‘And how I’m going to get home if it gets towed,’ she finished, trying not to make too much of the possessive touch. He wasn’t deliberately trying to electrocute her erogenous zones, it was all in her head.
His low chuckle rumbled through her, upping the voltage.
‘Don’t worry, I have connections.’ He caressed the words the same way he was caressing her back, his palm skimming under the denim jacket she’d worn to ward off the spring chill. ‘One of my primos owns the place,’ he added. ‘The Mustang will be safe.’
She shivered and he rubbed gently, the absent caress instantly chasing away the chill. The electrical tingles morphed into tantalising zaps of energy and her nipples drew into tight buds, trapped against her bra.
And she wished this date weren’t as safe as his Mustang.
‘You’re cold.’ His gaze dipped to her cleavage as he led her past the queue of people waiting in line for a table. ‘Let’s grab a booth inside.’
She spotted the booths against the back wall in the darkest part of the restaurant. Their high leather backs and the tea lights flickering on the tables made them look intimate and inviting—and a bit too romantic.
‘I’m not that cold. Let’s sit outside, over the ocean.’ Sharing a booth with him and his let’s-get-naked hormones would be risky. She might well get high on them and start purring, especially if he touched her again. And that had the potential to be embarrassing.
His brow quirked, the sceptical smile calling her on her cowardice. ‘You sure about that? It’s chilly tonight.’
‘Absolutely, positively,’ she said, determined to avoid purring at all costs.
Montoya’s questions in the car and the light flirtatious banter had made her feel important and special. Even if it was a routine he used with every woman he met, her battered ego appreciated the boost. Not only that, but the restaurant was fabulous, the smell of roasting meat and Mexican spices almost as delicious as the lively buzz of friendly people having friendly conversations—and not shouting out obscenities at the top of their voices in the middle of the night.
She felt safe here and really rather fabulous under Montoya’s attentive gaze—but she didn’t want to get carried away.
A young waiter with bright ginger hair and an eager smile greeted Zane like an old friend and showed them to a table tucked at the end of the terrace.
Iona absorbed the sound of the waves lapping on the beach below and the glittering lights of the funfair across the bay, her stomach grumbling.
As pity dates went, this was shaping up to be one of her best.
Get your eyes off her butt.
Zane lifted his gaze from Iona’s perfect rear end as Benji pulled out their chairs.
He kept his gaze above her waistline as he held her chair. But then she smoothed her dress over that delicious tush and planted it on the seat. And his blood pressure shot up another notch.
So now you’re a butt man—when did that happen?
Then again, Iona McCabe had a lot of exceptional parts he decided as a gust of sea air plastered her dress against her breasts. Benji handed them both menus and Zane took in a lungful of the salty breeze to calm himself down. This was supposed to be fun and flirtatious—and a fact-finding mission. He wasn’t planning on taking things any further till he knew a lot more about her. She’d relaxed on the drive up and he’d managed to get some details out of her, but she’d clammed up again before he’d even got to talking about her association with Demarest.
So he needed to relax, turn up the charm and stop fixating on her assets, or he was never going to find out what he wanted to know.
Benji filled their water glasses. ‘Welcome to Manuel’s Cantina.’ He nodded at Zane. ‘I’ll tell Mani you’re here, Zane.’
‘Don’t bother, Benj—I’m sure he’s busy,’ he said, tensing up at the thought of seeing his primo. He liked Mani well enough, and the food here was terrific, but he never felt comfortable pretending their family connection meant something.
‘No problem,’ Benji remarked, before reeling off the specials and then leaving them to decide.
‘That all sounded delicious.’ Iona picked up the menu, and he was struck again by how young she looked. He knew now she was twenty-four—he’d checked out the birth date on her passport—but she looked younger. The image of Demarest sitting behind the mirrored glass with a cruel smile on his face made his stomach knot.
Forget it. Whatever the guy had done to her, she was safe from him now. He put his menu down on the table. ‘So, Iona, what do you want?’ he asked, making an effort to keep his tone G-rated.
‘Quite a lot actually,’ she murmured, the sparkle of flirtation in rich caramel making the knot sink lower. A lot lower.
‘Uh-huh, well, why don’t I help you to decide?’ He stretched out his legs, rested his forearms on the table—and forced himself to ignore the insistent pulse of heat.
He never slept with a woman on a first date, no matter how much he desired her, because it meant making demands that might be misconstrued later. He respected women, he enjoyed their company, but if sex was going to happen it would be on his terms and at his pace.
‘My personal favourite is the blackened catfish enchiladas with green chilli salsa.’