Full Throttle Yearning (2 page)

Surreptitiously, he used his video cell phone and took a picture of the man who’d made him so uneasy. Then he texted a message to a friend in law enforcement asking for the man’s name and if he’d been in any criminal trouble.

“Hi. What can I get for you?”

The waitress’ soothing, lilting, musical voice caused him to look up quickly. Time froze as his pulse speeded up and every nerve in his body reacted to her. His muscles tensed. The chattering of the patrons and the din of forks and spoons clattering against plates dimmed into the background. He had the presence of mind to tuck away his cell phone.

The candy-pink uniform accentuated every barely there curve, from the swell of her breasts to her tiny waist to her hips. Her bodice, made of a light fabric, did nothing to hide the tight peaks of her nipples. Was she wearing one of those thin scraps of lace?

Charlie swallowed hard, then cleared his throat. He was the most eloquent lawyer in all of Boston, never shy for words whether in court of out of it, but here, with this heart-stopping, exquisite woman mere inches away, he was utterly tongue-tied. And he had a hard-on that no amount of clothing could hide. Thank God he’d sat in a booth. His hormones raced into overdrive.

“You must be new here.” Her matter-of-fact words cut into his tumultuous thoughts.

Dumbly, he nodded. All he could think was that chicks in LA were hot. He made the mistake of glancing fully into her face. Such sweetness emanated from those vivid blue eyes, along with a wealth of innocence. The observation tore at his insides. He wanted to protect her, much as a knight in shining armour would have in days of old.

Annoyance with himself flared to life. He’d only just set eyes on her and here he was ragged on the inside and turning somersaults internally. “Boston. On business. Where’s your menu?” he asked in a hoarse, abrasive tone.

Her eyebrows didn’t even arch upward in question at his sudden change of tone. “Right over there above the soda fountain.” She canted her head in the direction he needed to look.

Charlie felt guilt wash over him. He should have a talk with himself rather than being unkind to Roxie, as her nametag clearly read in black and white.

“It’s the heat,” she said, touching his arm ever so lightly, and a small, knowing smile appeared on her delicately coloured lips. “I’ll get you something cool to drink.”

Yeah, the heat—not of the weather but in his groin. Gracefully, she spun around and left him behind in a curtain of fragrant perfume. Gardenias, he suspected, which were addling his brain, turning the gray matter into mush.

If the view from in front had been tempting, then from the back it was even more powerful. Roxie’s waist was tiny and curved, and the uniform hugged her bottom deliciously, as he longed to do.

When she was out of sight behind the double swinging doors that led to the kitchen, he tried to take a deep breath, to bring himself under control. His forehead was bathed in perspiration. Ineffectually, he lifted his handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped at his forehead, but to no avail. As soon as the linen passed over his skin, he immediately began to sweat again. He had to leave. Before he made a fool of himself.

But he waited, and he had no idea for what. Carelessly, he stuffed his hanky back into place, realizing belatedly that Roxie had been holding a carafe filled with steaming coffee along with her order pad.

His heart thudded in his chest. He didn’t dare get up since his mega hard-on would be visible to everyone in the diner. Hadn’t he come for an all-American burger and fries? Why did he think he was about to get a whole lot more?

Roxie swallowed her panic as she pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen. Apparently she hadn’t been the only one observing the ultra-sexy man in the tailored suit. Verna and Eileen, her coworkers, were wide-eyed and their faces were flushed.

“Do you know who that is?” Gerry asked in his booming voice, giving Roxie a quizzical expression.

Roxie shook her head. All she knew was she wouldn’t have to go searching for Mr. Mercedes. He’d come to her instead. Her heart thudded uneasily in her chest. Did he know who she was? He couldn’t. She’d been covered from head to foot, so it would have been impossible for him to recognize her. Or did he have some other method of seeing through her black leather outfit?

“He’s Charles Vernon, one of the sharpest lawyers in the States,” Gerry told her excitedly. “He’s Boston born and bred.”

“And he’s supposed to be worth millions,” Verna added, tugging at her apron.

“Oooh, and isn’t he sexy?” Eileen put in, the eyes in her stout face going all unfocused and dreamy.

Roxie swallowed, and in as level a voice as she could manage said, “I didn’t know,” as she poured iced tea into a tall, frosted glass. The devil came in all different disguises, and Charles Vernon was two different kinds rolled into one. He was rich like her father, and that gave her cause for concern. Desperately she tried to remember if the Harrier and Vernon families travelled in the same social circles, but nothing came to mind. To make matters worse, her body had responded unequivocally to the masculinity of the man seated in the booth. The crotch of her panties was damp. It had been all she could do to stay motionless waiting for him to either place his order or tell her he hadn’t made up his mind yet. His assessing gaze as those smoldering gray eyes had journeyed languidly up her bosom to her face had aroused her and bothered her in a very sexual way. Her breasts had ached with an unaccustomed fullness and her nipples had stood up proudly. Of course, today had to be the day she’d worn a lacy bra without much support. The other one was in the wash.

“You might want to snag a wealthy man like him,” Verna called out as Roxie exited with the iced tea on a round tray.

No chance. I just got away from that madness.

On one hand she hoped Charles Vernon was gone, and on the other she wished he would stay. Just to feast her eyes on him some more, she told herself. Brushing stray strands of hair from her eyes, she looked up, right into his eyes. She would have sworn they could see through her and deep into her soul. She hoped to God that wasn’t true. Prisoners could rarely argue for their freedom, and Roxie vowed she’d never again be incarcerated by the trappings of wealth and greed.

Boldly, Charlie watched Roxie as she set the iced tea on the table at his right hand.

