She deftly grabbed the car keys as she passed, amazed she didn’t drop them considering her agitated state.
Even in the lobby outside the bar, the air-conditioned atmosphere tasted musty, but at least she could breathe again without the cramped feel of the tables and too many bar patrons watching her put the moves on Witt. The dizziness of that last gulp of champagne faded away but its warmth settled into her belly. She punched the Down button, and when the elevator came, she hit G2. The doors began to close, stopped suddenly by a big male hand.
Witt’s hand. She adored those big hands.
He boarded. The doors closed. They were alone. Her pulse pounded, as if this were actually some clandestine, illegal rendezvous.
She thought of that sexy elevator scene from some movie, the title of which she couldn’t remember anymore. Witt stared. He wasn’t pissed anymore. She wondered if he ever had been or if anger was part of their peculiar dance.
The elevator stopped with a lurch. He held the door open with one hand, waved her through with the other. “Ladies first.”
She’d never been a lady. Had never wanted to be. Did Witt want a lady?
The keys dug into her palm, and she could almost hear the crackle of the foil condom packet in her velvet bag. They wouldn’t need it. She had no intention of doing what Angela had suggested.
Max led them down an aisle of the parking garage to a black Lincoln. She pushed the remote. Nothing happened.
Witt stood beside her, so close the sleeve of his jacket brushed the delicate material of her blouse. She felt it as if she wore nothing, sucked in a breath to keep a shiver from running the length of her arms, her body. She looked at him. She shouldn’t have. She’d always thought the coldest part of a flame was the blue, but his eyes weren’t cold, they damn near sizzled like fire. Her body went up in smoke. Her mouth went dry, and she could barely swallow, but she managed to tear her gaze from his before she did something unimaginable like throw herself at him right there in the middle of the garage.
He wanted her. She’d known that. But she kept hearing Angela’s words and wondered how far she could push him and still keep the upper hand. What could she get him to do? Her legs moved simply to get away from her own unbearably tantalizing thoughts.
Threading through the cars, they entered the next aisle. Another Lincoln, black, a classic model but no less luxurious, was backed in and parked against the concrete wall. With another tap of the remote, the car beeped in answer and the snick of opening door locks.
“Front or back?” Witt asked too close to her ear, making her jump. His body heat enveloped her.
“What would a hooker do?”
“Back.” He opened the door—it was one of those that opened in the center—then paused. “Unless you wanna take a drive.”
Her eyes widened. “That’d really piss them off.”
He smiled that devastating sexy smile. “Yeah.”
She gave it serious thought. “I could always say the customer insisted.”
“Yeah.”
Tempted, very tempted, Max pursed her lips. “But then she might not answer any of my questions. We’d have to go through this all over again.”
The smile broadened. “Yeah.”
She tipped her head and put her hands on her hips. “You’re enjoying the fact that this is making me uncomfortable.”
He tipped his head. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”
“Yes.” Denial rather than truth seemed appropriate. “And you’re dying to see how badly I handle it.”
“Front or back?” he asked again, ignoring the remark, which she knew was true.
A moment’s hesitation. A brief flare of terror. “Back.” Consummate gentleman, he held the door as she climbed in and slid over. Then he was in beside her, the door closed, and they were alone.
Vanilla swirled around the interior. Subtle. Unusual. Pleasing. She tugged her skirt hem down to her knees. It didn’t quite reach. The backseat made her tense and fidgety. She’d done things in backseats of which she wasn’t exactly proud. Beyond the leather headrest and through the windshield, the bank of elevators lay straight ahead, two rows away.
Hammerhead had parked the car with extreme intention.
Two aisles away, the elevator doors opened on an empty box, stayed that way a second or two, then closed.
Witt pointed. “I think that was a warning to you.”
“Warning?”
“Next time, they’ll be on it.” He turned to her. “Whatcha gonna do now?”
Okay, that was certainly a challenge. Maybe he was still pissed.
“I’m going to move closer.” She didn’t.
“Better hurry.”
She sat frozen. The elevator doors started to open. Witt reached across and pulled her to his side. Her head hit his shoulder, her arm flew across his chest. She felt like a rag doll.
But damn he smelled good.
“Here are your friends. Better kiss me or they’ll know you’re a fraud.”