“You okay? I need to get back out on the floor.” She looked him up and down quickly even as she lifted the serving tray into position. “If you have time, stick around for a few minutes,” she offered with a wink. “I’ll be back in about ten.”
He didn’t say he’d stay, but he grinned, the expression fading the instant she left the room. He plopped the flowers haphazardly into the vase she’d placed on the island, then slipped to the door, peering around the corner to scope out the situation.
The serving girl was working the far side of the room while elegantly dressed partygoers mingled around the perimeter. Dean grabbed a glass of champagne off the sideboard and sipped as he casually sauntered across the floor toward the rooftop garden area.
Outside, the warm air moved against his skin as the ocean breeze picked up, dragging the scent of salt and smoke into his lungs.
“Amazing view.”
Dean nodded at the man who was just stubbing out a cigarette. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the railing as he pretended to admire the horizon.
“Going to be a fabulous night.” Dean glanced over the edge of the railing, delighted to see that, as he’d suspected, the rooftop suite was set back from the rest of the hotel, leaving him a clear view of the balcony below.
The other man stood and headed back inside. Dean waited all of five seconds after he was officially alone to grab the railing and swing himself over it. He glanced down, sliding farther to the building side as he skillfully lowered himself hand over hand. Opening his hands, he dropped, freefalling ten feet to the balcony one story below. He landed like a cat, absorbing the shock as he crouched low and stared into Emma’s suite.
He was just going to talk to her, then he’d leave. There was nothing creepy about him breaking in to her hotel room—not too creepy.
Okay, fine, it was creepy, but it was also too late, since he was already stepping through the open door into the living room.
But now for a dilemma. Did he call out or track her down first?
Dean paced slowly through the room, noting the papers covering the tabletops, bold lines slashed across notepads everywhere. Emma’s artwork—God, something inside cut deep like a slashing knife as the memories hit. She used to doodle on his homework as they’d sit beside each other for hours in the library or local greasy spoon. His fingers tangled with hers so she’d have to draw left-handed.
She hadn’t cared. They’d just wanted to be together, at least until he’d gone and fucked it all up.
Screw this pussyfooting around. “Emma?” he called, stepping into the hallway leading farther into the suite.
He entered a bedroom, and barely ducked in time as something swung past his head.
“Stop—it’s me,” he shouted, hurrying to get out of range of the baseball bat she wielded like a pro. This? He hadn’t expected. “Emma, stop.”
She threw the bat at him and he deflected it, turning back to confront her when a blow struck his chin, snapping his head back. He threw up his hands, but she already had a tight grip on his shirt, fists dragging him forward as he lurched off balance from the shock of the blow.
But it was the knee smack dab in his groin that drove the air from his lungs and sent him to the floor gasping for breath. Seeing stars. Feeling a whole lot of sorry for himself and his balls.
“Emma.”
He wanted to say it commandingly, but the noise that escaped him was a cross between a wheeze and a moan, and he lay curled in a fetal position for a while, hands cupping his crotch.
Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea.
Dean cracked open one eye and rolled cautiously to his back only to discover Emma was now standing over him, legs spread wide and sheer determination on her face as she pointed a Glock at his gut.
Nope. This hadn’t been a good idea at all.
Chapter Six
Emma had been timing him. Since the banging on her door ended, Suz had warned her it would take Dean approximately fifteen minutes to somehow get into her apartment.
According to her watch, it had been eighteen. “Have you never seen a closed door before? Do you know what it means?” she demanded.
He curled up slightly, his cheeks ashen white. “Of more immediate interest to me, have you ever heard the saying ‘don’t point a gun at someone unless you intend to kill them’?”
She deliberately shifted the nine-millimeter, the trajectory now in line with his groin. “Or maim. I grew up in Texas, too. You don’t have to lecture me about guns.”
Dean lifted those dangerous gray eyes to hers, speaking softly. “I just want to talk. To apologize, and as soon as I’m done I’ll get out of your hair. I promise.”
Emma made a rude noise but reluctantly lowered the gun. “You almost had me until that last comment.”