Page 17 of The Eleventh Hour

“Oh, I am. Can’t you tell?”

I lean against the balustrade near her feet and face the party.

“The real question in all this is why are you not enjoying the party?” Her teasing almost covers up the accusation in her tone.

“Parties are better in books.”

She laughs, a deep, husky sound that goes right to my cock. “I haven’t heard that before.”

“I suspect because we aren’t normally stolen from our nice, warm caves very often.” I flash her a grin, and the sun shines down on her face, and every thought just melts away. Pale grey eyes with long black lashes. Her cheekbones are high and her lips full. An image of her lips after I’ve kissed her senseless goes through my head. She shrugs out of her jacket, and I choke.

I can’t remember the last time I was with a woman. It wasn’t important. I’m wishing I’d taken the time now. I try to bring my thoughts back to the task, but I can’t help but feel I’m in dangerous waters.

“So…who are you here for?”

She looks at me blankly.

“Bride or groom?” I clarify.

“Oh, I knew the bride when we were kids.” She looks out at the garden and sighs. “So long ago.” She blinks and focuses those strange eyes on me. “What about you?”

“Ah, I’m a guest of Mr Hastings,” I fumble out the lie. Grasping the name of the guy who led us into the party.

“Ah, Richard. Must be fun having him as a friend. Lots of laughs.”

I grimace at her knowledge of the family. Am I going to get caught out in this lie? “It has its moments.”

“My name is Jax.” She holds her hand out to me.

I hesitate, and then take her hand in mine. My hand tingles, and even though we pull apart quickly, I’m flustered by the way my body is reacting to her. The way I’m having trouble pulling my eyes from her.

“Rafael,” I add belatedly. “My name is Rafael Whitelock.”

My cheeks burn, and I stare at the waiter delivering refills. What is wrong with me? I’ve never been this affected by anyone.

I suddenly remember this is her. This is the woman we need. No, that’s not fair. It’s cruel.

“I’m looking for someone who can give me a tour of the cities’ historical sites. Do you happen to know anyone?” The damn line seems so stupid now, but I can’t think of anything better.

“Depends on how much you’re paying.”

I shrug. “Money isn’t an issue.”

She looks at me, and I feel like I’ve said something wrong, but I can’t figure out what it is. I frantically search my mind but decide to just take a chance.

“Can you help me and my brother?”

“I don’t live up here.”

“I’m not looking at the pretty sites. I want to explore the history of Hurricane. It’s a pretty interesting place with an old asbestos mine, don’t you think?”

She gives me a look that implies she thinks I’m mad.

“The park no one goes to and, uh, the Dead City.”

A get the faintest smile. “So you did your research.”

“Of course,” I say, offended.

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