To the Edge (28 page)

Heavens. Wouldn't that just be too awful for words?

"What?" he growled when he realized she was looking at him.

She had to lean in close to be heard above the music and the talking and the laughter. "I like Esteban."

"Everyone likes Esteban."

"And I like this place."

He considered her, then shrugged.

"You didn't think I would?"

Another shrug. A long swallow of his root beer. "Didn't know. Just figured it would take your mind off things."

"Like Steven Fowler?"

He stared at his bottle of root beer, wiped his thumb along the damp label. "Not that it's any of my business, but what did you ever see in that guy?"

She thought about it, shook her head. "I'm not sure. I think... I don't know. Maybe it was more circumstantial than anything else."

"Circumstantial how?"

She took another sip, licked salt off her lips. "It's a woman thing. You wouldn't understand."

He groaned. "I'm going to regret this, but try me."

Since he was as reluctant as he was curious and since she felt a need to explain, she decided to give it a go.

"OK. Let's say you're a twenty-nine-year-old woman. It's been a very long time since you've been in a serious relationship ... mostly because everyone in your circle knows you as Darin Kincaid's daughter and you figure any interest from the opposite sex is generated by an avid interest in Daddy's money first and you a distant second.

"Along comes a man who is wealthy in his own right, who seems to be impressed by you, not your bloodlines. Maybe you're a little... unsettled at the time. Maybe you've been thinking you've been too focused on your career and you're missing out on something ... I don't know. Something more. Something important And maybe you think Steven is what you've been missing in your life, especially when he convinces you that you're what's missing in his."

She shrugged, looked out at the dance floor where a lovely Latino couple was putting some spice in the salsa as they moved in beautiful harmony to the music.

When Nolan didn't say anything, she cast a glance his way. "Or... suppose
your
take on the situation was painfully accurate and I was stupid."

"Yeah. Well. We've all done things we regret."

Something in his eyes said he had many regrets. And something in his posture said his regrets were staunchly guarded and strictly off-limits.

"I liked your brothers," she said, deciding to exercise the better part of wisdom and not push for information. "And Eve. She seems very sweet."

He snorted, but there was affection in his almost smile. "Sweet as a hand grenade. People often make the mistake of misjudging those blond bombshell looks. Believe me, there is no marshmallow inside. She's smart, shrewd, and has no compunctions about going for the jugular if there's a need."

"I take it she's gone for yours a time or two?"

This time, he couldn't hide the smile or the pride. "Oh yeah."

Before she could decide if she wanted to press him to elaborate, a Latino woman with striking good looks, glossy black hair, and a body made for lingerie ads glided toward the table.

"No-Ion," she purred, nipping her long hair over her bare shoulder and reaching for his hand. "You are so bad to stay away for so long."

Nolan rose at her slightest tug and returned her long, familiar hug... while Jillian tried to decide if the knot of tension fisting in her chest was what she thought it was.

Yeah, she decided when the woman pulled away, then planted a lingering kiss on each of Nolan's cheeks. It was. She was jealous. Well, well. Just one new wrinkle after another.

"You look good,
mi amor."
The woman looked deep into Nolan's eyes as she clasped his cheeks in her hands, then ran fingers tipped with siren red nails down the side of his face. "And Esteban tells me you have brought a friend."

The dark eyes that had adored Nolan turned to Jillian. Measuring, assessing.

Measuring and assessing what?
Jillian wondered.
The competition?

She was ready to dislike the woman on sight, if for no other reason than she was so excessively beautiful, stunningly sultry, and wore the flowing floral skirt and off-the-shoulder blouse like a heroine in a south-of-the-border movie. Beside her, wearing a black camisole beneath a buttercup yellow jacket, and a short yellow skirt, Jillian felt like a kindergarten teacher. A dowdy old maid kindergarten teacher.

"Who have we here, No-Ion?'

"My ... friend," he said hesitantly. "Jillian. Jillian, meet Mama."

This
was Mama? This sultry Salma Hayek look-alike was the Mama that Esteban took care of?

"Did I not tell you she was a pretty cat, darling?" Esteban joined them at the table.

"Complete with claws," Mama said, smiling with satisfaction at Jillian. "Keep them sharp,
chica;
you will have use of them if you want to keep this one. But you have no worry with me. Unless, of course, you hurt our No-Ion."

Esteban reared back his head and laughed as Mama snuggled up to his side, her gaze lingering on Jillian's for a moment longer in a clear warning that if she did hurt their
No-lon,
the consequences could be dire.

Jillian was still thinking about Mama's incorrect assumption that she had any kind of hold on Nolan when Maria arrived with a basket of chips and salsa.

"I must dance with my woman," Esteban announced with a lusty smile, and steered Mama to the dance floor.

"Amazing," Jillian said when she could find the words. "Look at them. My God. They're incredible together."

What they were was pure sensuality. At first glance, Esteban was an aging, white-haired, grandfather type of man. Couple him with Mama and the chemistry sizzling between them as they moved to the hot Latin rhythms, however, and Esteban transformed to a virile and dangerously attractive man.

She'd never seen anything like it. By the time they'd finished the dance, their eyes locked on each other, their arms entwined, bodies sliding sensuously close, Jillian felt as if she'd witnessed an intimacy generally reserved for the bedroom.

Unsettlingly aroused, she worked her way out of her jacket and hooked it over the back of her chair. "Is it getting warm in here?"

When she looked up and into Garrett's eyes—and found them locked on her breasts like steel to magnet—she understood at least one of the sources of heat.

She felt herself melt into the chair as he swallowed and looked away.

"Maybe we should go," he said in a dark voice.

