Desert Angel (Family Justice Book 2) (24 page)

Was he being an arrogant shithead by showing off his shiny toy? Yes. Yes, he was. He was a guy, after all. A guy who worked fucking hard and earned himself a motherfucking Porsche. And right now, he wanted Angie’s hot little Spanish ass in his sexy car.

Ignoring the hesitation, he instructed her, “Get in,” as he held the door open and motioned for her to get moving.

It was funny on some level—the way she obediently responded—because it was so unlike her. Then again, it was also kind of hot as hell, too. Was it just him that affected her that way? Just by not taking any more of her crap and reasserting that he actually did wear the fucking pants, she’d stopped being a petulant child. Conscious of the signals he was getting, he was making quick, on his feet, tactical decisions.

When she was seated and had dropped her purse between her feet, he took hold of the seat belt before she could and set about buckling her in. It was a simple power play. One that he rather enjoyed as he pulled the strap across her chest and adjusted it accordingly. Snapping the buckle, he ran his fingers beneath the strap to ensure her comfort and managed to stroke his fingers across her breasts along the way.

She was panting slightly when he’d finished. Satisfied with the way the harness crossed her body, he took a second to enjoy that he was finally able to discern her shape beneath the butt-fugly sweater. Thank god for seatbelts.

S
OMEHOW, AND SHE REALLY WASN’T
sure how, Angie had been railroaded into having dinner with Parker. And going out with him meant she was currently hyperventilating inside his very flashy Porsche as he drove them to god knows where.

What was it that was so scintillating about watching a man handle a fast car? Was it the visual of his hands gripping the steering wheel and manipulating the gear shift? Maybe watching his thighs tense as his feet moved on the pedals. Perhaps the intense focus and concentration. Parker hit all those notes.

Big hands. Rugged thighs. Steely focus. Angie shivered and just barely cut off a telltale moan before she gave herself away.

Say something, you dolt!
her inner voice snapped.
Don’t just sit there. You’re a grown woman. Act like one!

“Um . . .” She had to clear her throat to continue. “I’m not really dressed for anything too nice.”

When the car idled at a stoplight, he looked over at her. It had grown dark so all she had to help her see his face was the light from the dashboard. He had a pensive frown on his face. What was he thinking?

“You look fine,” he grunted.

The light turned green, and he accelerated the car; his attention back on driving. So much for dazzling him with her wit, beauty, and charm.

Oh, for heaven’s sake! Really? Dazzle him? When in bloody hell had she gone from wanting to rip him a new one to wanting to captivate his attention?

They drove for a few more minutes in uncomfortable silence. Ready to leap from the car at the first opportunity, she was relieved when a valet approached her door as the car slowed in front of a restaurant with a candy apple red awning. Not waiting for her companion, she struggled awkwardly to climb from the low car in her tiny skirt, silently cursing at the indignity.

Parker came around the car and tossed his keys to the valet. “Park it in the owner’s section,” he instructed the bow-tied young man. “The name is Sullivan. Gus will give the okay.”

“What is this place?” she asked while straining to see the name above the awning as he bustled her toward the door. “You know the owner?”

“Yeah. A neighbor of mine, actually. Gus Foster. Great guy.”

Ushering her through the door, he walked them straight to the hostess stand where a young woman met them with a broad smile.

“Welcome to Fon Do Me,” she said. “Do you have a reservation?”

The Sullivan charm oozed so thick when he answered, Angie practically picked her feet up to avoid getting stuck in the goo.

“No reservation needed, darlin’,” he drawled. “Permanent guest list. Family table. The name is Sullivan.”

She tapped on a screen a few times then smiled and nodded. “Here you are, Mr. Sullivan,” she observed, as she swiped and scrolled a few more times.

“You’re in luck tonight,” she told them. “The alcove table is empty this evening, sir, and you’ve come at the perfect time. The chef has a fabulous new hot pot in tonight’s specials.”

Nodding his approval, Parker motioned to the hostess. “Lead the way,” he said as she picked up two leather bound menus and showed them to their table.

Parker held her arm and whispered close to her ear. “You’ll like this, Angel. Get ready to be amazed.”

Did he realize that dealing with him was like skipping puddles in the rain? One second, he was dismissive and she wanted to step around him and hide. The next, he was Mr. Friendly, making her long for a chance to jump wildly into the center of the deepest puddle just for the sheer hell of it.

The hostess placed them in what ended up being a very private, very cozy alcove with plush, curved seating and low lighting. Behind the banquette, arranged in an art niche, were a collection of ornate empty frames and a deep hurricane illuminated with a flickering candle.

It was all so charming and romantic. Angie sighed, wishing she were there in a killer outfit wearing fuck-me-till-I-scream shoes and under completely different circumstances.

After leaving them with their menus, which she noted Parker took control of, the hostess scurried away and Angie finally found her voice.

“Is this place seriously called Fon
Do Me?
”

He laughed and shot her a good-humored smirk. “Yeah. Clever play on words, huh?”

She had to admit that yeah, it really was! Boy. Would she ever love to do a PR event for a unique business like this. A cascade of random ideas sprang to mind. Do Wop sing-along nights. Do and Brew featuring local craft beers. Little Dipper tastings for kids. The possibilities were endless.

He tapped her lightly on the nose and chuckled. “Your face just lit up and you got this faraway look in your eyes.”

“Sorry. Occupational hazard,” she quipped. Angie shrugged her shoulders and smiled as she dropped a cloth napkin in her lap.

“You as an event coordinator. Didn’t see that one coming, Angel.” Parker smiled warmly at her. “My folks still rave about the celebratory event when your label topped several wine festival rankings. You did the family proud.”

