Inevitable Detour (10 page)

Thirty minutes later, after I’ve showered in a bathroom the size of my entire room at the Super 8, my dress and shoes arrive. I quickly discover Farren had every reason to be confident. His assessment of my figure is spot-on.

Smiling, I slip the little black dress over my head and smooth the silky material over my hips. The dress is short and sleeveless, with a cutout that exposes my back. I spin in front of the mirror. This look is good—sexy, yet classy. I dig out a pair of black leather pumps from the box that arrived with the dress and find they, too, are a perfect fit. “That Farren,” I murmur to myself.

Once I’m all set to go, I step out into the hall. Farren is coming out of his room at the same time. And…wow! He looks delicious every day, but he’s exceptionally yummy right now. I sigh. Farren is male-model beautiful, but his dark, edgy side makes him sinfully hot. I can’t stop staring. He’s wearing a black suit that fits him to a tee, a white dress shirt, and a deep maroon tie. His raven hair is slicked back, and he’s freshly shaven. I want to touch his smooth cheek, trace the line of his strong jaw.

“Essalin?” Farren takes a step toward me, while I continue to stare at him like a deranged fool. “Is something wrong?”

God, no. Unless wanting you to take me back into my room and take all the clothes you just bought me off of me is wrong
.
I can’t say something like that, though.

I wave my hand around to give myself a chance to find my bearings. “I’m fine,” I reply once I’m back on track.

He takes a step closer, the hallway light glinting off his highly shined shoes. “Are you sure?” he asks softly.

“Don’t mind me,” I reply. “I was just having a moment there.”

Shit. Did I really just admit that
? I’m not as on track as I thought.

Farren’s brows go up, and he inquires, “A moment?”

There’s mirth in his deep green eyes, eyes I could get lost in. But now is not the time.

Embarrassed, I mumble, “Stop, please,” and avert my gaze from his.

Chuckling, he says, “I’m just giving you a hard time, sweetheart.”

Ooh, sweetheart. I like this new term of endearment, even if it is attached to a comment that confirms this gorgeous man knows damn well the effect he’s having on me. The only saving grace to my dignity is that when I peek up at him from under my lashes, I notice that he is checking me out, too. And if his suppressed smile is any indication, he appears quite pleased with what the boutique sent my way.

Or maybe—and I’m hoping this is it—he’s just pleased with me.

“Shall we?” he asks, following his perusal.

When he gallantly offers his arm, I say, “Such a gentleman.”

“Hardly,” he scoffs.

I don’t press for elaboration, though I wonder what that means. With the hand not in the crook of his arm, I adjust a tendril of hair that slips from my upswept do.

“You look very beautiful tonight, Essalin,” Farren says on our way to the parking garage.

I look over at him. “Thank you. So do you.”

Farren smiles tenderly at me, and I melt.

The flirtations, mostly in the form of sidelong glances and lips pressed together to keep from smiling too much, continue all the way to the car. But on the way to the restaurant, things turn serious when I say, “So, tell me about your friend, Rick. How long have you two known one another?”

Farren breathes in deeply, exhales slowly. “A long time,” he says at last. “Over ten years. Rick and I served in the military together. We met on my first tour of duty. We became friends then.” After a lengthy pause, he adds, “That part of our past was a long time ago, though. More recently, we were been deployed to a lot of the same places…before we were discharged, of course.”

“So he was special ops, too?” I venture.

Farren glances over at me. “I should have guessed Haven would’ve told you all about that.”

“She did,” I confirm. And then I ask, “Is that okay?”

He nods, but when he fails to respond, I try to fill the silence by saying, “I imagine many of your special ops missions were not only secret, but also very…”—I search for a word—“dangerous.”

Farren laughs, but it’s devoid of humor. “Yes, Essa, all the missions were very, as you put it, ‘dangerous.’”

Okay, so obviously dangerous is not nearly a strong enough adjective to describe what Farren has experienced.

