Djinn and Tonic Read online

  And he sure doesn’t need to know what happened at the bar. He doesn’t need to know who I really am…or what I am.

  But part of me wonders: should I tell him? Will I end up having to tell him?

  Part of me wants to confide in him and throw myself at him simply because of the purity of his desire for me.

  Men have always pursued me, flirted with me, charmed me and hit on me, but I could always see the greed and the motive lurking behind their gazes. I can feel it in their hands when they try to charm their way into my pants and into my father’s ear and bank account. Hassan, above and beyond all the rest, has motives for wanting me that have nothing to do with who I am. He doesn’t want Leila; he wants Leila Najafi. He wants the name and the weight behind it, the power that will be his once the alliance between our clans is sealed.

  I refuse to be a pawn in their stupid games of power. I am a woman, not a chess piece. I want a man to love me for who I am, not for what I have, or who my father is. I don’t care about their alliance. I don’t care how powerful our joined clans will be, how much power we will wield over the other clans, I don’t even care how vast our wealth will be once—if—the alliance is sealed.

  The alliance, after all, hinges on me, and I refuse to be a part of it. I have refused Hassan’s clumsy, oafish advances. I have denied my father’s orders. I ran away from the only home I’ve ever known to get away from both of them, and their politics and their positioning and their avarice.

  Carson Hale, when he fixes those hard, intense blue eyes on me, wants me without knowing anything of that. Perhaps it is only lust at this point, but I’ll take that over Hassan’s version of desire, which isn’t desire but lust for my body, and need for control, and hunger for power all mixed together.

  My fear is that Carson will vanish once he realizes that what trails behind me is a freight train of baggage. Plus, he’s a cop, and my family runs on the opposite side of the law. Yet another reason I fled Chicago.

  It’s all so complicated already, and now Carson is, unwittingly, in the middle of it. He has no clue, and he sure doesn’t know how confused I am right now. He has no idea how alluring, how tempting he is to me. My heart tells me it’s not just lust, though. There’s something else in the way he looks at me, in the way he talks to me. He’s come to me three times now when he’s upset or confused, and he talks to me about it. I like to think he came to The Old Shillelagh as much for me as for the gin and tonic, although I can’t say for sure. I mean, there has to be a dozen other places he could have gone to get drunk, all closer to the precinct or to his apartment.

  But he comes to my bar. That has to mean something, right?

  Whether it does or not, I had no business involving him in my tangled-up mess of a life. The problem is, he’s now involved, most likely to his detriment.

  I should go see him, shouldn’t I? I mean, he’s in the hospital with a concussion and possibly even broken bones, and all because of me. I should make sure he’s okay. I should find out what he knows, what he suspects, and get his version of events.

  I have to allay his suspicions, don’t I? For his own protection, I have to lead him away from the truth.

  Who am I kidding? I’m going because I want to see his rugged face and feel his hands touching me. I’m going because deep down I want to feel his lips on mine again. Knowing that Carson Hale is the last person on earth I should be getting romantically involved with doesn’t change what I feel about him.

  I’m flushed with lust for him. The only question is whether my prudence will be stronger than my lust. Because that’s all it is: lust. It’s physical. He’s hot, he’s strong, and he’s a damned good kisser. It’s not emotional at all. I don’t feel anything for him at all. It’s simply hormones and pheromones.

  Right?

  * * *

  He’s sitting up in the hospital bed, the thin white blanket pulled up to his hips, pillows propped behind his back. He’s eating green Jell-O. The lights are dimmed, the TV on mute, and he’s staring at the TV without really seeing it. The hospital gown is too small and is untied, showing his muscular arms and the bandages around his ribs. I can see the band of his black underwear peeking out from between the front and back of the gown where the blanket doesn’t cover him. Even standing in the doorway, watching him, I want to run my hands across his abs, around to the small of his back and under the band of his underwear. I shove my hands in my pockets.

