Page 5 of Charming Deception

I try not to look directly at her eyes.

Or her breasts.

The sundress has little white flowers on it. The short skirt flows loose, but the waist is cinched, the bodice fitted, and I have a direct view down her mouthwatering cleavage.

I clear my throat again. “Okay. But you’re kind of blocking traffic.” Again, I sound like a rude, impatient asshole.

I guess I am.

She glances past me, at the dead-quiet residential street where the only sound is the purr of my idling Bentayga. There’s no other car around, no other humans other than the ones tucked into their mansions.

“Uh… I’m sorry? I’ll just get this fixed real quick and get out of your way.” She laughs under her breath and tingles actually run down my spine, like she’s swept her fingertip along it. “That high curb murdered my suitcase. The zipper split when I rolled it over, and once it started, I couldn’t get it to stop.”

“Why don’t I help you.”

“Oh, thanks, but I don’t need any help.” Her tone is fake cheerful, a wary edge beneath.

My gaze slides to the lacy bits of what has to be lingerie peeking out of the suitcase. And the white lace bra on the pavement that she snatches up.

She stuffs it out of sight.

“See, I knew this might happen…” She digs in her other bag, a well-worn hiking backpack that in no way suits her current outfit, and pulls out… bungee cords.

I watch, my irritation/fascination growing as she stuffs her remaining personal effects into her split suitcase, slams it together and wraps the whole thing in red bungee cords, all while trying to keep smiling. “No problem.”

“You carry bungee cords around?”

“You have to be prepared for anything,” she says brightly, really forcing the I’ve got this vibe. She rights the rolling suitcase. It resembles a sloppily made sandwich, bits of her lacy clothes poking out like wilted lettuce in the summer heat.

My eyebrow creeps up. “Large chance that’s falling apart on you again.”

“I’m not going far.” She gets to her feet and brushes off her dress, her flushed skin coated in a fine sweat that makes me think of luxurious summer sex.

“We can give you a ride.” Even as I offer, I mentally punch myself in the balls.

Getting in a backseat with this woman will hardly make my day any better.

“Oh. Um…” She glances at the SUV, where she can clearly see Locke behind the wheel, neck tattoos and all, and probably weighs the risks of getting into a car with two men she doesn’t know, one of whom looks like a well-dressed felon. “I really don’t need a ride. But thank you.”

Good. See? You’re not driving her anywhere.

We stare at each other.

She looks so… vulnerable… standing there with her sad little suitcase, the ruffled edge of her sundress fluttering limply.

No. She looks irritating.

Just walk away. She’ll be fine.

It’s a safe neighborhood.

“Well, good luck,” I force out.

Why am I still standing here?

“Thank you.”

“Nice meeting you.” Why I throw that in before I walk away, I’ll never know. It wasn’t nice. We didn’t meet. We didn’t exchange names or shake hands.

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