Someone get the man a detective license.
The wall of man stalking toward me is similarly unimpressed with his partner’s deductive skills, but there’s no time to consider that—or even the unexpected handsomeness in front of my face, the chiseled features, the short pony tail of golden hair, or his overall largeness. I wasn’t initially intimidated by his strength, but the closer he gets, the more worrisome a detail it seems.
“Who are you?” he demands, pressing one large hand against my chest, effectively pinning me down.
My wide eyes focus on his hand as he holds me against the tree and starts patting me down.
“I—I’m not carrying,” I manage through my surprise. “I don’t even own a weapon.”
“Who are you?” he repeats.
“Annabelle?” I offer.
He gives me a dead look, but that may just be his face. He turns me around, belly to tree, and pats me down that way, too.
Then I’m spun back around, but before I can imagine he’s satisfied that I’m not dangerous, he comes forward, using his whole body to smash mine against the tree.
“Whoa,” I mutter, unprepared for the impact.
“Get Raj,” he calls back to Blondie. I can’t see him through the wall of chest impeding my view, but I hear Blondie break into a run.
I swallow, my heart in my throat, but a smile creeps across my lips.
I don’t react to things properly. It’s been a struggle for a little less than half my life. It started at my dad’s funeral when I was beyond devastated, but I didn’t want to cry so I told jokes. People thought I was having a nervous breakdown. I’ve adapted “fake it till you make it” as a coping mechanism. It pisses Paul off to no end.
As if egged on, the guard bucks against me, smashing me even harder against the tree.
Not the intended reaction, I sense a poorly timed stirring in my loins.
I decide to use it. “Watch out there, buddy. If you’re looking to turn me on, you’re on the right track.”
For the briefest fraction of a second, a glimmer of surprise crosses his face before the mask of stoicism slips back into place.
He leans back a step and lifts my 130 pounds with the ease I lift a fork. Nudges my legs apart and pushes between them aggressively, like he’s going to push right through my clothes and fuck me there against the tree.
“Still turned on?” he grinds out.
Still stoic. Can’t tell what he’s going for here. Trying to scare me? Maybe he’s trying to call my bluff. I wasn’t bluffing, but there’s no reason for him to suspect that.
In response, I smile and wrap my legs around his waist, using my heels to pull him even tighter against me. It’s exhilarating, courting actual danger like this. I’m truly getting turned on, which is so inappropriate, and I wish I could find even a single fuck to give.
The guard scowls, but interest lingers there. “What are you playing at?”
“Not even playing.” My eyes move over the muscular curves of him, the handsome face, the good hair. “I mean, look at you. You’re hot. I’m not trying to soften you up or anything, just stating the facts.” I crane my neck to peek over his shoulder before giving him a little wink. “How long do you think we have until your buddy gets back?”
Less intense, less guarded, he asks again, but this time less as if he’s interrogating me and more like he actually wants to know, “Who are you?”
“Annabelle Covello,” I tell him, even though I’m still not sure it’s a great idea.
He recognizes the name and his scowl comes back, his interest draining. “Covello?”
I nod, resigned.
Footsteps again, more than one set. Blondie says, “Here she is.”
His new companion says, “Jesus, Liam, get off the poor girl.”
Liam, I surmise, is the guard between my legs, because suddenly my feet hit solid ground again and he backs away, as commanded.