Desert Angel (Family Justice Book 2) (40 page)

To his utter surprise, instead of teasing him for being so forward, she shifted in her seat, crossed her legs the other way and leaned heavily on the console between them. Dangling her hand down his side of the console, she lightly touched his leg.

“Better?”

Instead of answering her question, to him the response was obvious, he asked one of his own.

“Do you like touching me?”

“Yes.”

“Would you have moved closer if I hadn’t complained?”

“I don’t know. What do you mean exactly?”

A statement and a question.
Women.

“If you wanted to touch me . . . would you? Without me asking?”

She reached down and this time kneaded his thigh before backing off.

“I don’t know,” she admitted as her head went back onto the seat. “It’s hard with you and don’t you dare snicker at my choice of words.”

Snicker? Fuck no. She was opening up to him, and he wanted more of where that was coming from. “Hard, how?” he asked with real curiosity.

“I feel like I have to prove to you that I’m not a little girl anymore and feeling that way just sucks. I mean, you’ve always been older. You’re you. The way you’ve always been, but me? I’ve changed, Parker, and part of that change is not understanding where the lines are with us. Are we family friends? Old buddies from way back? What are we besides the lead attendants in an upcoming wedding? What are we doing here?”

She certainly had cut right to the chase. Good for her. He was glad she wasn’t a game player. Demanding he open up to her with his thoughts and feelings meant she wasn’t just fucking around.

“Do you need me to spell out for you who we are and what we’re doing, baby girl? Because I will.”

He was telling her to think about what she was asking because he’d gladly lay it out for her line by fucking line—whether she was ready to hear it or not.

She sighed deeply. “No,” she murmured hesitantly. “I like flying without a net.”

Parker chuckled. Classic Angie.

“Fuck, Angel! Nobody knows that better than me. See these gray hairs?” he asked pointing at his temple. “All of ’em are from that time you made me watch you fucking tandem skydive. Worst forty-five minutes of my life.”

She laughed gleefully and clapped her hands at the memory.

“Oh my god, that was so much fun! Do you remember, Parker? It was autumn and the trees were so colorful. I remember when I jumped out of the plane thinking that it was like parachuting into a picture postcard.”

She smiled dreamily and reached out to feather her fingers along the side of his head.

“The gray suits you, counselor,” she said huskily. Quickly sitting back after that, she turned her head and grinned cheekily, adding, “So I don’t feel in any way sorry for giving them to you.”

She didn’t look away for a long time, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he was driving, he would have gladly gotten lost in her gaze. As it was, he was cursing the car’s interior for being so unromantic and was feeling uncommonly sulky because concentrating on navigating the SUV was cutting into this opportunity to indulge in some Angelina.

Alex, Meghan, and the limo suddenly made sense beyond the nudge nudge wink wink backslapping they all did. It wasn’t just about indulging their trysts, it was more about cultivating every spare moment into quality time when it was just the two of them. Parker was quickly seeing a lot of things through different eyes.

“Do you mind if I play with the radio?” she asked—but, in typical Angie style, she was already fiddling with the controls.

Bypassing all the news stations, she studied his music presets like a research scientist on the brink of a breakthrough.

“Spa music?” she wondered aloud. “Doesn’t seem like your speed.”

Parker chuckled and nodded his agreement. “Blame Red. It’s her damn fault. I listen to it on the drive home. That way, instead of dragging my work into my private life, I use the drive time to disconnect. Center, as Meghan would say.”

The way she was looking at him gave Parker the tingles.

“What?” he asked.

She looked down for a moment, then turned her amazing flashing sapphire eyes on him. Right before he tore his eyes away to concentrate on the road, she smiled impishly and purred, “Work hard. Play hard.”

The shameless reminder of what, for Parker, was his personal motto got an instant reaction from his dick because she left out what came after . . .
Fuck Hard.

And just like that, the moment evaporated as she went back to scanning the programmed satellite stations.

“Ooooh, I like this song,” she said so quietly he wondered if she was thinking out loud.

Turning the volume up, she was singing along and wiggling in her seat as she ramped up to a full in-car performance.

Hmmm.
Girl singer. Sounds young but not a teen queen. He thought about it as she sang and then it hit him.

“Taylor Swift?” he asked—incredibly pleased that his old ass had put it together.

Angie beamed at him and kept on singing. They shared an easygoing love for all things musical. He’d never given it much thought because, well . . . because it had just always been that way. Both their families valued the arts and pressed all the kids into playing at least one instrument. And Angie, not only did she play most stringed instruments, she also mastered the piano and had a magical singing voice.

An odd warmth slowly crept through him. Music was such a huge part of his world and not only because he’d been in a band since he’d sprouted pubes. Hands down, one of the coolest fucking things about having baby boomer parents was the incredibly broad musical tastes they enjoyed. As a result, Parker’s personal musical catalog included a mixed bag of wide-ranging sounds and genres from Elvis and Patsy Cline to AC/DC and Black Sabbath. Eighties rock was his go-to; he willingly admitted to enjoying the occasional musical and would still drop everything for a Foo Fighters show.

Right until this actual second though, he never considered how little of his real self he’d shared with the parade of women who romped through his life over the years. Unforgettable although highly energetic sexual escapades—nothing too heavy or serious—never amounted to more than some pretty shallow, superficial diversions.

But this engaging creature belting out a catchy pop tune? Shit, man. Shallow and superficial never had a ticket for admission to the Parker and Angelina show. She was inside him. She knew stuff. Their lives were inexplicably in sync—even though the age thing fucked things up.

He had to get them out of this car soon because he was on borrowed time now. Remaining polite and mannerly was almost impossible now that Angie was back to being Angie again.

