t become a cop for the right reasons. Maybe it had seemed
like a way out. Maybe it had seemed like a way to feel power over other people after
a shitty childhood. Maybe it had made him feel tough. But now it was about making
a difference, doing some good, and he liked having grown up enough to know that, to
have reached that place.

Yet making out with Ginger in that alley—hell, that had made him feel good, too, even
if in a whole different way. That had been about power as well, but also pleasure.
And the power . . . it was about the power to bring that chick a pleasure she didn’t
even know she wanted. And once he’d achieved that, for him it had brought about a
weird sort of nirvana. It had only been kissing, yeah, but something about making
that woman give in to feeling good, give in to wanting him, had brought a euphoria
over him he wasn’t sure he’d ever quite known.

Yeah, he should have chased after her if fate or God or whoever had brought her back
into his path.

But—shit, he’d have to fret over that later. Because right now Junior Martinez had
just walked in the door.

Fortunately, the guy was alone for a change—which made him a lot more vulnerable.
He slinked through the room in his usual wife-beater and a pair of Ray-Bans, looking
every bit the thug he was—yet keeping a lower profile than usual. It instantly made
Rogan think he might be up to something. Rogan had been spending quite a bit of time
here on his off hours and he’d yet to witness anything that looked to him like a drug
deal, but maybe tonight he’d get confirmation that Dennis’s suspicions were on the
mark. And since you couldn’t arrest a guy until he’d committed a crime, this was actually
good news.

Rogan held his spot on the stool, watching as Martinez sidled through the crowd near
the dance floor, then slipped into the back hallway toward the bathrooms.

Maybe he had to piss. But that hall also led to the storage room where Dennis thought
deals were going down. After two locks had been broken, damaging the door itself in
the process, Dennis had stopped bothering to fix it.

Rogan almost took a last drink from his beer bottle, but thought better of it—instead
he slid easily off the stool and moved unhurriedly toward the back hall.

First he stepped inside the men’s room—nobody there. And there’d been no sign of Martinez
in the hallway, either.

Exiting, he remained in the hall, listening. It was difficult with the sounds of people
and music from the restaurant, but the short corridor provided just enough of a buffer
that he could hear Martinez talking to someone.

Unfortunately, it was hard to make out many words, but Rogan heard only one voice,
so Martinez was probably on a cell phone. Very likely talking to whoever was supposed
to meet him there.

Rogan considered his options. He could stay put in the hallway, but that would seem
suspicious and he’d be pretty damn noticeable to whoever was meeting Junior—not to
mention if Junior had occasion to come back out into the hall himself. Dennis’s office—locked
and untouched—lay right across from the storage room, so maybe he could get the key
and wait inside. He wouldn’t be able to hear much from there, but at least he’d have
some cover while he watched for a buyer—or, for all he knew, a seller. If this was
an official investigation, he’d be able to set up surveillance in the storage room,
but for now, he was on his own and this was as good as it got.

“Hey, buddy—you waitin’?”

Rogan spun to see a tourist—giving himself away with the tacky South Beach T-shirt
he wore—pointing to the men’s room door. And hell—calling attention to the fact that
there was a guy standing around in the hallway for no good reason.

Rogan kept his voice low, quick, as he said, “Nah, it’s all yours.”

And even as he spoke, Martinez went quiet for a moment, then could clearly be heard
saying, “Hold on a minute, man—I gotta check somethin’.”

Shit. Junior had tuned in to the fact that somebody was hanging out in the hall—and
Rogan took that as his cue to walk away, fast.

Fortunately, it took just a few quick steps to emerge back into the main room, sifting
his way into the crowd near the dance floor—which had filled up quickly once the band
had started to play. Even so, Rogan felt obvious and had the sixth-sense feeling he’d
been spotted—Martinez still hadn’t seen his face, but he might well have caught a
glimpse of him from behind, and though he couldn’t risk turning to look, he suspected
he was probably being followed through the club now.

So Rogan kept moving—swiftly but not so hurriedly as to call too much attention to
himself. He did his best to blend in further with the crowd, thankful that Friday
nights still got busy here—yet he continued feeling vulnerable, still suffering from
the nagging sensation that Martinez had indeed seen him ducking from the hallway and
was still quietly pursuing him through the crowd. Could be he was imagining the whole
thing, but Rogan wasn’t usually paranoid, and ever since he’d come to Miami, he’d
learned to trust his instincts on such things, discovering they were usually spot-on.

When he found himself near the old side entrance that led into the alley, exiting
seemed the wisest move. Not that he had much time to examine his options. But leaving
the club would bring this to a conclusion one way or another. Either Junior wouldn’t
follow him—or he would, in which case Rogan would be ready and waiting.

Once outside, in the same alley where he’d ended up not long ago—for a far different
reason, yet still, ironically, related to the potential drug dealers he was looking
to bust—Rogan let the door shut behind him, stepped to one side, and tensed for the
confrontation that might be coming.

* * *

D
arkness had descended over the streets of South Beach by the time April’s meeting
with Kayla ended. Walking away, she thought back over the discussion and felt it had
been productive. Though she hoped this would be the last time she’d have to venture
to this neighborhood for a while. She liked it better after dark, she decided as she
strolled back up Ocean Drive past the old art deco hotels. Probably because she felt
a little more invisible now, like it was easier to blend in.

Next: Time to go home and rest.

Though she should also call Gram and check on her. Allison had been scheduled to take
the kids over tonight to visit, so April should probably make sure that hadn’t meant
dumping them there while Allison went to do something else. Arthritis had both of
Gram’s knees in bad shape these days, and she could barely get around the apartment,
let alone chase little kids. Oh, and that jogged April’s memory—she also needed to
text Amber and remind her she’d promised to take Gram to the doctor tomorrow.
And hold her to it this time. No matter what excuse she gives or how important she
makes it sound, don’t volunteer to leave work and take her yourself.

Resting sounded all too good. She felt mentally exhausted.

And, of course, she’d had the insanely bad luck of running into Mr. He-Man Alley Kisser.
How had
that
happened? The timing had been . . . amazing. And horrific.

Running away from him had not been one of her finer moments, but again . . . she was
mentally exhausted. So she forgave herself.

And really, even if it hadn’t been terribly mature, she wasn’t sure there had been
a smarter option even if she’d felt perky, energetic, and fully on top of her game.
What good could have come from having a conversation with him, after all?
Unless you really did want . . . more . . . of him . . . there was nothing to say.
So running off perhaps made more sense than the alternative. And of course she didn’t
really
want more. Of course she didn’t.