The Brit

Almost.

Yanking the covers back, I expose her in all her naked glory, at the same time abruptly waking her. Her sleepy eyes blink rapidly until she eventually glares at me. “Get ready. We’re leaving in an hour.” I make my way to the shower to wash off the sweat from my morning workout.

She’s in fast pursuit. “Where are we going?” Her panic is obvious as I kick my shorts off and step into the stall. She’s doing nothing to hide her nakedness, standing as bold as I know her to be on the other side of the screen.

I keep my stare up. “To my home.”

Her eyes widen. “What? No, I can’t.”

My hands pause on my head as it cocks. She’s getting herself in a state again, just like last night in the elevator. The barrier is slowly crumbling. “Yes, you can.”

“What if Perry doesn’t get you the marina or pay you back? What then? You keep me forever?”

I hum to myself, as if considering that. “Yes,” I answer, going back to washing my hair.

“I need to go back to him.”

“Why?” I ask, straight up. “Come on, Rose. You don’t love him. And it can’t be the fucking money, because it turns out he doesn’t have any now.”

Her face falters, confusion mixing with the fury. “And why are you so desperate for that marina?”

I don’t entertain her question, taking myself under the spray and rinsing my hair. “Stop staring at me and go pack.”

“I have no fucking clothes, you bastard.”

I’m out of the shower like a bullet, pushing her back into the door. “Call me what you fucking like, but never call me a bastard.”

She whimpers, and for a second I feel something odd. Guilt. Then it hits me as I breathe down on her, staring into her deep blue eyes. She’s not whimpering in fright. Her nipples pierce my chest, and it registers. We’re both naked.

Breaths.

Deep, restraining breaths. “Be ready in ten minutes.” I yank myself away, resisting the pull of her magnetic body, and grab my black dress shirt down off the back of the bathroom door. “Wear this.”

She catches it when I throw it at her. “And nothing else?”

I look down at those long legs, inwardly groaning. Those fucking legs. What do I care if they’re on full display? Grabbing a towel and wrapping it around my waist, I stalk through to the suite and find Ringo. “Call the concierge. Have them send up some women’s jeans from one of the stores. Size two.”

He’s on it quickly, and I pace back to the room, finding her still in the bathroom, though now her top half is covered with my black shirt. It’s a minor consolation. “Some jeans are on the way.”

“My hero,” she mutters.

I glare at her. I could strangle her. Quite easily. And then she smirks. It’s sexy as fuck.

Shit.

I grab her arm and manhandle her out of the bathroom, away from me, slamming the door behind her.

Fuck.

My forehead meets the wood.

* * *

My mood hasn’t improved when I’m ready. And it takes a further nosedive when I find Rose waiting at the door with my men. Not because they’re looking at her. They’re not. But because in those skin-tight jeans, my black shirt, her silver strappy heels and matching purse from last night, she looks a perfect, beautiful mess. Her hair is in a haphazard ponytail. Her face free from makeup.

She spends only a brief moment sizing me up, taking in my more casual look of jeans and a T-shirt. Then she defiantly looks away.

I take her arm and push her toward the elevators. She doesn’t say a word the entire ride down, doesn’t even look at me. Neither does she wriggle in my viselike grip, which I’m pretty sure must be hurting her. Why the fuck isn’t she protesting, even if only to defy me?

When we exit, the men lead us to where the limo is waiting to take us to the private airfield. Ringo pulls the door open, and just as I’m about to thrust Rose into the back seat, I hear it.

A scream.

Then all fucking hell breaks loose.

“In the car!” Brad bellows to me, pulling his gun and firing immediately, no hesitation. I look across the roof of the limo, just as a man drops, his brain spraying the concrete. There’s a gun in his limp, dead grasp. Another shot, but this one isn’t Brad. I feel the bullet sail past my ear, and I turn to see one of my men jolt before grabbing his shoulder and cursing. The chaos gets worse, bystanders screaming, people running for cover as more shots fire around me. I catch Brad’s eye as he dives for cover. “Get in the fucking car!”

I reach out to grab—

Where the fuck is she?

I whirl around, searching the sea of heads for her. People are being carried by the charging crowds, some diving to the ground. I pull the car door close to shield my body as Brad bends down by the back wheel, a few feet away, reloading his gun. I flinch when the rear window shatters, raining down broken glass all over him. “Fuck,” he curses, smacking the bottom of his magazine and peeking up over the car. No sooner has he raised to half height, he dips back down, a bullet just missing him. “Motherfucker.”