Page 92 of Forked (Frenched 2)
I wanted to do more than that.
The boathouse was a bootlegger’s dream. Sitting right at the edge of Lake St. Clair, it was accessible only by a bumpy dirt path off Jefferson Avenue that was so overgrown it was nearly invisible. Daddy hadn’t arrived yet, so after parking beneath a huge weeping willow, I wandered onto the dock. A light breeze ruffled my hair as I looked across the water to Canada, its tree line clearly visible on the opposite shore. The lake appeared unusually calm. We should have made a run this afternoon. I glanced at our motorboat bobbing in the water before turning toward the boathouse door. It was partway open, the rusty padlock unlatched and dangling.
Confused, I looked around, but mine was the only car in sight. Daddy must have taken a streetcar then, I thought, stepping inside. Despite the hot day, the interior of the boathouse was shadowy and dank, empty but for the sacks of whisky and crates of scotch at the back. I was heading for them when I heard footsteps behind me.
“I made the deliveries,” I said, picking up a burlap sack of Canadian Club by its bunny ears. “Mrs. Koehler was a little short.”
“I’m not sure you should be calling anyone short.”
I spun around as someone stepped out from the shadows into a narrow beam of sunlight slanting through a high window.
My breath hitched. “How did you get in here?”
The sheik smiled, hands in his pockets. “I have a talent for lock and key.”
“How did you find this place?”
“I followed you.”
The gooseflesh returned. Is Bridget right about him? “Why?”
“I was curious.” He walked toward me, slowly. His coat was unbuttoned. “And I wanted to see you again.”
I glanced at the open door. “You shouldn’t be here. If it’s whisky you want, I’ll bring it to you.”
He took the sack from my hands and set it on the floor. “What if I want something besides whisky?” His dark eyes were beautiful, but it was his mouth that fascinated me. My breath came faster as I stared at the sharp peaks of his upper lip.
“Such as?”
He tipped up my chin, but went no further, his mouth so close I could feel his breath. His slow smile sent my pulse skittering out of control.
I was done waiting for it. I grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his mouth to mine.
His arms snaked around my back, the heat of his body enveloping me. When he opened his mouth, I did the same, and my entire body hummed like a swarm of bees was under my skin. I’m kissing the sheik! I don’t even know his name! Daddy could walk in here any second! Damn, he smells good—like aftershave and tobacco. My breasts tingled and I rose up on tiptoe, trying to press closer. Wishing his skin was bare, I ran my hands down his vest and twined my arms around his taut waist. My fingers hit a hard object, and I froze.
He has a gun.
I pulled my hands back as if they had been burned. “We have to stop,” I said against his mouth.
He lifted his head and loosened his grip a little. “Why’s that?”
My blood was pumping way too fast, shock and desire battling inside my veins. Because you’ve got a gun in your trousers. “Because…my father is going to be here any minute.” I put my hands on his chest and pushed him away. Some instinct told me not to acknowledge the weapon. Willing my heart rate to return to normal, I tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “What’s your name, anyway?”
He began buttoning his coat. “Enzo DiFiore.”
“I’d tell you mine, but you already know it.”
He smiled as he adjusted his cuffs, and I twisted my hands together to keep from launching myself at him and tearing the clothes from his body.
“Well, Mr. DiFiore, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but I really have to ask you to leave now. My father will not take kindly to a stranger alone in the boathouse with me. Or his liquor.” I turned around to pick up the whisky sack, and by the time I straightened and faced him again, he was gone.
I moved to the doorway and looked out. Nobody. The air was hot and still and silent. What the hell?
Dazed, I walked from the boathouse to my car, opened the trunk and placed the sack inside it. Staring at the burlap, I brought my hands to my face, my belly tightening at the memory of the sheik’s mouth on mine. Enzo DiFiore. I thought about his arms around me, the commanding way he’d slanted his open mouth over mine, and the contraction moved lower in my body. Bridget had joked about spilling the details of my next kiss, but I could never tell her about this.
I wandered back into the boathouse, but instead of grabbing another sack, I plunked down on a crate of scotch and stared in disbelief at the pool of sunlight where we’d stood.
“Enzo DiFiore,” I whispered. Who was he? All I knew about him was his name. And that he’s a good kisser with a talent for lock and key. A laugh bubbled up in me. After all, if he’d wanted to steal from us, or harm me in some way, he could have done it. But all he’d done was follow me. Watch me. Kiss me.
