Chapter 45

“Dance with me, Jake.” The slurring, flirty, female voice sounds so bold.

Who said that? I think that was my voice, wasn’t it? Damn, maybe.

I guess by the way he smiles at me in response, it was. I feel merry. I like being merry, it’s kind of light
and warm. I’m completely aware that my internal dialog is that of a very drunk person with no filter but
he says nothing, just puts his beer down, slides me toward him with a firm hand, and pulls me toward
the dance floor with ease.

He’s smooth. Why would I expect any less from Casanova Carrero?

He manhandles women effortlessly on a daily basis. Lots of practice at it. Well, not so much lately as
he seems to be cooling his jets on the women front. There hasn’t been a girl on the scene for a couple
of weeks at least, maybe longer, but I hadn’t noticed at first.

It’s a slower song and he moves in close to me as we join the throng of dancers. It’s hard to dance
when you’re this drunk and in very high heels on jelly legs. I’m swaying, but I don’t think it’s in time to
the music. I trip, stumble into Jake’s nice strong arms, glad he knows just how to catch me, and I gasp
in fright. He’s good at pulling my body into his in a hurry mid catastrophe, saving me from myself.

God, he smells good! My hero! Who would have thought slinky boss Carrero was my sexy savior? Cute
and hot—yes! Hero. Most definitely!

“Maybe we should go, tiny?” he seems uneasy and puts me back on my own feet, at arm’s length.
Startling me with what seems like nervous tension.

Except that can’t be right because my boss is never nervous. He’s always Mr. Confident.

“I want to stay and … Let my hair down.” I giggle and fall into him again as I lose my footing for the
second time, my shoe moving into a right angle that should have broken my ankle ordinarily. He



catches me and my nose grazes his collar bone getting a lungful of Carrero scent. It’s pretty heady; his
aftershave and his personal smell, an intoxicating mixture. I could breathe it in, over and over, enjoying
how unique it is. Enamored with it and how he’s so good, strong, powerful and safe …

Crap, what am I doing?

If I keep this up, I know I’m going to do something stupid, like the kiss in my mother’s bed. I’ve snaked
my hands around his neck and I’m nuzzling my face into his chest without even being aware of my own
body’s actions. I’m too drunk, this is a bad idea. Almost as brazen as the night I kissed him in his sleep.

“Okay. Time to go, tootsie.” He unravels my arms from his neck, leans down and picks me up, lifting me
up in a fireman’s hold, so my face is behind him. One easy swoop. His firm hands around my thighs,
holding them tight against his muscular chest. I wonder if this is a safety precaution so I can’t attempt to
seduce him. I’m too drunk to react and I’m kind of glad to be off those shoes; my ankle is tingling. I’m
dizzy and I don’t think I should stay and explore what I was attempting to do.

Good save, Mr. Carrero. I can’t trust myself, but I can trust you to look after me.

I hang down his back limply, sliding my arms around his sides so they come around his waist to the
front. I can trace out his taut stomach muscles under my flattened palms and have to quell the urge to
slide my hand inside his shirt for a better feel. I lay my cheek against his back, closing my eyes at the
familiarity of him instead, inhale that citrus goodness. I give in to the motion of his walk as he takes me
out of the pumping club. There are a lot of glances our way, but Jake doesn’t seem to care. I guess a
Neanderthal carrying a drunk woman out of a club in Vegas is a normal occurrence.

* * *

In the car he lays me down flat on my back and pulls off my shoes, cradling my feet in his lap with
warm sensual hands kneading them softly, avoiding conversation or eye contact; I nestle my head
against the door to stop the world spinning.



His hands are exquisite on my ankles and feet and it feels better than good; no one’s ever taken my
shoes off like this. No one has ever just run soft fingers over my feet at all, the way he’s doing now.
He’s gentle and attentive, something most people would not expect of Jake Carrero. Handsy, but not in
a sleazy way, not really, despite all his jokes and sexual innuendos. He just always makes me feel safe.

“Why are you stealing my shoes?” I mumble playfully, trying not to squirm in case he stops. “I like those
shoes.” I’m angling for humorous Jake, flirty Jake. I like arguing with him, he’s always funny; I don’t like
this silent, pondering version, even though I’m sure he’s drunk as much as me, but he looks so serious.

“I’m taking you home, Emma. You’re going to bed and you don’t need your shoes for that. I’m satisfying
my foot fetish instead.” He smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He sounds tired; maybe he really
hasn’t got boundless, eternal energy after all.

“You don’t have a foot fetish, silly! I need to walk up the stairs.” I argue with a snigger. Stifling the urge
to giggle.

“I don’t think you could, even without your shoes, Emma. I’ll carry you. How do you know I don’t have a
serious thing for feet?”

The memory of the shoulder lift to the car pops into my head and it’s not altogether unpleasant. In fact,
I almost start looking forward to it. The Neanderthal carrying from Jake has its upside. I get to feel
those abs for a start.

“Okay … And you don’t. You check out women’s boobs, occasionally an ass, not their feet.” My eyes
are closed, my arm is laid across my head as I try to get comfy. The car is spinning, and my hair is
tickling my face. My limbs too heavy to move it away, so I try and blow it out of my face instead,
childishly, while making a lot of noise. I’m blowing, but it’s still in my mouth, irritatingly so.

“You’re a hopeless drunk, you know that?” he utters warmly. I think he’s laughing at me, but I’m a little
too comfy to reply. I tingle all over as his touch connects, moving the hair off my face, he lifts my arm to



untangle the strand caught in my bracelet. It’s nice, relieving to have the irritation removed as he pulls
my arm straight toward him and lays it on the cool leather seat. The sway of the moving car lulls me
into a soothed, relaxed mode with closed eyes. I could fall asleep so easily.

“I’m just hopeless in general,” I chuckle again. He says nothing, and I experience a tug of outrage that
he may agree, but I let it slide over me the same way these waves and warm tides are doing. My arm is
still warm, I think he still has his hand on it. I open one eye and look down to check: he’s tracing my
bracelet with his fingertips looking lost in thought, a hint of a frown crossing his beautiful face.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask, like a child, no filter. Alcohol taking away my normal inhibitions.

“You … Me …” He seems distant. Something cold in his voice and I don’t like it; he looks away from
me, toward the window and gazes at the passing night scenery and bright lights of Vegas. His all too
godly profile looking very much like a magazine cover, outlined in the dark window. I’m saddened by his
mood and expression and it swells inside of me.

“Are you mad at me for being this drunk, and making you bring me home?” I ask, trying to understand
his somber look. My voice is almost vulnerable. Wounded.

“No … I like this side of you. I just wasn’t feeling it anymore, figured it was a good time to leave.” He
throws me a small quick smile and looks away again. His eyes so dark with emotion. I hate seeing him
like this and want to know what’s wrong.

“Then why so glum, Mr. Cartierro?” my joke again, rising from my last drunken bout.

How funny.

I giggle impulsively and he laughs softly. He remembers my joke too.

I love his laugh.



“There’s so much about you that you keep from me … Your mother … Nightmares.” He releases my
arm and leans away, shoving his shoulder against the door, resting his head against the frame
dejectedly. I wonder why this is going through his head now, after a great night.

Why now?

“My mom’s a Pandora’s box, Jake … I wouldn’t know where to begin with her. Yes, I have dreams
about what Ray did to me. I didn’t think it was something I had to share … Are you upset with me?” I sit
up a little, trying to read his expression, his hand comes up to the side of his face cushioning it from the
door frame and he’s glaring outside. He doesn’t reply. I know he’s mulling over Vanquis, both the past,
in my teens, and more recently in Chicago.


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