"So I'm supposed to sit here and let you paw me?" He made a humming sound of affirmation. "For how long?"
"For as long as it takes. Every half hour or so we'll order fresh beers so Ray won't get mad at us for taking up his valuable space."
How a man could talk so rationally while nibbling so dedicatedly, she didn't know. She squirmed away from his seeking lips. "I can't drink that much."
"When no one is looking, pour the beer on the floor. I doubt it will ever be noticed."
"So do I," she said with a shiver, lifting her foot off the floor. It was sticky with substances she thought it best not to identify. "Are you sure this is going to be worth it?"
"What's the matter, sweetheart? Ain't you having a good time?" His hand found the placket of her blouse and plucked at the buttons.
"No."
"Do you want to go through another roadblock? Or did you enjoy driving that poor cop a little crazy?"
"You're despicable." She leaned back against the hard, lumpy upholstery of the booth and tried to be passive under the gropings of his hands and mouth.
"I'm not convinced you're hot for it, sugar, and neither will they be. Put a little more into it," he growled, his lips very near her mouth.
"No. This is disgusting."
His head snapped up and he stared down at her coldly. "Why?"
He had taken offense. Why? Because he thought her comment was a racial slur, or because he thought she was maligning his lovemaking expertise? And either way, what the hell did she care if he was offended or not? "I'm not accustomed to making out in public places, Mr.—"
She never said his name. She never had a chance. He mashed his lips over hers and sealed his name inside. It was a functional kiss, impersonal, delivered only to keep her quiet. He kept his lips closed. Still, Aislinn's insides somersaulted and she couldn't utter a sound.
Which was the point, after all. When he finally lifted his mouth off hers he whispered, "Careful."
She merely nodded her head, wishing that her heart would cool. One thing she knew, she wouldn't provoke him with any more questions or conversation. She didn't want him to kiss her again.
She was ambivalent as to why, but she did not want him to kiss her again.
Thankfully no one took much notice of them. It seemed to be an unwritten rule that the patrons of the Tumbleweed minded their own business unless invited to do otherwise.
Though he gave every semblance of being absorbed in his lovemaking, Greywolf was fully aware of what went on. His eyes were never still, though he made them appear slumberous with arousal by keeping his eyelids at half-mast. From beneath the hood of his brows, he watched each face for signs of recognition, but no one paid them any attention. Ray—or his waitress when her nails had dried—carried beer to the booth when Greywolf drunkenly called out an order for it. Beyond that, no one paid them the slightest heed.
Customers drifted in and out. Most stayed only for a couple of drinks before leaving. Some drank alone. Others entered in groups of two or three. One played on the pinball machine until the pinging bells and flashing lights nearly drove Aislinn crazy. When he finally left, the television provided the only distraction. Situation comedy reruns now held Ray enthralled.
For Aislinn the time dragged by. Not because she was bored. Her nerve endings were sizzling. She kept telling herself it was because she was waiting for a potential savior to walk through the door. But honestly she thought her skittishness had more to do with Greywolf's foreplay.
And what else could it be called? What other term applied to the way he slid his fingers up through her hair, holding her head still while his lips nibbled their way down her throat. Or the way he squeezed her upper thigh when the waitress delivered their beer. Or the way his lips were wont to play around her ears.
"Don't," she moaned once, when that particular caress caused goose bumps to break out over her arms.
"The moaning is good. Keep it up," he whispered as a pair of truckers moseyed past the booth on their way to the pinball machine.
He took her hand and slipped it inside his shirt, holding it palm down, against his skin. Aislinn made a feeble attempt to withdraw her hand, but Greywolf wouldn't let her. As long as she was forced to touch him, she submitted to her own curiosity. As unobtrusively as possible, she curled her fingertips into the hard flesh. Her thumb moved a fraction. It encountered his nipple. It was erect.
He sucked in his breath sharply. "Godamighty," he cursed. "Don't do that." His body had been tense all afternoon, but nothing compared to the rigid, still way it pressed against her now.
She snatched her hand back. "I'm just doing what you—"
"Shh!"
"Don't say—"
"Shh! Look. On the screen."
She glanced toward the TV. A Phoenix newscaster was reading a story about the search for the elusive prison escapee, Indian activist Lucas Greywolf. A picture of Lucas was flashed onto the screen. Aislinn stared at it, barely recognizing him. His hair was cropped short, almost shaved.
"Not a very flattering picture," she said dryly.
The corner of his mouth twitched with the hint of a smile, but his attention was riveted to the map of Arizona that was now being shown. As he had guessed, the media weren't doing the law-enforcement agencies any favors; they were pinpointing where roadblocks had been set up. Even though leaked news stories like this sabotaged police work, each television station's main goal was to scoop its competitors.
As soon as the announcer switched to other newsworthy events of the day, Lucas scooted to the edge of the booth. "Okay, let's go. And remember to weave. You've supposedly drunk several beers."
He offered her his hand, but his attention was diverted to the door as it was opened to admit another customer. Greywolf's curse was soft, but no less scorching, as a uniformed man came strolling in.
* * *