Wounded Beast (Gypsy Heroes)

‘Wouldn’t you if you were me?’

My mind chases its own tail. ‘Why do you want me to be drunk?’

‘Can you handle the truth?’ His eyes are hooded.

‘Of course.’

‘Because you’re the kind of inhibited woman who needs to be intoxicated before she can explore her deepest desires. This way, you don’t have to be responsible for your actions. “I was so drunk,” you can say to your best friend tomorrow morning.’

It’s a far cry from the truth—I’d sleep with him without even a whiff of alcohol—but I’ll be damned before I tell him that. ‘Very confident of yourself, aren’t you?’

‘I like playing with fire, Miss Savage.’

His phone must have vibrated in his pocket because he takes it out and looks at it. ‘Do you mind?’ he asks.

I shake my head.

‘Hey, Ma,’ he says, and listens while she tells him something. ‘She did?’ he says, and smiles, and it is a genuine smile. A soft, warm smile. I stare at him in surprise. I don’t want to know that he has a mother whom he obviously adores. And I realize I can’t go through with my plan of sleeping with him for one crazy night. I know having sex with him will open a door and what comes through I might not be able to control. He has the capacity to hurt me. I am too affected by him. I feel things that I have never felt before.

His eyes lift up, meet mine, and the smile freezes. ‘I’ve got to go, Ma, but I’ll pass by tomorrow. Give it to me then? OK. Bye.’ He puts his phone away.

I look him in the eye. ‘I can’t have sex with you.’

‘Why not?’ he asks huskily.

I lean back against the chair, the alcohol buzzing in my veins. There’s a pulsing in my temples. Telling him the real truth is out of the question. The half-truth is the only option. ‘Because you’re a crook.’

His eyes flash with real fury. All that urbane and polite stuff before was just a façade. This is the real Dominic Eden. The hothead who can be exploited by the right person. Maybe even me.

‘On what evidence are you basing your accusation?’ he asks coldly.

‘Instinct.’

‘That won’t hold up anywhere. Until you find some evidence to support your “instinct”, I suggest you refrain from making such wild accusations.’

‘I’ll find it,’ I say, knowing it is an empty threat. Tomorrow I walk away from him and this case forever. For now I’ll pretend that I’m the big, tough tax investigator.

‘I’m sure you’ll try.’

‘Don’t underestimate me.’ My voice actually sounds harsh.

He smiles: a megawatt smile. It takes my breath away, lights up the room and registers as another warning in my heated brain.

I let my eyes travel down to his brown throat. It’s not fair that a man should be this gorgeous. My eyes slide back upwards to those firm, kiss me slow lips, and up to his eyes. They are heavy-lidded. The eyelashes thick and stubby, the blue of his irises so intense they’re piercing. To my horror, my alcohol-fueled body responds. My nipples tighten and harden.

‘I need to go home,’ I choke.

He lifts his hand. A waiter brings the check in a leather book. He opens it, glances at it, and leaves a wad of notes between the leather.

I play my part. ‘Cash?’ I taunt.

‘Every fucking time.’ His eyes suck me in.

I resist the pull. ‘Why’s that?’

‘I like the smell of money.’

‘People with things to hide pay with cash.’