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“You asshole.”
Those aren’t the words I planned to say. At all. My heart’s shredded, thrumming and aching, and I know that somewhere between when we met and when he walked away without a word, I fell in love.
I never meant to, but how could I not?
He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Hard, sensuous, wild, cruel, sweet. And sweet’s not a word people use for him. But it’s there, down in the depths of him. And when you know what to look for…
It’s there. Precious. Tiny, shining, pure.
But his beauty isn’t why I fell in love. It’s why I was attracted to him. His touch is why I fell in lust.
The path, that twisted, dangerous path to his heart, to the things he is at his core, that’s how I fell in love.
He’s funny and dark. He’s dangerous with that nugget of sweetness. He tests every limit I have.
And this is the cruelest part.
I know he’s an asshole.
But he’s mine.
He’s staring at me, his expression the most naked I’ve ever seen. Thoughts fly across his face, and he looks like he’s about to fall. I can almost see the crush of his heart, it trying to beat, uncertain about whether or not it’s about to break.
“What…? Scarlett, what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I called that number Amelia had, the one you gave her. They said they’d pass on the message.”
His eyes narrow. “So I don’t have to bring something in to headquarters?”
I stare at him. The gulf between us is a few feet, but it might as well be the Grand Canyon.
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“Probably not. Go home, Scarlett. I’m not in the mood.”
My hands shake as my heart starts to lacerate. Maybe I read that naked expression wrong. Maybe he doesn’t care after all.
“Malone, you let them live…”
“And you thought that was enough to think you, what?” He laughs and shakes his head. “Love me?”
He stalks over to the bar and pours himself a drink. This time he reaches for the bottle of Japanese whiskey.
“No, I thought… I thought I hated you for a few days. You…” I swallow. “You?—”
“Threatened to kill your father and shot your uncle.”
“Stop,” I say, frustration lacing my tone, “interrupting me. I need to say this.”
I hold his gaze, trying to get my words in order.
He downs his drink, then pours himself another. “I’ve got a date, so if you hurry, I’d appreciate it.”
“No, you don’t.” He might, just might. But he also looks like he hasn’t slept, his clothes are rumpled, and he needs a shave. It’s the most disheveled I’ve ever seen him. No, I don’t think he has a date.
And if he does, I just might borrow his gun and shoot her in the toe or something.
“I’m busy.”
