Bad Boy (An Indecent Proposal) - J.C. Reed Page 0,14

He was standing so close his naked forearm almost brushed my shoulder. Even in the dim light the gun holster around his waist was clearly visible, drawing my attention to it, and for a moment my heart picked up in speed and my brain struggled to make sense as to what I might have done wrong to catch his attention.

The guy was a cop, so I must have done something.

“Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish,” I said.

“You’re lucky I speak English.” He plopped down in the seat opposite from mine and waved at his colleagues who were busy ordering drinks at the bar.

“You can have the table. I was about to leave.” To prove my point, I slung my handbag over my shoulder and sat up when he leaned over the table, his hand clasping around my wrist.

“Not so fast.”

My pulse started to race.

I stared at his fingers as they remained wrapped around my skin.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“You’re such a beautiful girl. Why leave so soon? The night’s young.” He pointed to my half-finished glass. “And you’re not finished.”

I frowned at him as I watched his tongue run over his lips.

Oh, for crying out loud.

What was it with me and my tendency to attract all the wrong guys?

First, Chase turned out to be more of a frog than a prince, metaphorically speaking.

Then, my date stood me up.

Now, some cop was trying to chat me up.

And not just any cop.

A Mexican cop who had probably participated in his fair share of dangerous busts and was most certainly used to violence. Or seeing that things went his way.

Something was wrong with the world—or me.

Under normal circumstances I would have told him to get his dirty hands off me but I was in a foreign country and drawing attention to myself was the last thing I wanted.

“You’re really pretty,” he said and leaned closer until I could feel his breath on my skin. His fingers trailed along my arm. I flinched when he touched my hair to brush it away from my face.

“What do you want?” I asked warily, frozen to the spot as his hand moved from my hair to my shoulder.

“Just a chat?”

He made it sound like a question. Like there’d be way more than a chat later on.

As if.

I swallowed hard and forced a cold smile to my lips. “It’s been a long flight. I need to get back to the hotel.”

“Where are you staying?” someone asked behind me.

I turned and realized that his two friends had joined him. Unlike the cop, they were wearing jeans, but their hard faces looked threatening enough, as if they would not hesitate to drag someone through the backdoor to beat them to a bloody pulp and then fill out a report about how they acted in ‘self-defense.’

“Hey, didn’t you hear him? Where are you staying?” the left guy asked, repeating his friend’s question.

The alarm bells in my head went off all at once, as my heart started to thump harder. I had nothing to hide. I had done nothing wrong. And yet, here I was, being harassed.

Maybe this restaurant usually attracted only local clientele.

Maybe those guys didn’t like Americans.

Maybe women weren’t supposed to sit by themselves.

Heck, maybe it was an offense that I didn’t finish my glass of wine.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and regarded them for a split second, unsure how to deal with the situation. Finally, I decided I was just going to walk away from a confrontation because, damn it, I had rights.

“None of your business,” I said through cringed teeth and tried to get up.

“Answer his question,” the cop said. His hand slammed against the table.

I jumped up, scared, and almost knocked over my glass of wine.

Whoa.

Did I detect a hint of a threat in his voice?

And most importantly, what was happening?

“Where are you staying?” the guy asked again.

As if I was so stupid that I’d tell them.

“I’m staying with my fiancé and his parents, “I lied, trying to infuse some confidence into my voice.

“You heard the American,” the cop said to his friends as his arm draped over my shoulders. “She’s staying with her fiancé.” I could hear the sarcasm in his voice. “There. Was it so hard to answer the question?”

I swallowed. “Any other questions? Is this some kind of interrogation?”

“Interrogation?” He frowned. “Who said anything about an interrogation? We’re just having a little chat.”

“If you’ll excuse me. I’m very tired.” I pulled away from the police guy’s grip a little too forcefully. His eyes narrowed on