My Darling Bride(4)

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—”

“Oh good, you bought it,” I interrupt as I try to take the duffel from Lambo’s hand. He refuses to give it up, so I end up patting it awkwardly. “Thanks for getting this for me. My luggage is worn out.” (Not even here. It’s in Vegas.)

Fake Clint darts his gaze between me and Lambo. I’m not sure he’s buying this charade.

Time to go for the gold. “Did you get the other thing, honey bunny?”

A few moments tick by as Lambo glares at me.

Come on, Lambo, help me out. Geez. Keep up. You are my honey bunny.

A dark eyebrow rises in question, annoyance just barely under the surface.

I ignore it.

“Lube. The cherry,” I say playfully, nudging him slightly. “It’s my favorite because it smells like you.”