  He notices me, and his eyes light up. He sets aside the Jell-O and clicks off the TV using the controller attached to the bed.

  “Leila! I wasn’t expecting you…come in, sit down.” He tugs the blanket higher and tries in vain to make the gown close around his side.

  If I’m being honest, I’m glad it doesn’t close. I like the glimpses of his skin, of his powerful physique.

  “Of course I’d come and see you,” I tell him, pulling the plastic guest chair closer to the bed. A little closer than it needs to be, probably, close enough that I can reach out and touch him if I want to. My hands are clutching my purse so hard my knuckles are white—a lame attempt at keeping myself under control.

  He smiles, showing absurdly straight, white teeth. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.” It’s a slightly awkward moment.

  I’m not sure what to say, and neither is he. I can see a million questions flitting around behind his eyes, coupled with his desire for me. All of this is communicated in the way he glances at the TV screen, as if wishing it was a means of distraction, and in the way he plucks at the loose threads of the blanket.

  I find myself wishing that his hands would busy themselves with me.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask him. “Are you hurt badly? How long will you be here?”

  He shrugs, lifting the gown up to show more of his bruised abdominal muscles. He has cuts on his face and a square of gauze is taped on his forehead. “Eh, I’m fine. Some bruised ribs and a concussion. I’ve been hurt worse playing football, honestly, but I’m a cop so I can’t just leave. I’ll be here for another day or so to make sure my ribs are healing and so they can keep an eye on the concussion.”

  “I saw that wince when you shrugged,” I say. “So let me ask you again. How are you really, Carson?” I lean forward, and my hands are on the edge of the bed, inches from his own.

  He glances down at my hands, takes a quick look and then glances away. He’s aware of our proximity, which means he wants me to touch him, I think. I try to hold my hands still, but one of them finds itself brushing against his knuckles, nudging his fingers aside so my hand is beneath his. He wraps his hand around mine, a reflexive motion.

  I like how this feels.

  Why am I holding his hand? I shouldn’t be doing this, but…I can’t seem to summon the will power necessary to make myself let go.

  Carson is searching my face, and he answers my question after a moment, “Okay. Well, honestly, it hurts. It’s mainly my ribs. But, honestly, it’s not bad. I’m fine. I’m more confused than anything. I’m not even really sure what happened or how I got here.” He’s rubbing one of my knuckles with his thumb, soft, gentle circles. “I remember being in the bar with you, being a little drunk—”

  “A little drunk?” I laugh, teasing him. “You were wasted.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t that drunk. Certainly not blackout drunk, but…” He shakes his head slowly. “I remember sitting at the bar with you, and I kissed you, and then things just went black. I don’t remember falling over, and I don’t think I was so wasted I’d have fallen off a damn chair. But how else could I have blacked out? I had five or six drinks, at the most. That’s not anywhere near enough to make me black out. But after I kissed you, everything is just a blank. I don’t know how I got here, and I really don’t know what happened to my ribs.”

  “I think I kissed you,” I say, by way of nudging the conversation away from certain unexplainable events.

  Unexplainable to a human, at least.

  My free hand is fidgeting with the hem of his
gown sleeve, tracing the line of his muscles between bicep and tricep. “I remember that pretty clearly, since I was sober. I definitely kissed you.” Talking about the kiss is dangerous, because I want to kiss him again, and I shouldn’t, I can’t, he’s already been hurt enough simply for being seen with me once, but talking about the kiss is the best tactic I can come up with for distracting him from asking questions I can’t answer.

  And goodness knows Carson has enough unanswered questions in his life.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I’m pretty sure I kissed you first. You were sort of leaning in a little bit, but I made the move first.”

  I shake my head, insisting, “No, you were the one leaning in, but I for sure kissed you first.” I’m so close to kissing him again, and I know I shouldn’t.

  But I don’t think I can lie to him. Not convincingly, at least. He’d know.

