I want to snap back a reply to Fake Clint, but an image of the last time I saw Kian flashes in my head, the shocking sound of his fist hitting the wall next to me, the pieces of drywall that flew into my hair, then the awful press of his fingers against my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I could only fight and slap and scratch at his face. Nausea bubbles as I recall the smell of lemon and butter from the fish we’d had for dinner.
He shoved me away, overturned the room service tray, then stomped out of the door.
I glance around the empty breezeway as my unease rises higher. A knot forms in my gut, and my breathing quickens. I’m alone here. Best to not engage with Clint. I make a noncommittal sound and start to my door.
“Hey, wait, don’t run off,” he says as he follows on my heels. “I saw you at the pool. You were swimming laps like it was your job.”
His eyes linger on my breasts, and I groan inwardly, regretting I didn’t pull on a shirt. I’m in a black rash-guard shirt and bikini bottoms I bought from the dollar store in town.
“Thought I’d join you, maybe get a few laps in, but now you’re done. Too bad.” He holds up a longneck beer. “I’ve got more of these in my room if you want one?”
“I’m in for the day,” I say as I rummage in my worn patchwork bag, searching for the motel key.
“You’re alone here, right?”
My warning radar spikes. “No,” I reply slowly. “My boyfriend is asleep in the room.”
“I didn’t see him last night.”
“He doesn’t like crowds. Or guys hitting on me.”
“Hard to believe he’d let you drink alone.” He stares at my navel ring peeking through my rash guard, then gives me a smarmy grin. “I noticed your room is next to mine. Talk about some cardboard walls. I heard you crying this morning. Did you have a fight with him?”
Play nice, the angel on my shoulder says, while the devil . . .
I find the motel key and grip it tight. “Should I wake up my boyfriend and tell him you’re being a dick?”
“I like your spunk, but I’m just trying to get to know you. No need to involve your man. If that’s even true.” He eases around me until he’s blocking my door.
His bloodshot hazel eyes hold mine. He’s older than my twenty-eight and reeks of beer. Today he’s wearing cutoff shorts, a faded shirt, and flip-flops. I guess the duster and boots were too hot for day attire. With a buzz haircut, a weak chin, and beady eyes, he looks like a mean hamster. And now I’m picturing a hamster in a cowboy outfit riding a horse in the desert and having a gunfight with Darcy the Iguana.
I’m five-nine and can hold my own, especially in heels, but he towers over me.
“Ease up. Just have a drink with me. I’m bored here. Where are you from?”
“Get out of my way, or my boyfriend will kick your ass.”
“Yeah? What’s his name?” His lip curls.
My brain scrambles for a name. “Darcy.”
“Weird name.” He touches a strand of my hair, and my heart thunders, part outrage, part fear.
Scenarios dance through my head. He’s bigger than me. He’s intoxicated. His door is currently open, and he’s blocking me from mine. He could push me inside his. He could drag me. Flashbacks of my father dragging my mother burn inside my head.
The air thickens with tension. Sweat beads on my upper lip as my muscles quiver with the instinct to flee.
The sounds of footsteps arrive on the walkway, and relief hits like a tidal wave.
Lambo strides our way as he tucks his sunglasses into the pocket of his shirt. He seems to weave on his feet, then rightens himself by clinging to the balcony rail. His head turns to us, and he pauses, his eyes tightening, flicking from me to Fake Clint.
“What’s going on?” he asks, his tone a dark velvet rumble.
Fake Clint takes a step back and holds his hands up in a placating manner. “I’m just on my way to the pool. You checking in?”
Lambo ignores him and comes back to me, his face expressionless. “You all right?”
It’s as if I’ve manifested him. Give the man a cravat, and he’s Darcy! As in, the guy from Pride and Prejudice, not the iguana. Well, him too.
A surge of adrenaline hits. Pasting on my brightest smile, I drop my bag and rush forward and wrap my arms around his waist in a bear hug. He grunts as we collide, his body a solid wall of hard muscle. My head hits him midchest. Oh, he must work out twenty-four seven, and kill me now, but he smells intoxicating, like dark cherries, expensive leather, and cedar.
My head tilts back as my eyes implore him, hoping he catches on quick. Swallowing down the pain in my throat, I manage to say the words in a husky (hopefully sexy) voice. “It’s okay, honey bunny, he didn’t mean anything. Honest. No reason to get upset—you don’t want to violate your parole. I know how jealous you get. Remember in Chicago, when you beat that man to a pulp for dancing with me? We can’t repeat that. It was carnage.”
“What? I don’t—” he starts.
“Oops, I shouldn’t have brought that up. You don’t like me to talk about your time in prison. It was so hard to be away from each other. Your passionate letters were the only thing that kept me going.” I stretch up on my tiptoes and brush my lips over his cheek. The scruff on his square jawline tickles my lips. “Don’t worry, I told this guy I was taken.”
His hand lands on my ass and tugs me closer—instinct, I suppose, when a woman claiming to know you throws herself in your direction.
I burrow into the curve of his shoulder. I’m aware that my body is damp, and I’m probably getting him wet, but needs must. My finger doodles little hearts on his chest. His dress shirt is silky soft and obviously expensive. Now that would be nice to sleep on, instead of the scratchy sheets on my bed.
“You surprised me,” I say. “I thought you were taking a nap.”
“I wasn’t,” he says as his eyes flash at me. A thrill dashes over me at the intensity in them. They’re an icy gray, surrounded by extravagantly thick black lashes. The color is striking, startling against his sun-kissed face. I see striations of blue and gold around his pupil. Mixed with the gray, his irises are like storm clouds with flashes of lightning. Straight brows slash over a face carved like granite.
My gaze moves lower, tracing the strong muscled lines of his throat to the gold necklace around his neck, a pendant hidden in the folds of his shirt. Men who wear necklaces are a little sleazy, in my opinion, but he carries it off like a champ. My man has style.
His face darkens. “What the hell is going—”
Shaking myself out of my detailed perusal, I pretend to hold him back as I whip my head around dramatically at Fake Clint. “This guy was just being neighborly, honey bunny. He said he was sorry for talking to me. Don’t let him ruin our vacation. What we have is a unicorn romance.”
“‘Unicorn’?”
“Yes, honey bunny. Our love.”
Fake Clint bobs his head. “Yeah, sure, whatever, sorry, man, I don’t mean to get in the way of, um, whatever. Just saying hi to my neighbor. No need to . . .” He looks at Lambo, then at his bag, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “But wait, aren’t you just checking in—”