Page 28 of Dangerous Devotion

I’ll wake her in the night, my hips rocking into her, her hand clenching in my hair. The promise of this makes me want every night for the rest of my life to be the same. It would be stupid and dangerous to consider it. To love a woman that I can’t let go. I saw my dad’s mistresses either run from the violent lifestyle or die trying to stay. I don’t want that for Serena. She deserves better, deserves to be free of my demons the same way she should be free of her father’s debts.

The thing is, I’m not noble enough to be a hero, even the morally gray kind. There’s no way I’d give her up for her own good. I figure she can make her own decisions, and she keeps saying yes to me. I’ll take it, that’s for damn sure. I’ll take this woman any way I can get her.

15

SERENA

I’m not the only one who’s late I quip to myself. Jack Marino is always on time. Right now, he’s keeping me waiting. I sit at the diner, drinking decaf coffee which feels pointless. I look at my phone, scroll aimlessly to keep from watching the clock. I breathe through my mouth to try and ignore the fried food and maple syrup smell of the place. I wish I knew where he is, why he’s running late. I have to stop watching the door. It’s pathetic.

When ten minutes pass, I check my texts again, make sure this is the right place, the right time. He hadn’t meant six AM instead of six PM, for example. There is no mistake. I’m here. He isn’t. I message him, my exasperation bleeding into some worry. His job, after all, goes beyond meetings in a board room. There are certain risks involved.

My leg jiggles up and down, nervous, as I wait for a reply. I try to drink my decaf, grimace and push it away. The waitress knows I’m waiting for someone. When she comes by with the coffee pot to offer me a refill, I shake my head.

“He’ll be here any minute,” I say with forced cheeriness. She nods but I think she pities me; believes I’ve been stood up. He won’t do that to me, I want to protest, but that’s exactly what someone would say who’s being stood up. They’d make excuses about traffic or imagine a car crash. I don’t need to let my imagination run away with me here. Borrowing trouble, my dad has always called it, when I conjure up the worst possible outcome.

I’ve licked my lips too many times and dig in my purse for lip balm. While I’m fishing around for it, my phone dings and I grab it like it’s my life raft. Be right there, parking now, his text reads. Relief that he’s okay floods me, that no disaster has happened, but then comes frustration hot on its heels. No apology, no excuse. I frown at my phone and put it away.

When he slides into the booth opposite me, I’m toying with a sugar packet, studiously not looking at him. I’m pouting and I know it. I have the sense to be a bit ashamed of myself. I look up. He looks disheveled, hair just a bit messed up, shirt rumpled.

What the hell was he doing?

“I’m sorry. I got held up.”

“I was worried,” I admit.

He reaches across the table and takes my hand.

“I’m here. Everything’s fine,” he says, his voice tight.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” I say, a challenge more than a question.

“There’s no problem. I know this is different from the places I usually take you, but I’ve loved this place since I was a kid. They have the best pancakes. You have to try the pecan caramel ones,” he says, handily changing the subject.

“Jack,” I say, pulling my hand back.

I look him in the face, see a flush high on his cheekbone. His eyes are bright, a little wild.

“Why didn’t’ you kiss me?” I ask, suspicious.

“Not that I don’t want to. It’s a family place. It’s not a romantic setting.”

“You’ve kissed me on a park bench in the middle of the day, and that’s a family place,” I challenge. Something is going on and he isn’t telling me. I’m not sure if I am more offended that he thinks I’ll ignore it or angry that he doesn’t just come out with it.

“I was carried away. That happens a lot when I’m with you,” he says ruefully. “It’s probably a shock to see that I can be appropriate in public.”

“You were appropriate at the charity gala. It was like an old-fashioned movie, walking in on your arm, dancing to the orchestra. What are you hiding, Jack?” I say, exasperated. “And let me see your other hand while you’re at it, the one that’s been in your pocket. If you try to tell me I’m imagining things, I’ll walk out of here. Show me your hand and come over here and kiss me if nothing’s the matter.”

He slides out of the booth and comes to me then. I reach for him, taste the whiskey on his breath before our lips meet. He isn’t a man who drinks heavily or in the afternoon. I let him kiss me, mind reeling. He’s breathing harder than he should be, and there’s a tightness around his mouth. I touch his chest, feel the sweat soaked fabric and my hand slides down his body of its own accord, searching until I find it. The sticky wetness of blood on his side. He draws a breath in sharply and I reel back, looking at him.

“Don’t say it’s just a scratch,” I whisper. “We’re getting out of here now.”

I toss five bucks on the table and nudge him out of the booth. We go to the parking lot and I ignore the protests that he’s fine, he’s had worse.

“Yeah, I’m sure you rode on horseback for three days and then caught the outlaws, cleaned up the whole town and they made you sheriff for life,” I snap. “What the hell are you thinking? You should be at the ER, or at least calling me to check you out. What happened?”

“There was a skirmish. A lieutenant of mine got overexcited and made a threat. Our new associate took offense and when I tried to break it up, I took a knife to the side. It was one strike. The guy who did it practically shit himself when he realized who he’d stabbed. He was going for the dumbass who started making threats and didn’t see I was in the mix until it was too late.”

“You’re saying you don’t blame the guy who stuck a knife in your gut?” I say incredulously.

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