Forbidden Fruit (Corine Solomon #3.5)

Forbidden Fruit (Corine Solomon #3.5) Page 3

Before answering, I count to ten, then answer his hesitant tap, relishing his stunned expression when he takes in my platform boots, striped tights, short leather skirt and black corset top. His gaze doesn’t reach my face for a full ten seconds, and then he jerks his eyes upward, looking so guilty that I could shove him against the wall and take a bite. He cherishes a mistaken image of me as a helpless flower, and I want to scratch it off like a one-dollar lottery ticket.

“I’m ready,” I say, smiling.

He looks like he’s torn between a compliment and telling me to go put on some pants. Instead, he only nods and ushers me downstairs, where his green Forester is parked. I notice his ride has seen better days and is in the process of being repaired, a little at a time.

“What happened here?”

He frowns, seeming not to want to talk about it. “I… Car chase. Any thoughts on where you’d like to eat?”

“Isn’t that your job?” I ask, teasing him. “To read my mood and figure it out?”

“I can’t tell if you want tacos or Chinese, just based on—” The words cut off as he registers what I really want. And he stumbles from the intensity.

Here’s a hint—it’s not food. I can’t tell you what it is about him; I’ve known hotter guys and I didn’t spend my time thinking about them naked. I cop to being obsessed, Officer. You should definitely cuff me now. Part of me wonders if this attraction springs from the spell my mother mentioned. Maybe the magick tampered with my memory and made me crazy for Jesse Saldana. If so, it’ll be awkward when the mojo wears off. But I still wouldn’t regret any bedroom action between us because he moves like he knows how to show a lady a good time.

Jesse opens the door for me, the consummate gentleman, and I flash him some thigh as I climb into his SUV. “Thanks.”

He narrows his eyes, dark and shadowed beneath the streetlights. “I care about you, Shan, but you shouldn’t push me.”

“Too bad, because that’s exactly what I plan to do,” I mutter.

Circling around the truck, he doesn’t catch that, and it’s just as well. After thinking aloud, he decides to take me to a dive his folks like. It’s apparently a family place, noisy and crowded, one of those tiny neighborhood joints that you’d be afraid to try if you didn’t already know the food was delicious. I can surmise why he’s chosen such a venue; I’m supposed to be a good girl if there are children running around and not allude to the fact that I want to end the night on top of him.

We’ll see.

He tells me about his day as he drives. Apparently it’s not always thrilling to be a cop, and I hear about the extensive interviewing he did. His partner died a while back, and they just assigned him a new one. Her name is Stella, and Jesse likes her. He’s also grateful that she’s ten years older than he is and happily married. This carries us all the way to the small, adobe restaurant with hand-painted lettering on the front that reads TITO’S. There are lots of cars parked on the street too, always a good sign.

Deliberately, I sit in the car until he comes around and opens my door. He may not want to think of this as a date, but it definitely qualifies in my mind. I hop down and take two steps toward Tito’s. People are sitting out front, eating tacos from Styrofoam trays. Rising up on tiptoes, I can see there are no tables open indoors, but there are picnic tables out here. This is the opposite of romantic, exactly what he was going for.

“It smells great,” I tell him.

He was expecting me to object, but they’ve got proper pork roasting on a spit behind the counter, which means these tacos will taste right. There’s nothing like tacos al pastor, loaded up with cilantro, green sauce, chopped onion, and fresh pineapple. I pull up short, frowning. Why do I know that? For a few seconds, there was a voice in my head, making me think I’m an expert on Mexican food.

“Have I ever been to Mexico?” I ask Jesse.

It’s a stupid question…because how the hell would he know? He’s frowning, though, and he puts a hand to his head, like thinking about it hurts.

“Maybe,” he finally offers.

“Are you all right?”

“Just hungry, I think. I skipped lunch.”

“Then go get some food. I’ll grab a table.”

“Right away.” He pretends to be irked that I’m coming across bossy, but I see the smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

You can’t fool me, Jesse Saldana. You think I’m pretty.

It doesn’t take long for him to come back with drinks in paper cups and two trays piled with tacos of varying types. But they’re all made right, none of that crunchy shell nonsense, stuffed full of ground beef. Damn. I have no idea where this attitude came from, but I’m apparently awash in scorn for Mexican fast food.

“This is great,” I say, digging in.

“Most women don’t like it. No ambiance.” He stills, seeming to realize what he’s implying there.

Too late. You said it. You can’t unsay it.

“I’m not exactly the poster girl for normal.”

“Normal’s overrated.”

“You saying you like what I’ve got to offer?” I smile at him, holding his gaze for several heartbeats.

“Shannon, stop.”

I widen my eyes. “What?”

“Flirting.”

“Flirting never hurt anyone. You’re a big, strong man. You can take it.”

He swallows. “Seriously. Quit trying to make me want things I can’t have.”