She felt herself warming as his approval seeped into her bones. Angie was damn proud of the work she did. No, it wasn’t exactly what she’d gone to school and trained for, but over time, the idea of pursuing something diplomatic in the Foreign Service died a slow, agonizing death. Her decision to follow Sophie and their parents to Spain altered her career path, and instead of international relations for the government, she did it for the vineyard.

Having a hand in continuing her family’s legacy was deeply personal to Angie. It wasn’t easy; there were hundreds of vineyards and wineries competing with them. Each success wasn’t a stopping place—only a stopover to the next challenge. Hearing him say that he was aware of her accomplishments was an emotional watershed moment for her.

A waiter discreetly approached and introduced himself. Parker took immediate control of the situation as he issued orders, asked questions, and never once requested her input. Who the hell made him king?

“I ordered a bit of everything,” he told her when they were alone again. “The chef will go all out because I played the owner’s privilege card.”

He seemed amused by the situation and winked at her. “Friends in high places, you know?”

So much was going on inside Angie that she honestly wondered if she was about to jump out of her skin. His lighthearted wink was almost the end of her control. The whole vibe he was putting off had her tied up in knots.

While in his very impressive car, she had to fight back the urge to explode like a hyperactive toddler—touching everything, pushing buttons, and adjusting dials. She’d squirmed in the contoured seat, dug her fingers into the decadent soft leather, and purred. This guy played with the big kids now.

Apologetic and on-his-knees Parker was gone and in his place was a serious grown-up who was challenging her on her shit. Ballsy move but, rather like Meghan playing the big brother Alex frowny card, also probably unavoidable.

But acting like an adult around him wasn’t easy, due entirely to Parker’s smoking hot body and that
oh-so-familiar
suck-my-dick attitude. She was at a disadvantage—didn’t have any clue what to expect next, was dressed like a slob, and had given up on trying to get out ahead of whatever was going on.

He was staring at her quite intently. Instead of sliding into the deep curve of the plush banquette to sit closer, Angie had stayed across from him. She could feel the heat radiating off his big body beneath the small cloth-covered table between them. Afraid to move in case she accidentally bumped or nudged him, she actually slid her fingers under her thighs to keep them still.

Parker leaned slightly and put his forearm out on the table, his hand loosely fisted. She stared at his hefty, masculine hand with less than a foot separating her from his touch. His hand rolled palm up, fingers extended as he captured her eyes with his. Expectation hung in the air as he waited. The invitation was clear. He wanted her to give him her hand. Even set it up so it looked like her decision, but make no mistake about it, his expression told her that he fully expected her surrender.

Eyes narrowed, she hissed at him and ungraciously put her hand quite reluctantly into his grasp. “Dammit,” she mumbled.

He sat forward, both elbows on the table now as he scooted close and took her hand in both of his. Turning it over, he slowly swept their palms together, then with one hand holding hers, used the forefinger of his free hand to brush her open palm.

Angie shivered—it was an unexpected, full-body shiver—and it wasn’t because she was sitting too close to the air conditioning vent.

His light touch against her palm and across the sensitive skin on her exposed wrist made her squirm. Damn. She wished she were wearing something sleeveless instead of a granny sweater because his teasing caresses feathering up her arm would have melted her completely, making her the fondue on the menu.

When his fingers slid against her wrist, she was sure he could tell how quickly her heart was pounding.

“I’m a lawyer,” he drawled in his sexiest, growly voice. “I don’t do ‘he said, she said’ cases. They’re counterproductive and waste a lot of energy.”

He was talking about them. Angie held her breath. She wasn’t aware that she had until he squeezed her hand and murmured, “Breathe, Angel.” Her chest heaved with the effort.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

What? Look at him? Okay. He was beautiful, after all.

He lifted her hand briefly to his lips for a gentle kiss upon her knuckles and said, “I don’t think you’re a nuisance, and I never did. The crush you had barely equaled the fantasies I had for you and believe me when I tell you, no one is more thankful than I am that you aren’t my sister.”

Angie gasped. Twice. What the hell? He’d unexpectedly just owned, in his own unique way, every single awful reason their relationship imploded. Having all the wind taken out of her sails meant continuing to be pissed off just became a moot point.

“We used to be friends once. Good friends,” he teased with a sly smile. “There’s no reason why we can’t try again. To be friends, I mean.”

He seemed so sincere. His warm brown eyes and unwavering gaze as he held her hand were making butterflies do an aerial show in her stomach.

Here, at last, was her opportunity to have her say. Spout something grown-up sounding and profound. Maybe recover a smidge of her dignity. It would be helpful if they could, at the very least, level the field and stow the past. Move forward. As friends.

Gathering what she wanted to say, Angie sat back in awkward silence when Parker suddenly released her hand and quipped, “Well, good. That’s settled then. And just in time, too. Here comes our dinner.”

Her mouth fell open. No, seriously. Completely slack-jawed. Was this guy kidding? Angie’s brows bumped together in a telling scowl. That was it? He got to play the mea culpa card and boom! What? All better now? Was she invisible or something?

She sat there and stewed as the wait staff piled food and fondue equipment on their table while Parker kept up a running conversation about what was on the menu. Judging by the endless plates and dipping options, the only thing missing was the actual kitchen sink.

It took so long to get everything laid out and explained that she was positively squirmy and sputtering by the time they were alone again.

Holding up her hand in the customary
talk to it
gesture, she snapped, “Was that some kind of lawyer speak ‘cause that shit may fly in the courtroom, but it most certainly won’t move me.”

He arched an eyebrow at her outburst and sat back heavily. Staring at her. Damn him. Was that a flash of amusement she just saw flit across his face?

She was on a roll and couldn’t very well back down now that she’d started.