Katherine Garbera - One Kiss In… Miami

She shot from the bed and seeing her in the sunlight, every inch of her on full display, nearly brought Justice to his knees. No question. If he survived the next nine-point-three minutes it would be a miracle. And he didn’t believe in miracles.

“I remember who you are.”

“You do?” She smiled in delight. “That’s great. How did you figure it out?”

“Your tattoo.” That damnable tattoo. “Seeing it has somehow forged a connection between my consciousness and that particular set of memories.”

“Was that all it took?” She had the nerve to laugh. “I’m surprised your own tattoo didn’t do that.”

“I don’t have a tattoo.”

“Sure you do. A panther’s paw with claw marks to match my cat’s eyes.” She pointed. “It’s there on your hip—” She broke off, distress causing her to catch her lower lip between her teeth, a lip he’d taken great delight in catching between his own teeth only hours earlier. “Oh, Justice. There’s only a scar there now. I’m so sorry.”

“Stop it, Daisy.” He cut her off with a slice of his hand. “Your tattoo is merely a catalyst. I don’t just remember who you are. I also remember what you did.”

“What I did?”

A tiny line formed between her brows. Excellent. Maybe it would encourage wrinkles to form and she’d be less appealing. Of course, that might take thirty years. Or even fifty, depending on her genetics. He didn’t think he could wait that long. He needed her out now .

“You lied about your age that summer. You told me you were seventeen. You told me you would be a high school senior to my college freshman, just one year behind me. Instead, you were a fifteen-year-old child.”

“Almost sixteen,” she retorted, stung. “And I lied because I knew you wouldn’t kiss me if I told you the truth.”

“Kiss you?” The thread holding his temper snapped. He literally heard it, the sound as loud and sharp as the crack of a whip. He came at her, not even realizing he moved until he caught her shoulders in his hands and yanked her onto her toes. “I made love to you. You were a damn virgin. You were … untouchable and I touched you. The one true home I’d had since my parents died and you ruined it for me. Took it from me. I lost my scholarship because of you because I was no longer of ‘good character.’” Dear God that had hurt. Devastated. “Because of you Harvard wouldn’t touch me.”

“What?” He couldn’t mistake the shock on her face. Nor could she have faked the way every scrap of color drained from her face and the pupils of her eyes narrowed to pinpricks. “Oh, Justice. I’m so sorry. They told me you’d left early for college … I never realized …”

He released her and stepped away. “Put on your clothes.”

That brought color back to her face. Without a word, she snatched up the various bits and pieces scattered across the suite and dressed. Even that she did with grace and elegance, and Justice turned his back, unable to watch without—Without wanting her again. Without touching her again. Without snatching her into his arms, carrying her to that bed and making love to her until they were both too exhausted to move. How the hell could he still want her after what she’d done?

“Justice?”

He hadn’t heard her approach, but he sure as hell felt her tentative touch on his bare arm. He almost broke, catching himself at the last instant. He turned on her, wanting her to understand just how much she’d cost him. How he’d never forgive her duplicity.

“That final home, that place —” he practically spit out the word “—they put me those final months was the worst of them all. They knew what I’d done and treated me …” He broke off, shaking his head, his back teeth clamping as he fought back the blistering spill of emotions. Emotions he refused to acknowledge. Refused to allow to touch him ever again. “When I turned eighteen, they kicked me loose. I had nowhere to go, no one to help me. No job or money and no chance of acquiring either.”

Her breath hitched throughout his recital, disbelief warring with … It took him a moment to identify the emotion. Pain? Heartbreak? “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t.”

Tears came then, sliding down her cheeks and reddening her eyes and nose. She wasn’t a pretty crier. Instead of pleasing him, the discovery bothered him on some deep, visceral level, perhaps because it suggested that her tears were sincere. He should have taken pleasure in her distress, felt some sort of redemption. Once upon a time he might have. But not now. Not after all these years. He struggled to ignore the tears, using her emotion to lock away his own. To distance himself from that long-ago time.

“Are you even an engineer?” he demanded.

“No, of course not.”

Of course not? God save him from illogical women. “You are at an engineering conference. Only engineers were permitted to attend the keynote speech. No guests. No media. No—” He made an impatient gesture. “Whatever you are.”

“I write and illustrate children’s storybooks.”

It was so far out of expectation that it took him a split second to adjust his thinking. “Then, what the hell were you doing at my speech?”

“I saw your name and photograph on one of the hotel placards and recognized you. I slipped in on impulse.”

“You told me you were an engineer.”

She scrubbed impatiently at her cheeks before planting her hands on her hips. “I most certainly did not. In fact, I told you I wasn’t.”

He sorted through their time together and came up empty. “No, you didn’t.”

“It was when we had tea. Or rather, didn’t have tea.” She drove that point home with pinpoint accuracy. “You asked if we’d met at an engineering conference and I said I wasn’t an engineer.” She hesitated. Blushed. “Well, to be honest—”

“Yes, please. I’m sure it would make a nice change for you.”

Anger flickered to life in her gaze. “I never lied to you. I told you we’d met before. I never claimed to be an engineer. In fact, I started to explain what I did for a living when the waitress arrived. If she hadn’t interrupted, I’d have been able to finish my sentence. By the time she left, the conversation switched gears.” She folded her arms across her chest. “As I recall, you asked me for another hint.”

“Maybe you should have told me you were the woman who ruined my chance to attend Harvard. That would have been an excellent hint.”

“I’m sorry. I had no idea.” Her apology sounded sincere, not that it helped.

Even so, he caught the distress and pain. Not on her own account, but for him. Not that he wanted it. “They could have pressed charges against me. Your parents threatened to.”

“If they’d pressed charges I would have told the authorities the truth. That I lied to you about my age and what happened between us was consensual. Quite consensual,” she made a point of adding, then released a sigh heavy with regret. “I swear to you, Justice, I didn’t know they’d found out. They never told me. I just woke up one day and you were gone.”

“And that would have made everything all right? Damn it to hell, Daisy. I took you to a tattoo parlor—” Another thought struck him and he groped on the dresser for Rumi, his fingers fumbling across the smooth surface. “Son of a bitch. I let you drive to the tattoo parlor.”

She reddened. “I was a bit … precocious back then.”

“Precocious?” he roared. “You were a walking, talking bundle of rampaging hormones intent on getting into as much trouble as possible, while dragging me along for the ride.”

“That, too.” Her expression turned wistful. “But it was fun while it lasted, wasn’t it?”