One More Night with You by Lisa Marie Perry

served a boilerplate restraining order.
    DiGorgio isn’t some playground bully.
    She swallowed down some mint water, but still felt as though a brick was lodged in her throat. Dragging in a breath, she looked out the window. The Ferrari waited in its darkly seductive magnificence, yet she wondered if lurking in every crevice on the street was somebody who’d been paid to harm her.
    Damn Zaf. Damn him for coming back to her now. Damn him for forcing her to face this.
    And damn him for being the most cunning and well-connected man she knew.
    Joey took out her phone. She wasn’t sure that the contact number her “blind date” had provided was still a viable way to reach him, but she had to give it a try.
    â€œJo?”
    What did it mean that his voice could flood her senses? What did it even mean that she wanted him, flesh to flesh, yet hated the Machiavellian part of his personality that surfaced as some sort of wicked alter ego?
    â€œIt’s me,” she said, looking across at the people in the café, though not really seeing any of them. “About last night.”
    â€œWhat you did—I deserved that. I pushed you too far,” Zaf apologized. “It’s got to be overwhelming as all hell.”
    â€œIt wouldn’t be if it were someone else. But it’s me , Zaf.” And she was frightened.
    â€œWhen you’re ready to deal with this, call me. I still have the light beer.”
    She had to smile at that. “Can you get to the Strip? I’m at a side-street café. Nickel’s.”
    He paused. Then, “I don’t want to chase you, Jo.”
    â€œNo chase. No tricks. I’ll be here.”
    * * *
    Almost fifteen minutes later Joey saw him emerge from a deep gray pickup truck that she was certain she’d seen scale rocky terrain on a television ad.
    Attraction made her heart hurt. That crisp button-down he’d roughened up by rolling the sleeves and opening the collar was too perfectly made for his tight muscles. The belt snaked around his hips called too much attention to the region of his body she’d touched with authority yesterday in the library.
    The open-carry holster at his waistband reminded her of who they were and where they’d come from.
    As he tucked his keys into his pocket, she saw a bulky watch, onyx beads and a pair of thin leather straps wrapped around one wrist.
    Dios. Te dessio.
    As if he’d heard her thoughts, Zaf looked at her through the window. She raised her hand, flattened the palm against the glass.
    She could perceive nothing from his expression, and put down her hand before he entered Nickel’s and sought her table in that casual, unhurried way that threatened to make her smile.
    â€œHow you holding up?” he asked, lowering onto the vacant chair. “I left you with a lot to deal with yesterday.”
    â€œAnd I’m dealing with it. Kind of.” She propped her elbows on the table, cupped her chin with both hands. “Were you worried about me, when you got to the house?”
    â€œAt first. Then, when I realized you were too smart to react carelessly and were sending me a message, I was pissed. Then I was proud of you for bringing me down a notch.”
    â€œWe were always big on give and take, weren’t we, Zaf?”
    â€œYeah.” He reached for her hand, brought it to him. By the time she noticed the mocha-colored smear of dessert topping on her knuckle, he’d already taken it away with a warm, openmouthed kiss. “What was that?”
    â€œIrish cream cheesecake. I’d offer you some, but I massacred it.”
    â€œNext time.”
    Next time, as though they were lovers and had the luxury of moments like this that weren’t underscored with emotional upheaval.
    â€œSo what did you bring, Zaf?”
    â€œSam Adams and information. Both in my truck.” He shot a glance out the window. “Where’s your Chevy?”
    â€œAt home. I’m