Wounded Beast (Gypsy Heroes)

My brain processes what my eyes see in disjointed bits.

Tall, broad, flat stomach, narrow hips. Serious swagger. Fit, but not gym fit: combat fit. A fighter. The long, prowling strides with which he is eating the distance between us gives the impression of coiled tension. A slowly stalking animal about to spring on its prey.

As he moves out of the gloom, his face catches the light.

His hair is damp from the rain and longer than in the photographs I found on the net. It curls around the collar of his leather jacket. And his face is ruggedly beautiful with the kind of tense jaw and five o’clock shadow that must leave delicious burns on a woman’s inner thighs. Whoa! Where the hell did that come from? I suck in a harsh breath. A word I hardly ever use pops into my mind: rideable.

Not a good word, Ella.

Not a good word.

Oozing aggression and male strut, he comes to a stop in front of the table I’m sitting at and stares down at me. The sheer height and breadth of him is so overpowering, it actually makes me feel oddly shaky. What the hell is Rob still doing in the toilet? My skin tingles. Masking my unease, I return the angry alpha’s stare coolly.

The light is directly above him so I cannot be certain of the color of his eyes, but they are light, and as fierce and intense as an eagle’s. His chin tilts a fraction higher, and I see the gleam of his irises between his hooded lids.

They are blue: hot blue.

As if the sun had shone onto the ocean’s surface and made it sparkle with reflected light. The unblinking orbs work their way over my face, lingering on my mouth, then sliding down my neck, and coming to rest on my breasts. I take a shocked lungful of air at the blatant arrogance.

His lips twist cynically at the rise and fall of my chest.

Even though I’m wearing my customary cotton shirt and a buttoned-up jacket, and only the suggestion of the shape underneath is on show, I flush deeply. His eyes sweep upward back to my scarlet face.

‘Miss Savage, I presume,’ he intones. His voice is deep and sexy. It feels like something warm melting down my back.

I straighten my spine and try to look unaffected. ‘And you are?’

‘Let’s not play games, Miss Savage. You know exactly who I am.’

‘I’m not playing games,’ I reply calmly. ‘I’m trained not to make assumptions.’

He doesn’t smile. ‘Except one?’ His voice is acid.

I raise a coldly disdainful eyebrow. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You operate under the assumption that there is always an underlying intention to cheat.’

‘If I’m involved there usually is.’

The shockingly blue eyes flash with temper, but his voice is tightly controlled. ‘If you’re implying what I think you are, Miss Savage …’

I let the corners of my lips twitch upwards in a deliberately fake smile. ‘If you have done nothing wrong then you have nothing to fear, Mr. Eden.’

‘I wasn’t aware I had anything to fear. I thought you were investigating the restaurant. I’m just an employee of the company that owns this restaurant.’

‘Just an employee?’ I repeat disbelievingly.

‘Just an employee,’ he insists softly.

I look at him steadily. ‘In that case, you are not qualified to give me the information I require. Where is Mr. Broadstreet? This meeting is supposed to be with him.’

‘Nigel has been delayed. Trust me when I say I am qualified to give you the information you require,’ he informs, and begins to remove his leather jacket.

Underneath the blue shirt—Is that silk? He definitely didn’t get that off a store rack. It screams custom—all kinds of eye-wateringly lovely muscles are rippling up and down his torso and upper arms. I watch him fit the jacket over the back of a chair and start rolling up his shirtsleeve. His forearm is brown, thick, and populated by silky, dark hairs.

My heart skips a beat; then begins to race. There is something incredibly erotic about being alone in an empty restaurant while a full-on, hundred percent certified alpha strips down under a pool of golden light. I catch my wandering thoughts and concentrate on the gold watch on his wrist. Of course, a Rolex. Just an employee, huh? A dishonest, lying, cheating dirtbag, more like.

He slides into the chair opposite me, and suddenly he is too damn close, the smell of his cologne punching me in the middle of my chest. The moment becomes charged. Somehow strangely filled with … oh fuck … sexual tension! Last thing in the world I need. Where the bloody hell is Rob?