Hard Compromise (Compromise Me 2)

Duke froze. “What the…?”

Big fists came out of nowhere and half-assisted, half-dragged him off the table, leaving her standing, alone, on her pedestal of shame. She rubbed her shoulders to combat a chill, and blinked at the laser show of flashlight beams crisscrossing the night, wielded by a small team of uniformed officers. A short distance away old Sheriff Halloran stood overseeing the activity.

Happy New Year, you’re busted.

“Back off, asshole,” Duke said, and tried to throw an elbow into the imposing figure still holding his arm.

“Deputy Asshole,” the voice corrected, not releasing him. “And I want to see some ID.”

“Jesus. All right. Sorry.” He dug for his wallet, one-handed, and produced what looked like a driver’s license. “But seriously, let go, man. I haven’t done anything.”

The deputy examined the ID under the flashlight. He was bigger than Duke—taller, broader—with a cool assurance Laurie couldn’t help but envy. “Are you aware your dance partner’s barely old enough to drive?”

“Fuck me.” Duke’s head swung her way as her shame ripened into mortification.

Sheriff Halloran approached, calm if not a little weary. “Hello, Lauralie. Out past curfew, aren’t you?”

Duke turned his attention to Halloran, and started talking fast. “She told me she was in college. How would I know different? Come on, look at her! Shit.” His voice took on a desperate edge. “Nothing happened. We danced. That’s all.” He flung an arm in her direction. “Tell him!”

“Just a dance.” She wasn’t about to bring up the champagne, or anything else that might lead to Halloran or his cohort placing a call to her mother. Then she’d really be screwed.

“I don’t suppose he gave you anything to drink?” Halloran asked.

“No.” The denial came fast, and firm, but a loud hiccup followed like an embarrassing parent. A drunk one.

Somebody sighed.

Duke muttered, “Aw, hell,” and then took up the cause of rescuing his own ass. “This isn’t even my party. I’m just a guest. My room is right up there.” He nodded toward the resort. “I didn’t rent the cabana, or order the alcohol. None of it. If you want to double check with the resort, they can verify—”

“Tell you what,” Halloran interrupted. “You and I are going to take a walk up to the resort and discuss the situation. Deputy, will you deal with Miss Peterson?”

“No problem, assuming she can obey my instructions better than she can obey a curfew.”

Cop humor. LOL.

Halloran took her dance partner by the arm and steered him toward the path leading up to the resort. Staring after them made her dizzy, so she lowered her chin to her chest and focused on her bare feet. How embarrassing for Duke, getting perp-walked through a ritzy hotel lobby on New Year’s Eve.

But his embarrassment paled compared to the world of hurt she’d be in if Deputy Do-Right decided to Breathalyze her. Her stomach took a sickening spin as she thought about the consequences. Minor in possession of alcohol. Public intoxication. She didn’t come from a rich Montenido family who would hire a high-powered attorney to get their teenager out of trouble. Uh-uh. The juvie judge would make an example of her. Definitely yank her driver’s permit. She could probably kiss good-bye any chance of getting her actual driver’s license until she was at least twenty-one. Oh, God…

Don’t panic. Hold your shit together, and act sober.

“Where are your shoes?”

The deputy’s question cut short her self-coaching session. She looked up too fast and lost her balance. Gravity dumped her on her ass in the sand, and the impact jostled another incriminating hiccup out of her.

Black shoes appeared in her line of vision a second before she heard the soft pop of a knee joint. He crouched, balanced his weight on his heels, and reached for her arm. “Are you all right, Lauralie?”

She scooted away, which only succeeded in shoveling a load of Nido Beach into her shorts. “Don’t call me that.” An obscenely loud hiccup tagged along with the retort. So much for holding her shit together. She should have kept her mouth shut, but she couldn’t help herself. Only her mother called her Lauralie, and only when she wanted something. And basically, if Denise’s mouth was moving, she wanted something.

The flashlight beam landed on her. She flinched under the glare. “Can you get that out of my face?”

He didn’t immediately respond, just continued assessing her. A not-particularly-clever wisecrack leaped to her lips, about how a picture would last longer, but the smart-mouthed comment died away as an uncomfortable awareness settled over her. He was looking past the blond hair she’d tamed into smooth waves and her intentionally sophisticated makeup. Past her cocked chin and folded arms. He was looking at her. And if he kept looking, he’d see all the things she worked really hard to make sure nobody saw. Insecurities. Fears. Just when she couldn’t stand the spotlight of his attention a second longer, he moved the beam off her.

“Those yours, Jailbait?”

More cop humor. Her pink Uggs sat in the small pool of light. “Yes.”

He stood, and helped her to her feet before she could scramble up under her own power. Sand showered from her sh