“There you go,” she said brightly, averting her gaze. “Have you decided what you’ll eat?”

He heard the cultured accent to her words and wondered who she really was, witnessed the graceful bearing of a woman who’d been raised in society. Unlike himself, he thought morosely. He’d had to scrounge for every penny in his youth. Nothing had been handed to him for free—he’d had to work hard for it. The familiar resentment was building up again. He quelled it with some difficulty.

And who was to say that Roxie came from a wealthy background?
All the signs are there, Charlie. The elegant bearing, the straight face, the curvaceous, man-killer body
… Wait a minute. Her body wasn’t a product of wealth and prestige.
I have Roxie pegged all wrong. That’s all.
However the uneasy feeling in his gut remained.

He pondered the subject of food while Roxie waited and he sipped at his iced tea, which was sweet, the way he liked it. As delectable as Roxie was. Should he ask her out, on a whim? What if he was wrong and she was one of those gold-diggers who ripped off rich men’s bank accounts and white-washed their self-esteem? His gaze travelled to her waist, up her chest, then to her face and the much-too-innocent eyes.

This time there was a hint of distrust in their blue depths. His mind had detoured from her question. What did he want to eat? Charlie caught sight of the “wildcat” burger. He hadn’t a clue if he’d like it, or even what it was, but he barked, “The wildcat. With fries.”

A wildcat in bed, please.

He imagined what it would be like to fit his cock between the warmth of her thighs, and impossibly his hard-on became larger, more rigid and more painful. If only the buzzing in his head would stop and his heart would quit pounding so loudly that he would swear Roxie could hear it slamming in his chest.

The wariness in her eyes was abruptly replaced by amusement. “Is that really what you want? A wildcat?” Her lips, so smooth and utterly kissable, curled into a thin smile.

She had him there. Roxie had probably guessed that if he could have, he’d have given a much different order. One for hot, sweaty sex, and plenty of it. He blinked and, uncharacteristically, faltered. What would he reply? His hands, now clenched together in his lap, were clammy. The toughest trial had never left his thoughts frozen, his mind helplessly searching for the right thing to say. He wanted to raise his hand, to slowly pull out the pins from her honey-blonde hair and watch as it cascaded over her shoulders in a silky mass. He’d bury his nose in her fragrant, heady scent. Charlie sucked in a deep breath. Man, but he was in bad shape.

“Table sixty up!” the cook yelled.

“That’s my order,” Roxie said, throwing a nervous glance toward the counter where food steamed on a plate. “Should I put the wildcat down for you?”

Charlie had never been a man to run but today, faced with a woman who shouldn’t have appealed to him the way she did, with her sexy lips and curvaceous body, his self-control ebbed to about minus seven on the Richter scale. He had to flee, and that wasn’t his normal mode of operation either.

“Wrap that up for takeout.”

“Sure.” It was a husky whisper.

Before she turned and raced for the plate, he caught the flicker of wry gaiety in her eyes. Her rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the floor.

He bent to search for his cell phone and the messages that would distract him from a candy-pink uniform and the gorgeous looker wearing it to sexy perfection.

At table sixty, a few booths down from Charles Vernon, sat the heavyset guy. Roxie cringed at the mere thought of going near the nondescript, pasty man again. He hadn’t touched her, even when he’d boarded the same bus as she had back in Maine. There was something about him that she didn’t trust, but she doubted he knew who she was. Still, it was uncanny that he was eating here when there were hundreds of places in LA to dine. He’d placed his order as if he didn’t recognize her too, which worried her, but he couldn’t be one of her father’s bodyguards…could he?

“Could you bag a wildcat plus fries for table fifty-four?” she asked as steadily as she could in a loud voice.

Verna elbowed her none too gently. “Does he want to go home with you?”

Roxie shook her head. The smell of frying oil, hamburgers and French fries was getting to her, but she reminded herself she needed this job. So what did it matter that each morning she bathed herself in perfume in an attempt to mask the powerful odor, or that she had to wash her clothes by hand each night so they wouldn’t stink of hot grease? At least she was free of her father’s overwhelming control.

Gerry leaned over the chest-high counter and gave her a blatant wink. “What?” He canted his head toward Charles Vernon. “He doesn’t want to feast his eyes on you?” The owner’s booming voice carried across the small kitchen area, sending a shiver of trepidation down Roxie’s back. In the two months she’d worked for him, Gerry had shown himself to be vulgar but good-natured. She said nothing in reply and was proud of herself that she didn’t even bat an eye at his query. Her father’s demanding nature had taught her well.

Gerry smiled with satisfaction and chuckled to himself before he returned to his work with a verve that always shocked her. How could someone be so happy throwing burgers on the grill or preparing shrimp salads? She grabbed the steaming burger and fries for table sixty and repressed a shudder that she had to approach the guy in the plaid shirt again. She shouldn’t be afraid of him—he had been kind to her, offering to carry her two pieces of luggage from one bus to another—but he didn’t inspire trust in her either.

Gerry called out, surprising her yet again. He was in a good mood today, she thought. “You need a push in the right direction? Sometimes you make me think you can’t take care of yourself, you being so petite and all.”

Roxie sucked in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. “I can take care of myself, Gerry.” Plate in hand, she turned away. She’d been doing an admirable job of it for several months now. She didn’t need a man who was roughly the same age as her father giving her a push in any direction.

With a lowered gaze, she passed by table fifty-four. Every fiber of her body tingled with heightened awareness of Charles Vernon. She tried to still the pang of fear, then table sixty was in front of her before she could think further.

“Here you go,” she said to Plaid Shirt as brightly as she could manage.