He appears to lose himself in thought, so I prompt, “Rick was on your team or whatever all the time, then?”

“Not all the time,” he clarifies, sighing. “But often, yes.”

“And you still work together in the private sector?”

“Yes.”

I want to get back to the special ops stuff, ask Farren what kinds of things he and Rick have had to do. I’m curious about all they’ve seen, which I imagine is a lot. But I know enough about Special Forces to know Farren probably isn’t allowed to divulge too much, particularly regarding the specifics of where he’s been or the things he’s done. Still, I long to learn more about this man I’m traveling with, especially in regard to the life he’s lived thus far. Farren is not just mysterious; he’s fascinating. I can’t imagine the things he’s seen and done...in the distant past and in the not-so-distant past.

And that brings me back to the here and now, with the same damn questions. What is it that Farren currently does for a living that has resulted in Haven’s abduction? I’m sure the two are connected. But how is he connected to Eric and Vincent? It’s all potentially disturbing, but I comfort myself with the possibility I may learn more when I meet his friend Rick.

A little while later, on the top floor of a downtown St. Louis high-rise, I do, indeed, meet Rick Martinez. He’s a very good-looking man, almost as attractive as Farren. When the two men greet each other in the dimly lit, mahogany-paneled lobby of the restaurant we’re to eat in, they display an easy camaraderie. It’s clear they trust one another quite a bit.

Before Farren introduces us, I take the opportunity to look Rick over. I peg him to be about thirty. His hair is jet black and slightly longish in the back, the strands brushing at the collar of his expensive-looking suit jacket. Rick is exotic looking, with high cheekbones, olive skin, and almond-colored eyes. The dude is smooth, too. He takes my hand and brushes his lips over my knuckles when Farren finally introduces us.

Farren immediately shoots his friend a back-off
look that even I pick up on. Rick straightens and drops my hand. An awkward moment ensues, until a young hostess with fiery red hair and very red high heels arrives to seat us.

As she leads us to a booth in a back corner, I hear Rick murmur to Farren, “I’m sorry, friend. I didn’t realize she was yours.”

Yours
?
I roll my eyes. But, truthfully, a tiny part of me wants to belong to Farren Shaw. Oh, who am I kidding? Pretty much all of me is on board with that idea.

As the food is served and the meal progresses, Rick remains cordial, but there’s no more flirting from him. Clearly, Farren is in charge. And Farren has laid down the rules. But, I have to wonder, what exactly is Farren in charge of? What kind of operation are he and Rick involved in nowadays? And how would men like Eric and Vincent fit into the equation, since surely they do. I mean, Farren knew who they were when I first mentioned their names. Even though he has yet to confirm or deny it, I feel sure I’m right. So does that mean Rick is acquainted with Eric and Vincent, too? Did they all work together on something in the past? Maybe they were in the military together? Were Eric and Vincent special ops, too? Did something go wrong somewhere? Was Haven taken in some sort of retaliatory move?

My mind is whirling as I come up with question after question. Farren and Rick, meanwhile, fall into a discussion of the “old days.” I take note that though we’re supposedly meeting with Rick to discuss Haven, there’s not been one mention of her.

At least, not in front of me
, I think. There was a point when I excused myself to the ladies’ room. Perhaps they discussed her then.

The two men continue to reminisce, and I decide to take an active part in the discussion. They’re discussing a special-ops mission they were once a part of. Rick mentions something about rebel forces, and Farren says, “Fuck, man, that was some crazy shit.”

“Sure was,” Rick agrees. “We lit that camp up, Shaw. Remember that?”

Farren nods and takes a drink from his glass of red wine.

Rick continues, “Central Command never expected us to have the balls to destroy every cache of weapons.” He laughs, takes a sip of his own red wine, and then adds, “Of course, you take the credit for that. Damn, those were good times.”

“The best,” Farren agrees, raising his glass.

The two friends toast, and I cut in. “Where did all this happen?”

