Miami was in no short supply of places to go, not even so late at night.
That said, those places would be full of people with cameras. And with any luck, she’d managed to keep her face off of them so far. They could be chasing a ghost.
So I took a turn I’d only made a couple times before.
Heading down a side street of stores and take-out restaurants to park further down in case the cops had seen my bike and came looking.
I cut the engine, put down the kickstand, and waited for the woman’s hands to slide from under my shirt.
But I didn’t raise my arms.
Because the broker kept her arms around me as she folded one wrist inward to pull at the bracelet on her other one. Then I watched, entirely too fucking fascinated, as she slid some sort of plastic cover back to reveal a small plastic nub.
I knew exactly what it was before she even shoved it into the lock.
She had a makeshift handcuff key hidden on an unassuming rope-like bracelet.
And it was a lot hotter than it had any right to be to watch the cuffs give, then see her free herself from them before moving back.
She moved first, but I was quick to get to my feet, wanting to make sure she didn’t try to get away.
“Tell me you have a place around here,” she said as she pulled off the helmet and hung it from my handlebar.
“I do.”
I didn’t.
But I knew someone who did.
Which I figured was the same thing.
“Let’s go then. I didn’t take a ride from a stranger to get my ass arrested standing on the street.”
Her voice was smooth and confident. And just a little bit chilly.
That was pretty hot too.
“Right. Down this way,” I said, nodding toward the Indian restaurant as I hoped Arty was home, but knowing I had a spare key on my ring if I needed it.
Apparently, the club old ladies each had a key because they dropped in to clean on occasion. Huck decided to snag a copy and give them to everyone in case the guy ever got himself into trouble and we needed to get into his place to try to help.
“Here?” she asked when I reached for the knob, but found it locked.
I lifted the key, unlocked the door, and pushed it in.
I expected the smell.
I’d only been to Arty’s place twice, but each time it had not only the good lingering scent of the Indian restaurant right by it, but the not-so-great smells coming from overflowing trash bins, festering coffee cups, and unwashed laundry piles.
The broker moved in behind me, her face twisted up in disgust.
“Wow. You’re disgusting.”
And damn if some part of me didn’t fall for her right then and there.
CHAPTER THREE
Noa
