The Brit

His whole upper body rolls and relaxes, his hand coming up to the doorjamb to support him as he finds breath to talk. “Yeah,” he exhales, looking over his shoulder. I hear the stampede of more steps and see Danny shake his head, silently telling his charging men the panic is over. He’s found me.

“What’s going on?” I ask, acting totally dumb.

He sighs and comes forward, gazing down the length of my legs stretched out before me on the chair. “You’ve been here the whole time.” It’s not posed as a question, more of a statement. Like he’s telling himself.

“It’s peaceful,” I say without thought. “Besides, you told me not to go anywhere.”

He takes my feet and lifts them, sitting on the chair and resting them back on his lap. He’s thinking. What’s he thinking? “And you listened to me?”

I nibble on my lip, unable to read the way he’s looking at me. It’s almost . . . pensive. “You’d find me and kill me,” I whisper.

“Yes, I would.” His eyes narrow on me, scrutinizing my reaction. I have no reaction. Yeah, he’d find me, but he wouldn’t kill me.

“Then I’m sensible, yes?”

“Not obedient?”

My smile is unstoppable. “Never.”

And so is Danny’s. “Ever been on a jet ski?”

I slowly shake my head.

“Want to?”

No, not if I’ll be riding on something harboring enough grenades to destroy Miami. Thank you very much. “I don’t think it’s my thing.”

“Fraidy cat,” he says quietly, starting to stroke over my shins. Denim is thick material. Not thick enough. I subtly shift in my chair and pull my feet down off his lap, but he puts them right back and continues with his torturous strokes, smiling innocently at his hands. Innocent? Nothing Danny Black does is innocent. Everything is thought out, that much has become glaringly obvious.

“I’m not a fraidy cat,” I whisper.

Looking up at me, he loosens his smile, making it more of a cheeky grin. “Then prove it.”

Prove it? Haven’t I proved it enough? “By riding a jet ski?” I ask, and he nods. “I wouldn’t know how to.”

“You don’t need to know how. You’ll be with me.”

Stuck to his back? No. I don’t think so. “Thanks, but I’ll respectfully decline.”

“Respectfully?” He laughs, finally putting my feet back on the ground. “What are you afraid of?”

A grenade exploding underneath me.

Actually, no. I’m more afraid of you.

My eyes climb his body as he rises and looms over me, holding out his hand. “I’ll take care of you.”

Those words, those simple words, are like tempting a dehydrated dog with water. My hand’s in his before I’ve thought about it, and my body is stuck to him a second later, his tug pulling me up smoothly and quickly. My heart is going crazy in my chest, and I know he’s felt it because he glances down between our pressed bodies and smiles to himself. “You are scared.” Eyes back to mine, his smile falls. “But not of jet skis. And not of me.”

“I am scared of you.”

“Not in the normal sense of the word, Rose.” His hand reaches for my cheek and caresses it, before sliding his palm onto my nape and massaging gently. Again, he’s right. I’m not afraid of his violent nature, his business, or his reputation. I’m scared of the rush of blood to my head when he touches me. I’m scared of my kicking heart when I look into his insanely blue eyes. I’m scared of the backward sense of security I feel being his prisoner. I’m scared that he clouds my purpose. I’m scared that I hate him for all the wrong reasons. Not because he’s callous and cruel. Not because he says wicked things. But because I know for me, it’s all a front. I close my eyes and sink into his touch. “Feel good?” he whispers.

I hum and let him massage away . . . everything. My thoughts, my tension. I’m putty in his hands. It’s only when a small moan slips free that I open my eyes. And as soon as I meet the intensity of his stare, I look away.

But I caught the look of knowing in his gaze. And the satisfaction. “Come,” he orders softly.

We walk through the café, where his men now all sit with beers in their hands, and into the shop. Danny pulls down a black and pink wetsuit and leads me into the men’s changing room. “Put this on.”

I stall, looking at his outstretched hand. “This is the men’s changing room.”

His arm drops, a flurry of mild amusement creasing his face. “So now you’re shy?”

“I’m not shy.” I snatch it from him and proceed to strip down until I’m in my underwear, and he smiles the whole time, collecting his own wetsuit from a nearby locker and undressing himself. Every godforsaken muscle on his torso undulates as he pulls his sweater up over his head, revealing the bandage. He shouldn’t get his wounds wet. “Your arm,” I say, a misplaced sense of concern coming over me.