  “You must have been more drunk than you realized,” he says, laughing. “Because you’re remembering wrong. I may have had a fair bit to drink, but my memory of that much, at least, is clear as a bell.”

  We’ve both leaned forward in imperceptible increments, until we’re within kissing distance.

  “I wasn’t drunk,” I say, letting my hand drift up from his arm to his shoulder. “I’d had like three sips from my drink, which I had just poured after my shift was over. I wasn’t even buzzed. We were sitting a lot like this: close, but not quite…there….”

  He’s raising a skeptical eyebrow, a saucy, sarcastic, unspoken comment. I don’t move in any closer, still fighting with myself about letting this happen.

  I want him to make the move. I want him to show me how he feels.

  But I shouldn’t want that. I should leave the hospital right now, before we kiss again, before I get myself deeper in trouble with this all-too-sexy detective. Before the whirling vortex of trouble that is my life pulls him in any further. He’s the polar opposite of all that my family, my clan, and even my entire race represents. And not just that; he poses a complication in my life that I can’t justify, not when I’ve already got so many problems to figure out.

  But now it’s too late: he’s closed the distance and has put his lips to mine, a slow, delicate movement, so tender and questing, so sensual coming from such a rugged man. He’s big and tough and hard and he’s kissing me like he’s worried I may shut him down. I should shut him down, but I can’t. I don’t. I won’t. Instead of pushing him away and running like a smart girl would do, I slip my hand behind his head, to the close-cropped down-soft hair by his neck, and pull him gently towards me to deepen the kiss.

  I am a fool.

  Why the hell am I kissing him? The sensible part of my brain is screaming at me. This is the fourth time I’ve seen this man, and I don’t think he even knows my last name.

  This is stupid and foolish, and it’ll only lead to heartbreak for both of us.

  But I can’t stop myself. He tastes like Jell-O and coffee, and his tongue is pushing against mine, his hand is brushing my cheek and burying itself in my hair. Our other hands are still entwined together, fingers tangled and tightening as the kiss goes from innocent to hungry in an instant.

  I manage to pull away before it goes too far. Our faces are still mere inches from each other, and his eyes are hunting and searching mine, looking for something, digging into me, asking a thousand silent questions.

  I don’t have the answers to his questions, and I don’t know why I’m so attracted to him.

  Sure, he’s hot as hell in that tall, dark, and handsome, all-American football player sort of way and, yeah, there’s an element of danger to him, a rugged sense of primal, sexual power. But there’s more to it than that. It’s him, the man, the person. He has a way of shredding my will, a way of communicating how much he wants me with a mere look, or a touch of his fingers. Being wanted for who I am? God help me, I can’t resist him. He touches me, looks at me, talks to me, and I know he likes me, or at least, what little he knows of me. I know he desires Leila the woman.

  A quiet, insistent voice in my soul asks me a question that douses my hunger: will he still want me when he knows what I am? Will he want me when he knows what my family is? I don’t know the answer to those questions. Another problem: I should be asking if he knows, not when. I don’t want him to know. He can’t know.

  He must sense the conflict in me, for he pulls back and asks, “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head. Where do I start? What do I say?

  “I obviously shouldn’t have kissed you,” he guesses, dejection in his voice.

  “No!” I say. “That’s not it. I kissed you back, didn’t I? I wanted you to kiss me.”

  “Then what? There’s something wrong. I can tell there is, so don’t try and say there isn’t.” He’s perceptive and insistent, and I know he’ll hear the lie in my voice.

  I lie anyway. “It’s just…this is crazy, you know? We don’t even know each other.”

  He hisses in frustration, rolling his eyes. “Maybe it is crazy, but…it’s also not. And that’s not it either.”

  I know he’s right, and he knows I’m evading answering his question. As crazy as it is to be kissing a man I barely know, with Carson it just feels…right. The problem is that I simply cannot get the truth to come out. All I can do is shake my head, as if that could dislodge the words that would allay his suspicions.

