Page 9 of Her Bad Boy

That got her rolling her eyes at him and him laughing, which she decided was altogether too nice a sound.

"Besides, I always carry two. You never know. I got into the habit during my lean and hungry high school years—when I actually did have two tires go on the beltway outside D.C., during rush hour. Not pretty." He took something else from the trunk, then closed it. "Purell?" he offered.

That was it. She was impressed. "I'm fine, thank you—thanks to you."

He stared down at her for a second, then said, "You know, if you wanted to say thanks, there's a great hole in the wall burger joint not too far from here. I don't think you've had dinner yet, either, and I know I haven't. I would even be willing to show great restraint and not even bankrupt you when I order, even though that place has the best burgers and the freshest fries you've ever tasted in your life." Lucas could see that she was debating, so just in case it helped, he added, "No one will know us, no one will see us."

"The best, huh?"

He just stood there, grinning back at her.

What was she thinking?! Was she actually going to go on a date with him? She couldn't! It would be professional suicide! Even just letting him help her as he had was iffy, at best! Was she going to throw away her whole career on a man who she had no doubt had killed several people in cold blood for perceived insults to his honor, or getting in his way, or stepping on his toes or whatever other completely unacceptable, criminal reason?

He could see how torn she was, not liking how tense she was getting about it, so he put his hands up. "I retract the suggestion. You don't owe me anything. A good deed is its own reward, although I'm sure, as you know, it's a drop in the proverbial bucket. You have a nice evening, Miss Barstow. I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to wait in my car while you get in, then probably follow you a little way down the road once we're out of here to make sure that everything's all right with your tire, but I'll peel off after a few minutes, I assure you."

He'd already turned towards his car when she said, so quietly that he almost missed it, "But those burgers and fries sound awfully good."

As soon as she said it, she knew she was going to regret it—but now wasn't the time for that, and the rest of their time together wasn't looking good for that, either. She had never done anything like that in her life. She was—as he quickly became fond of calling her—as if reminding her of her fallen status—a good girl.

But that first date was pretty magical, at least at first—she had worried that it might be awkward to be with him, but it turned out that he was delightfully gentlemanly and observed all of the old-world courtesies she knew she shouldn't like or want but did. He didn't just bring her there, he escorted her, complete with door opening, offering her his arm as they walked from the parking lot, seating her first before taking his own and even—she thought—the slight touch of his hand on her back as she preceded him into the restaurant.

And they quickly found that they had a tremendous number of things in common and the evening flew by, accompanied by exactly what he'd said it would be—incredible build your own, full fat, in-house ground burgers—none of that lean shit, served up unapologetically with shoestring fries cooked fresh for every order in lard, and with plenty of salt, vinegar, mustard, ketchup and even mayo on the table to go with them.

He held to his word and didn't really bankrupt her, but it was close! Damn, the man could put away food like nobody's business! He had three huge burgers to her one-half pounder that she only ate half of, and he ordered endless fries—which he jealously protected against marauders—so even though she was full, she could still sneak the occasional one from his plate.

Not that he didn't extract a price for each one. At first, it was just a raised eyebrow. Then two raised eyebrows. Then a loud, scolding, "tsk."

Eventually, that escalated into a look very much like the one he'd given her when she'd tried to pay him earlier. But it only stopped her for a short time, although he was on his third burger by then and slowing down, so he noticed her little forays into his stash more often, and the next one got the back of her hand slapped smartly.

"Ow!"

But she held onto that fry and ate it with relish—or rather, ketchup—right in front of him.

But then he laced his fingers together on the table before him and leaned towards her a bit, his tone entirely too intimate for her comfort. "You'd better enjoy that one, because I'd be willing to bet I can make it your last," he challenged.

"Oh yeah, big man? What're you going to do if I filch another one?" she taunted, pinching her fingers together near his plate threateningly as if she was going to do it right this second, right under his nose.

His answer was completely unexpected, delivered in a low, husky whisper with such absolute sincerity that she didn't doubt a single word as each one sent her further and further into sub space, right then, right there. "If you take another fry from my plate, young lady, you're going to find yourself lifted up out of your seat and draped over my knee, where I will paddle your impudent little behind until I think you've learned your lesson."

All of the breath left Allie's lungs in a whoosh, and she plastered her back against the cushion of the booth as her entire body literally contracted at what he'd just said. And she couldn't even come back with the usual, highly indignant, "You wouldn't dare!" because she knew like she knew the sun was going to come up in the east tomorrow morning that he absolutely did dare!

While she did her best to pretend that what he'd said meant absolutely nothing to her—all the while knowing that he saw through her badly contrived, barely there cover up—all he did was sit there and grin at her as if he'd just won the lottery.

Lucas couldn't remember the last time he'd been so attracted to a woman—and one who was apparently—despite the fact that she might not like to admit it—into spanking, too. But she was starting to get that trapped, nervous, anxious look again around the edges, so he drained his soda and hollered, "Cheryl, can you get us a couple of milkshakes, please?" Then he reached over and took her hand—the one that had been stealing all his fries—holding it gently. "The shakes are better than the fries or the burgers. Whole milk, whole cream homemade ice cream, with homemade whipped cream on top. I'd be willing to bet that you like vanilla, don't you?"

She nodded, still pretty stunned by her own body's reaction to him.

"What kind?" their waitress hollered back.

"Vanilla and make mine chocolate," he answered, staring straight at her as he said, "I knew it, even though you're not vanilla at all, are you, Miss Barstow, beneath all of that prim properness?"

Allie had never felt so discombobulated in all her life. She didn't have much experience with men—she'd never wanted much. She'd just wanted to go to school and live her life and not get mixed up in all of that kind of stuff.

But she was far from asexual, and the man sitting across from her was far from a socially awkward damned near virgin. He knew exactly what he was about, and suddenly, the enormity of what she'd done—of where she was—what he'd said and how it had made her feel made the world try to slip away from her, as if it was happening somewhere in the distance, away from her.

"I have to go."

She tried to bolt out of the booth, but someone was still holding onto her hand and didn't seem at all interested in letting her go.

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