Tame Me. Caroline Cross

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      “Well, here’s a news flash,” he shot back, effortlessly reeling her closer as she tried to pull free. “You won’t be living anywhere if you don’t have better sense than to tiptoe around after dark with your head bowed like some scared little mouse. God, Mallory! Don’t you have enough sense to know that in a neighborhood like this, any display of weakness is an invitation to be mugged—or worse?”

      “You mean like having to fend off some know-it-all wannabe stalker?”

      He leaned into her, so close she could feel the warm wash of his breath on her icy skin. “Believe me, sweetheart. If I were stalking you, there wouldn’t be any wannabe about it.”

      Maybe it was the delicious tickle of terror evoked by his words. Or the sight of that hard, chiseled mouth mere inches from her own. But in a flash, awareness roared to life, crowding out her anger. She registered his heat, his size, the strength of the hands dwarfing her own.

      Her throat went tight. And try as she might to tell herself it was a delayed reaction to the fright she’d received, no way did that explain the overwhelming urge she had to crowd closer and give herself over to his potent masculine power—

      “Dammit, you’re shivering.” Abruptly, he released her. Relief streaked through her, only to be snuffed out as he whipped off his coat and wrapped it around her. “Come on.” His voice was as hard as the arm suddenly looping her waist, urging her forward. “Let’s get you in out of this cold.”

      She thought of her apartment, and the idea of being trapped in that small, intimate space with him had her digging in her heels. “I’m fine. Really. And you can drop the concerned act because I’m absolutely not inviting you in—”

      “No problem. My car’s right here.”

      “What?” She tried to struggle as he unlocked the door of a big black SUV, only to find that his enveloping coat was as confining as a straitjacket. “No, Gabriel. While I understand your compelling need to put your hands on me—” she gamely tried to infuse some of the old flippancy into her voice “—it’s been a really long day.”

      “We need to talk.” He opened the door and planted his free hand on the roof of the car, neatly boxing her in. “So either we go inside to your place where it’ll be just the two of us or you get in the car and we drive to some nice, public restaurant. You decide.”

      It was no choice at all, and he knew it. Yet it was also clear he wasn’t going away. “Fine. We’ll go to the restaurant.” Giving him a narrow-eyed stare, she allowed him to help her up onto the seat. “But this had better be brief.”

      He said nothing to that, simply shut the door, walked around and got in on the other side.

      Five miles and what felt like another world later, they were seated across from each other at a booth in a cozy little diner that came complete with checked curtains on the windows, a bell over the door and an array of mouthwatering scents wafting from the kitchen.

      “Hungry?” he asked as the waitress arrived with her pad.

      Mallory shrugged, ignoring the sudden grinding of her empty stomach. “Not really.” Dinner out simply didn’t figure into her budget. Not when she had food at home, and the twenty dollars in her wallet was supposed to last her through the end of the week.

      He studied her a moment, then turned to the waitress. “Two coffees, the chicken fried steak for me and a chef salad for the lady.” Switching his attention back to Mallory, he ignored her look of disbelief. “I’m buying,” he informed her matter-of-factly. “Now, what kind of dressing do you want?” When she simply continued to stare at him, he gave a slight shrug. “Make it Thousand Island,” he told the bemused server.

      “Make it blue cheese,” she contradicted. If she was going to eat, she might as well get what she liked. “And I’d rather have tea instead of coffee, please. And separate checks, if you would.” She’d just have to skip lunch during her job hunt the next few days.

      The waitress, a stout, pleasant-faced woman in her forties, wisely refrained from comment. She asked a few order-related questions, brought their drinks, then hustled off to post their order and take care of the rest of her tables.

      Mallory gave the tea time to steep, then wrapped her hands around the cup and took a sip, hoping to counteract the exhaustion that was suddenly sweeping through her.

      Gabe looked over at her, far too astute for comfort. “You all right?”

      She sat up a little straighter. “You mean, except for having been so rudely snatched off the street?”

      “Yes. Except for that.”

      “I’m fine.”

      “You mentioned that it had been a long day. Where were you, anyway?”

      She might be tired but she wasn’t dead, and she certainly wasn’t discussing her failure on the employment front. She fluttered her eyelashes. “Where else? I was off meeting Raoul, my secret lover.”

      “Ah.” He took a sip of his coffee. “He must be a real prize to send you home on the bus.”

      She shrugged. “What can I say? He’s French.”

      “My sincere condolences.” His tone was perfectly solemn, but those jewel-tone eyes suddenly gleamed with a touch of laughter.

      It was unexpected. And shockingly attractive. Just like him, she thought, studying that symmetrical, good-looking face. The strong cheekbones, level eyebrows and sensual mouth were enough to turn any woman’s head. But it was the self-assurance, the surety of purpose, the wicked intelligence that held her gaze.

      She felt the pull of his appeal clear to her toes. It didn’t mean anything, of course. She was simply experiencing the ever-present hum of awareness she felt whenever she was near him.

      And if perhaps there was something more? If, as their gazes meshed in that moment of shared humor, she inexplicably felt connected to him?

      An illusion, she told herself sharply. One she couldn’t afford to indulge. Lifting her cup to her mouth, she used the movement as an excuse to look away. “Why were you waiting for me tonight, anyway?”

      There was a moment’s silence. “I came to give you this.” Pulling out his wallet, he extracted two hundred-dollar bills and three twenties—the exact amount of the money order she’d sent him to pay for the locksmith—and held it out.

      “Then you wasted a trip,” she said, making no move to take it. “I’m grateful for the thought, but as it happens I recently received an unexpected windfall so I can afford to pay for—”

      “No.” For a second his mouth tightened with exasperation, then his expression smoothed out. “I’m not taking your money, Mallory. Not for a meal I coerced you into ordering. And certainly not for hardware and labor—” before she could stop him, he picked up her purse, opened it and tucked the cash into an inside pocket “—for a job you didn’t have any control over.”

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