Tormented

She had to pick her mouth up off the ground. With his hair still slightly wet and his simple white shirt partially unbuttoned, he looked so hot.

And you were thinking of walking out that door, you crazy woman.

He stopped as if struck. And her ego took a leap to see that she’d had the same effect on him. She half expected to see that hungry, wolfish look. Instead, he looked awed.

“Nice dress,” he said with a slight hitch in his voice.

She felt herself blushing.

But don’t forget this is the guy who ripped clothespins off your body.

Trying not to care what he thought of her, she replied, “Nice, um, shoes.”

“Thanks.”

Setting aside his blazer, he reached for a garment bag and pulled out a woman’s trench coat. “You’ll need it. It’s San Francisco.”

She nodded and let him put the leopard-print coat on her. He swept her braids out of the collar, his knuckles grazing the back of her neck. She felt his gaze but couldn’t meet it, worried that she would lose all her resolve if she did. But he grasped her chin, making her look at him.

He scanned her, his pupils dilated so that his eyes were almost completely black. “I’m tempted to cancel the reservations.”

Her breath was too uneven for words. As she stared into the brightness of his eyes, she reminded herself that she should hate this guy. He’s an asshole, remember? Don’t let him get away with it just because he’s hot and can afford nice clothes and fancy dinners.

But don’t resent him for it either. It’s not his fault he’s gorgeous. And you like his wicked ways. You like BDSM with him.

Deciding that having dinner would be safer, she said, “That, um, wouldn’t be nice.”

“What wouldn’t?”

“Canceling dinner, especially if they went out of their way to, you know, fit us in.”

After a beat, he released her chin. “Okay, pet.”

The name’s Kimani!

But she kept silent.

He guided her to the door, holding it open for her. They took the elevator down to the garage and got into his Porsche.

“No Wong or Bataar tonight?” she asked, half wishing to have the relative safety of a third person.

“I’m sure Bataar is around somewhere,” he said.

As they pulled out of the garage and onto the street, she noticed a car pull up behind them.

“There he is,” Ben said, looking into the rearview mirror.

“So he’s like your bodyguard.”

“Yeah. My dad hired him. I offered Bataar double to go on my payroll, but I’m pretty sure he’s still working for my dad.”

“You don’t sound pleased.”

“My dad’s paranoid. But it’s not like I’m a celebrity or star athlete. No one’s going to mob me.”

“You mean you’re not Hong Kong’s most sought-after bachelor?” she couldn’t resist teasing.

“I keep a low profile.”