Not surprisingly, I’m met with stony silence. I stare down at my plate, wishing I had a daring tale of my own to contribute. But what story am I going to tell these two seen-it-all, done-it-all men? Should I share with them how I rebelled and chose five wrong answers on a final last week?

I don’t think so.

As I stare down at my barely touched filet mignon, Farren takes notice that I haven’t eaten much.

“Are you not hungry, Essa?” he inquires.

Rick glances over at my plate but quickly resumes eating his own meal. In fact, he becomes lost
in his meal, allowing Farren to address me semi-privately. The dynamic feels so different here, much more so than when Farren and I are alone. Again, it is crystal clear from the way Rick continues to concede to his friend that Farren is the alpha male.

I’m not immune to Farren’s power, either. I’m not all that hungry, yet I find myself responding demurely, “No, I am hungry” as I take a small bite.

I’ve been attracted to Farren from the start, but now every feminine part of me wants him. He is gorgeous, in command, powerful, and possibly a little dangerous to be around. What’s not to like? This is the kind of attraction I’ve always read about, what I dreamed of and hoped to someday find. And here it is, right in front of me. No wonder college boys always left me cold. All this time I just didn’t realize that what I needed was a man like Farren in my life.

Or maybe I knew it all along. After all, I have been crushing on the guy for a long-ass time. So, yeah, Farren Shaw can woo me any day of the week.

But is Farren wooing me?

Maybe
, I think as his gaze slides to and catches mine. He smiles charmingly, and I smile back. Yeah, maybe Farren wants me as much as I want him. Of course, I’m not dangerous, though
he
may very well turn out to be.

Does that bother me?

Farren shoots me a searing look that makes me feel like prey caught in a lion’s sight. Not like Eric’s cold look to Haven. This is more about heat and raw lust, something mutual. I go with it, concluding danger associated with Farren doesn’t bother me one bit.

In fact, if Farren longs to catch me, I can’t wait to be caught.

W
hen the meal ends, Rick announces that he has to leave. Farren and I are left alone at the table. I have the impression from the pleased look on his handsome face that Farren planned for the evening to go this way.

“Your friend seems very nice,” I say, suppressing a smile.

“I’m glad you and Rick hit it off,” he replies, a smile of his own barely contained.

I blow out a breath as I lean back in my chair. “So, Farren, what do we do now?”

Scooting his chair a little closer, he purrs, “I don’t know, Essa. You tell me.”

His words are not just words. Delivered so confidently, in such a masculine voice, his words seduce. Quickly, I gulp down what’s left of my red wine. When I’m finished, I murmur, “Oh, I don’t know. Whatever you want to do is fine with me.”

Farren chuckles, scoots away slightly, and pours what remains in the bottle into my empty glass. He then asks, “What would
you
like to do, Essa? After all, the night is young.”

“And so are we,” I quip, clinking my glass to his before he has the chance to lift it to his full lips.

Farren chuckles, drinks his wine. I think he’s amused I’m more than a tad tipsy and uttering silly quips.

But I suddenly have an idea. “I know,” I say excitedly. “We should go to a place where we can dance.”

“Like to a club?” he asks.

“I wasn’t really thinking that,” I reply.

My first thought of a dance with Farren is something romantic, like a slow dance. Not dancing at some rowdy club.

Feeling bold, I say, “I’d prefer to go someplace where it would just be you and me.”

Farren is quiet for what feels like forever, and I start to think maybe I’ve been too bold, assumed too much. Maybe a club is more to his liking. But, to my delight, a sly smile spreads across his face.

He stands. “Come on,” he says, offering his hand. “I have an idea.”

Walking away from the table with me at his side, Farren flags down our waitress. She hurries over. When she reaches us, he whispers something to her. She nods and points to a darkened stairwell in the corner of the restaurant. Farren slips her a few bills before leading me, his hand cupping my elbow, to the stairwell.

“Where are we going?” I ask as we begin to ascend a dark and narrow set of steps.