Page 5 of Out of Control

His hands are still on her.

End of story.

I grab the back of his collar and yank him backward while my other fist connects with his cheek. There’s nothing satisfying about the feel of it or the sound it makes. It’s just a necessary means to an end. A way to make this fucker stop.

He collapses like a pussified bag of potatoes. Figures.

But that doesn’t stop me. I land another punch. His lip splits and he’s too stupid to shut his mouth.

“She was asking for it.”

And another.

“Dressed like that.”

I cock my fist back again, but there’s a shriek.

“Stop!”

A hand pulling back on my bicep prevents me from landing another punch.

I try and shrug it off but turn and look into the eyes of the woman I’m defending. “Seriously?” I ask in a rage-filled haze. I miss the startled look on her face—eyes wide, lips shocked into an O. Her sudden hesitation. Something’s familiar about her. “The guy had his hands all over you, and now you’re telling me to stop?”

I shrug off her touch, cock back my fist, and deliver one more blow. Those words and that mouth more than deserve it. His head snaps back, prompting him to hold up both his hands in surrender.

Good.

The fuck you chuckle that falls from his lips as he rolls over onto his knees and begins to crawl away has me clenching my fist again though.

But a crowd is starting to form and the last thing I need is to be noticed. I don’t need rubbish about Oliver Rossi splashed across the tabloids . . . no matter how true or how grandiose it may be.

I turn to check on the woman, to accept her gratitude, only to catch a glimpse of her as she hurries away.

And to think I expected some gratitude . . .

“Hey. Wait up,” I shout as I jog the short distance toward her. “Are you okay? Are you—” I reach out, my hand hooking accidentally in her pashmina so that when she turns around, it falls off.

I’m met with a full head of dark hair that falls in waves down her back and a pair of amber eyes framed by thick lashes.

We stare at each other in shock.

“Navarro?” I ask. What the fuck is she doing here?

“Unbelievable,” she says like a swear word as a half laugh falls from her mouth. “Fucking unbelievable.”

She starts to take off again, pushing through people like the seas should part for her. Figures. I scramble after her and piss a few people off in the process as I barrel through them.

“Navarro. Wait.” I grab her arm again to stop her. This time she spins on me, hands on her hips and just stares at me.

“What?” she snaps. “What do you want?”

I’m rarely surprised by people and yet . . . “Why the hostility? I just saved your ass.”

She gives a part laugh, part snort. “Saved my ass?” There’s something about the way she says it that makes me wonder if she even believes the false bravado she’s exuding. “I didn’t need saving. I didn’t need you to—”

“Fine. Good. Glad to hear it,” I say, but before the words are out, I see it. The tremble of her fingers as she clasps her hands together to steady them. Her pulse pounding just beneath her jawline. The shaky breath she draws in. The tears suddenly pooling in her eyes.

She’s shaken up and trying to hide it.