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Swallowing harshly, I flip the page, knowing that I shouldn’t be looking at it. I can’t fuck this girl. Hell, even being in here right now could get me killed. Sticking my cock in her? Yeah, consider me a dead man walking.
I continue to flip through some blank pages, but when I get to the end … there are no more drawings. No. Her sketchbook quickly switches to writing. Information. Intel.
Facts.
Written in pen is information about the Romanos—height, suspected weight, eye color, hair color, personality traits, etc. My eyes read through it all, and there’s something written about every crew member and guard here at the complex, including Rossi and me.
Hudson Hercules.
At least six foot five.
Two hundred pounds.
Blue eyes.
Dirty-blond hair.
Very, very muscular.
Quiet. Grumpy?
Tattoos: far too many to count. But angel wings spread across his chest.
Favorite food: steak. Used to be chicken Alfredo.
I’m so engrossed in reading about myself—facts like what I eat for breakfast, when I work out, how I dress—that I don’t hear her sneak up on me until she leaps in front of me and attempts to shove me backward.
“See something you like, asshole?” she hisses, pulling the sketchbook toward her, but I keep hold of it.
I smirk at her effort, knowing damn well I could toss her over my shoulder right now and all of this would be over.
“No, sweetheart.” I narrow my eyes at her, grinning slightly. “But judging by a certain page in your book, I’d say you did.”
Her eyes widen, and her cheeks turn red. Though I’m not sure if it’s from embarrassment or if she’s just incredibly angry with me. Somehow, I think it might be the latter.
“Yeah, well, if you think I’m going to die here and not leave behind evidence to show everyone that you were somehow involved, you’re wrong.”
The fact that she blurts the words out proves to me she doesn’t actually think I’m going to hurt her. If she did, why the fuck would she show me her cards?
Letting go of her sketchbook, I cause her to stumble backward, landing in the chaise lounge. I walk across the room, close the door, and turn the lock. As I approach her, she scurries to sit up straighter on the chaise, shooting harsh glares at me.
“Go away,” she hisses. “Get out of here before I start screaming!”
Standing before her, I stare down. “And who do you think would come help you?” I let my eyes roam over her body. “Perhaps the man whose desk you were imagining me fucking you on?”
This time, I know the redness in her cheeks is strictly shame.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve thought about fucking you on his desk before too.” I jerk my head to the side. “Shit, I’ve imagined fucking you while he watches.”
“Shut up,” she utters.
I know I should stop before this goes any further. I made a promise to another woman. A woman who isn’t this one before me. But I’m so fucking lonely. And for whatever reason, she’s all I want right now.
“That ache, Briar … the one between your legs when you imagine fucking your bodyguard on your fiancé’s desk? Tell me, how do you make it stop?”
“I don’t …” she breathes out, her eyes glazed over. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