He may have dragged his gaze away, but she still felt the heat... and the hunger. Clear to her bones, she felt it. The residual effect of his blatant appreciation spread warmth from the tips of her breasts to pool low in her belly. Never in her life had she seen such desperate desire in a man's eyes. Desperate and raw ... so raw it frightened and excited her.

Hot. Cold. Harsh. Soft.
He was a study in contrasts and intensity all right. She'd never encountered anyone like him. One minute, she trembled in anticipation of the thought of what it would be like to make love with him ... in the next she wondered if she could survive a physical encounter with the man.

He would not be gentle. And he would not be meek.

A shiver cooled her flushed skin.

Yeah, she thought, branding herself as a coward, maybe he was right. Maybe they should go.

But
should
wasn't her favorite word at the moment, and if it had been she would have attached it to something other than
go.
Like life is short. For all she knew, she could be dead tomorrow. Maybe she
should
live dangerously for once and find out exactly what Mr. Garrett could teach her about sex and sensuality and all parts in between.

When he rose, however, and, stone-faced again, dug into his hip pocket to pull out his wallet, she knew the moment had passed.

Sanity ruled.

How typical.

Disappointed, she cupped her fishbowl of a margarita glass in both hands and allowed herself a final, deep swallow. But when she stood to reluctantly head for the door, all she saw of Nolan was the back of his head as Mama dragged him toward the dance floor. The next thing she knew, Esteban had clasped her hand in his, kissed it, and with a laugh guided her out there as well.

She was laughing, too—as much from surprise as uncertainty—when he pulled her into his arms.

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a dancer."

"Oh no, no. Everyone dances at Mama's. Just feel the music. Yes. Yes. Like that. Very good."

And to her surprise, she did feel it. And it felt good. Following Esteban's expert lead, she moved to the music, felt the rhythm and the beat.

And more heat. Lord, it was hot. A bead of sweat trickled between her breasts. More dampened the fine hair at her nape. The dance floor was packed with warm bodies and spicy scents. The air reverberated with licks from the sensual Latin guitar. Everyone was having a good time. Moving to the music. Drifting on the tempo. Even Nolan, whom she caught a glimpse of with Mama, was smiling. And oh, did the man have some wicked moves.

It was hard to keep track of him and concentrate on keeping step with Esteban, but by the same token, it was impossible not to. Nolan was a dark, graceful animal, lean hips swaying, sensual mouth smiling, as he gave in to the music and let himself go.

If the change in Esteban had been amazing when he'd danced with Mama, the transformation in Nolan was indescribable. All the hard edges seemed to have melted to smooth, fluid lines. Lines Jillian wanted to stroke. Even his face, usually hard as stone, had softened to a languid, slumberous beauty that stole her breath and deregulated her heartbeat to the point where she felt light-headed.

The crowd swallowed them and she lost track. Probably a good thing. Her heart couldn't take much more of this. Still, she couldn't help but search for him. She was so busy searching, in fact, she didn't realize that he and Mama had danced up beside her and Esteban. In a move as fluid and effortless as breathing, Esteban twirled her into Nolan's arms, wrapped Mama in his, and left the two of them together.

For a moment, all Jillian could do was stand there, her hands braced on Nolan's hard forearms. She stared up into the face of a man who had terrified, bullied, protected, and disarmed her as no other man ever had. Terror was far from her mind, though, as he seemed to snap out of his own momentary shock and start moving to the music with that slow, loose-limbed grace that had fascinated her so.

The first sensation she became aware of was more heat. It radiated from his body in undulating waves. With it came his scent as she gingerly slid her hands up his arms to his shoulders and started moving with him. The sagey, sexy, intoxicating scent of male she associated with him surrounded her. She breathed it in. Deep and slow. And felt the tips of her breasts, now pressing against his chest, harden to tight, painful peaks.

She struggled for equilibrium ... and lost. All she felt was awareness. Of his nearness, his hardness, of a sound welling up from deep in his throat that could have been pain or appreciation or defeat.

Whatever it was, it sent her tummy tumbling. So did his hands as he wrapped her tightly against him, lowered his head so his stubbled cheek brushed her temple and he drew her tighter still.

Oh God. Lately it seemed that all she had to do was look at him and a tension coiled so tight inside it made her chest ache, her muscles clench. Now she was touching him. And he was touching her. And the ache intensified to a need.

The dance transitioned to something more. Something intimate and suggestive and deeply arousing as his hips brushed her stomach, and the length of a very apparent erection nestled against her belly.

She supposed she should be shocked. But what she was, was entranced. She loved how he felt moving against her. She loved the feel of his hands on her waist. As restless as his ragged breath, they slid to the small of her back, then to her hips, his fingers splayed wide as he gripped, kneaded, caressed, and glided lower.

"This," he whispered against her ear, "was a really, really bad idea."

At least, that's what she thought he said. Her senses were so consumed by the music and the man, she tuned out everything around her and just let herself experience one of the most sexually charged moments of her life. The sway of his hips was pure invitation; the subtle brush of his thighs against hers, a caress; the feather of his warm breath against her face, a promise.

And his mouth. She'd always known it couldn't be that hard and unyielding all the time. He'd proved it late one night at her table. There was gentleness there, and passion. As his lips whispered across the shell of her ear, his message was very clear. His mouth was made for other things than scowling. Lovely things. She flashed on a sensual image of his lips tracking across her bare skin, enveloping a nipple, tugging.

They were dancing. Merely dancing. But it felt like so much more. A lingering caress of his hand on her bottom told her where he really wanted it. A moment when his thigh wedged between hers clarified what else he'd like to press there. The heel of his palm sliding slowly upward along her ribs pressed inward when it reached her breast, plumping her against him until she was so hypersensitized her legs could barely support her. The man left no doubt what he would do to her if they were alone.