The song ended which set her off again, searching the stations for something she liked. Instant gratification, much? Just like her tendency to act out, Angie’s impatience was something he’d like very much to tame. Not too much—just a little. After all, her enthusiasm and joy for life was what made her so unique but sometimes she really and truly did rush in where other angels would fear to tread.

Lowering the volume back to conversational level when another song ended, she relaxed in her seat and giggled quietly.

“Sorry ‘bout that but I love Britney. She’s playing Vegas you know,” she squealed with delight. “Maybe after the wedding when Mom and Dad stay at the Villa during the newlywed’s honeymoon, I can talk someone into going with me. I’d love to see her show.”

Storing that choice nugget of info away, he reached over and yanked on one of her curls. “You’ve got a show of your own coming up. Can’t wait for Saturday night.”

“
Aargh.
” Her groan was adorable. “I’m actually nervous! Those girls take this karaoke shit seriously,” she told him emphatically. “Hey! It’s not just remembering lyrics with them,” she whined when he laughed. “They’ve got dance moves and stuff like that.”

Parker knew all about those dance moves. Having seen the ladies perform previously, he was well aware of the T & A show they put on. Hell! They were smart as shit for playing it that way too because it made people love their shtick and got the crowd riled up and ready to party. Just what a good karaoke party was supposed to do.

“Fuck, yeah!” He laughed. “Those raunchy burlesque routines they do certainly pack the bar.”

She looked slightly horrified at his description, and he nearly died laughing when she started sputtering furiously.

“Burlesque routines? They are not! What do you mean?”

Slowing for traffic as he eased the big SUV into the turning lane, he looked over at her and openly leered the impressive cleavage she was so obviously flaunting.

“Tell me, baby girl,” he husked. “Will there be boob jiggles and booty wiggles?”

“Parker!”

“What?” He laughed affably. “Are you telling me that I’m not to look forward to you shaking those delicious tits in my face?”

She was full of sexist outrage—the sort that made his dick hard—trying to defend using her body to advantage . . . and failing miserably at it.

“There’s nothing wrong with some simple . . .”

“Bump and grind?” he taunted.

“Fuck! Parker!” she yelled, clearly exasperated that he was tying her up in verbal knots. “That’s not at all what I was going for and you know it.”

They were pulling into the parking lot of the restaurant he’d decided at the last second would give him an opportunity to show off the little bombshell beauty he had on his arm tonight.

Their past relationship complicated the simplest things like going out to dinner because once they’d became lovers, they instinctively withdrew from making public appearances. The truth was that all they really did was fuck. Nonstop. He wanted to set that part of things right. Now that they didn’t need to hide being together, Parker was filled with a desire to show her off. His Angel. Having her by his side was the most fantastic thing . . . like, ever.

“Come on, Gypsy Rose Lee,” he teased with a big grin. “I’ll let you entertain me . . . all you want.”

Hopping out of the car, he made it to her door and pulled it open while she was still in mid-mutter about wanting to kick his ass or something like that.

Even though he knew the move would be seen as highly proprietary, Parker pulled her close with an arm around her waist, handed off his keys to the valet, and cracked a lame joke with the doorman as he ushered her into the restaurant.

So far—so good.

All joking aside, Angie had a sudden urge to talk to her mother. She could use her mom’s Zen-like calm and snarky humor right about now. One look at the man-in-black thing Parker had going on and the always irreverent Ashleigh Marquez would be the first one to start wagging her eyebrows and fan herself.

She’d already decided that she needed to call home anyway. Once she had dinner with Aunt Wendy and Uncle Matt, the phone lines between Arizona and Spain were going to light up big time. She wanted her mom to hear about this thing with Parker, whatever it was, from her first. One thing her folks had drilled into all their heads was . . .
don’t put us in a position of hearing things from other people.
Always tell us first. Don’t embarrass your mom and dad.

Somehow, she’d find a way to explain and then she wanted to ask her mom what she would do in Angie’s position. She definitely wanted to be with this man. Oh, hell yeah, she did. But what about him? Was she what was best for him? And how did she go about figuring all this out?
Help me, Mom!

As they walked to the hostess stand, she glanced down and caught sight of his hand where it lay curved around her cinched-in waist.
Oh!
It looked so huge and his fingers seemed so long and sturdy.

Her shoulder rubbed against his side where he held her fast—she felt small and fragile next to his impressive size even though she was neither of those things. He didn’t smell entirely like himself, though. What the heck was that all about?

He let go of her as he spoke with the hostess, giving Angie an opportunity to glance around the lobby and really notice where they were. She knew the place of course, everyone who lived anywhere within a hundred mile radius had at least heard of Jim’s Ranch—a steakhouse with a Michelin rating and the cachet of having been the former home of Gentleman Jim’s, a legendary private club that catered to the bordello inspired.

The lobby was covered with pictures and newspaper clippings about the historic gentleman’s establishment and all around were artifacts from the original club. Dark wood walls, beautifully worn by time, reflected the lights and flickering candles in every nook and cranny.

Large red leather benches and couches provided seating while unusual art nouveau pieces softened the severe look of the décor. It was eclectic and inspired and she was immediately enthralled.

When her eyes finished the three-sixty visual once-over, she turned toward her date and had to catch her breath. God. He was so handsome and there was something about the black clothing that made her feel excited and all tingly. It made him look solid, imposing—maybe a bit menacing. She liked it.
Very much.

What she also liked . . .
very much
was the way he was looking at her. There was no mistaking exactly what he thought when she turned and saw him. His eyes said it all. She felt . . .
consumed.