  “Leila, what happened at the bar?” There’s the question, direct and uncompromising.

  I feel panic bolt through me. “I’m not really sure,” I say, feeling another lie burning the air between us. “It must have been a robbery, or something. It all happened so fast, and I didn’t really get a good look at whoever it was.”

  Carson is staring at me, and the suspicion and disappointment on his face are almost too much to take. “That’s bullshit, Leila. The doors were all locked and we were talking, and then the next thing I remember is…being hit on the back of the head? That’s the only thing that makes sense. The doctor told me my concussion was caused by blunt force trauma. Sometime later I wake up here, feeling as if a building had fallen on top of me. So don’t tell me it was a robbery, and don’t tell me you don’t know. You weren’t hurt, and you didn’t report a robbery. I know, I checked. So…you must have seen something. What the hell happened? You have to remember something.”

  “Like a building fell on top of me…” Oh god, if only he knew how correct he is. But if he knew what happened in the bar, it’d only lead to more questions, none of which have easy answers.

  “I don’t know what happened, Carson. I really don’t.” The lie is searing through me, and it’s all I can do to keep from either kissing him again or running from the room.

  “Okay, Leila. Fine. Whatever you say.” He lets it go for now and I’m thankful, but I’m also really scared. He’s not a man who will let this drop.

  The silence between us is awkward and thick, freighted with a complex amalgam of desire and lies.

  “Listen, I…I should go,” I say. I have to get out of here. I have to get away from him, away from his sensual, accusing eyes, away from his lips that are drawing me in even now, away from his hands that I want to feel on my skin. Away from the truth that I know he seeks.

  He nods, releases my hands, grabs the remote for the TV. I stand up, my purse dangling from one hand. I’m not sure whether I should hug him or just walk away. I lean toward him and wrap my arms around him in a hug, cursing myself for the idiot I am. His arms snake around me and rest on my back, on the nape of my neck, and I like them there. Despite everything I’m enjoying the restrained strength in his touch. As I start to pull away Carson brushes an errant strand of hair away from my face and stares into my eyes, searching me once again. He sees the lies in my eyes as clearly as he sees the nose on my face. I also know he sees my desire, my confusion. I know he sees it all there, for it’s roiling just beneath the surface, and I’ve never been good at hiding my emotions. He kisses me, a quick, hard brush of the lips. There’s a familiarity about
it, as if he always kisses me before we part.

  I hate myself for loving how natural it feels.

  “So…was this our first date, then?” he asks, changing the subject, but somehow I know his real question is still poised on the tip of his tongue.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “I asked you out, remember? We were supposed to go out Tuesday, which is tomorrow. I think. But, I can’t exactly take you out tomorrow, so…” He trails off, hoping I’ll fill in the space.

  And I do: “How about we call this a visit, and then you can take me on a real date when you get out of here?”

  Why did I just say that? The last thing I should be doing is going out on a date with Detective Carson Hale. If I had any sense I would shut this down right now.

  But…no. The reckless, impulsive, selfish part of me is telling me that I’ve already kissed him twice now, so I might as well go for broke by going on a date with him.

  “I’d like that,” he says, grinning like I’ve just made his day.

  “Me too,” I say, and I’m smiling too, unable to stop myself.

  I’m trying to pull away so I can leave, but his hand is still in mine and I want to sit back down and kiss him again. I can see him wanting the same thing. The desire is pulsating from him, evident in the way he’s gazing at me, in the way he’s still searching my eyes as if trying to glean the truth from me without having to pull it out of me one word at a time.

  It takes a few minutes, but I finally manage to get myself out of his hospital room and into the maze of hallways. I’m still thinking about his lips on mine and how much I loved the feel of his hands in my hair, his tongue tip exploring near mine, not quite daring to kiss me deeply.

  I know for a fact that if I were to kiss him again, there would be no turning back. He’ll push the boundaries of passion, he’ll ignite me, and there will be no keeping my hands to myself.