“But…I’m pretty sure you can.” I make a show of checking my phone for prior engagements. “Yep. I can pencil you in. But it’d be better if we go to your place. Maria might eavesdrop on our moaning and banging around. Do you break things during sex? I always wanted to knock over a lamp.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“So corrige me, all night long. I’m positive I could be reformed by hands-on attention.”

“Eat your dinner,” he says in a suffocated voice.

“Will I get candy after? Just so you know, I’m not getting in your panel van.”

He swears softly. “I’d think you were screwing with me, if not for—”

“The way I feel to you?” I whisper.

“Yeah.”

I swear, you could scoop up the atmosphere with a spoon. He’s still, but I notice him breathing faster. This is dirty pool, but I’m not trying to suppress how much I want him. I spackle it with levity, but this longing is a tidal wave. I can’t get enough oxygen. There are people all around us, but I have the crazy feeling we’re inside a bubble; the world recedes like a hitchhiker in the rearview mirror.

“I’m not going to lie,” I tell him. “Or pretend. It’s up to you how to respond.”

He clenches a hand on the table, apparently on edge. Then his voice drops deep and low, so I lean in to catch it. “I don’t break things. I go gentle and slow.”

“That’s a shame. I want you to be wild.”

“You know I’m not a bad boy, right? I’m the one mothers love to meet and their daughters love to fuck over.” Jesse sounds slightly bitter.

For a few seconds, I consider sending the dead to traumatize Jesse’s exes. Then I choose sanity instead. But I can’t decide if his penchant for crazy girls makes his refusal to explore the chemistry between us better or worse. Does his reluctance mean I’m too batshit to date him or not nutty enough?

“Being a sweet guy doesn’t mean you have to repress your desires.”

“What makes you think I am?” He scowls at me, devouring half a taco in one angry bite.

“Every guy has fantasies he’s afraid to share. And if you’re slow and gentle all the time, it’s because you’re trying to make a woman feel loved. But what men don’t understand is—sometimes we just want to be fucked. We need a sexy beast, not Prince Charming.” I watch his reaction to that, then add, “If you’re doing well, you make us feel cherished out of bed, and then we have rough, dirty sex.”

He groans, scrubbing a palm across his face. “I’m starting to suspect you’re a demon, a Luren, maybe.”

“What’s that?”

“Look it up,” he mutters.

Smart ass. I’ll be on Area 51, searching that word, right after I get home. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure Jesse means to drop me off untouched. But he looks pained now; I hope it’s because his pants are too tight. Unfortunately, the picnic table doesn’t offer a subtle way to check.

“You know what your problem is?” I ask.

“I’m sure you plan to tell me.”

I beam. “You so get me. Here’s what I see, cowboy. You put women on a pedestal. You worry about looking after them. Then they get sick of being handled with kid gloves and they bail on you.”

Jesse seems honestly astonished. “Did Eva tell you to say that?”

“No. I haven’t seen her since I moved, though I get the occasional email.”

“How can you possibly know that? We haven’t been friends that long.” But I hear the doubt in his voice. He’s not sure when we met, either.

“Someone roofied us,” I say. “Magical roofies. It’s the only explanation.”

But this seems like a good time to elaborate on what my mom told me, so I do. Maybe Jesse will have some idea who might’ve wanted us to forget. I have an awful suspicion that I did something horrible, and this was done to protect me. I imagine setting my ghosts on a human being and shiver, staring at my fingers.

Are these the hands of a killer?

I’d get away with it, too. If the dead suck all the energy out of a person, they fall down and don’t get up. It would look like a heart attack. At length, I fall silent, waiting for his response.

“You’re sure about this?” He’s got his cop face on now, simultaneously alert and alarmed. “Your mother’s reliable?”

“Not in life, but maybe death has improved her.” I suck it up and ask the hardest question ever. “Do you think I’m a good person?”

“Yeah,” he answers without hesitation. “You dress dark, but you feel like sunshine to me, Shan. Pure light.”

Nobody’s ever said that to me before. I’m sure, no matter what else I’ve forgotten. I’d remember if a man had ever made me feel like the witch Dorothy threw water on, melting from head to toe. Naturally, I can’t let a moment so touching pass unremarked.

“I would bang you like a gong,” I tell him.

“You’re too young to talk like that,” he snaps.

“I just did, so clearly that proves your hypothesis false. I suppose if you added a Mormon control group, you might find that some females my age don’t communicate in such a way, but—”

“I’m starting to understand why men kiss women to shut them up.”

“Feel free. I wouldn’t find it disrespectful.”

He shoves to his feet, goaded. Jesse hovers on the brink of grabbing me, but instead he clutches the tatters of his self-control and clears the remnants of our meal. But no joke, he slams the rubbish into the bin like he’s punching a wall. I love the fact that I’ve riled him. He’s usually so sweet and calm.