Page 55 of Over the Edge

A tiny voice in the back of his head inquired if this was just an act to chase off a jerk or if he had actually decided to have a real relationship with her.

Mughul puffed out his chest. “Don’t threaten me. I’m an important man in this country.”

Trevor smiled, a killer’s cool promise of death. He had no need to make big threats or posture back at this blustering asshole. He knew what he was capable of. And with Anna at his back, the two of them were damn near a miniature army.

“I see you’ve met Mansur,” a male voice purred from behind them. Anna whirled to face Gohar, but Trevor never took his flat, hard stare off of Mughul.

Mansur’s eyes widened in alarm as he realized Trevor was still staring him down, obviously waiting for him to twitch.

The bastard had no idea how bad Trevor wanted him to make a wrong move—to reach inside his coat for a possible weapon or shake a sleeve as if to drop down a blade from a wrist sheath.Go ahead. Give me a reason to rip your fucking head off.

Trevor became aware of Anna’s hand slipping around his waist. She hugged him close, plastering her entire body against his side. He knew her well enough not to misinterpret it as fear. She must sense how close to violence he was.

With a wordless growl, he looped his arm over her shoulders and spun away from Mansur.

Only to come face to face with Gohar. In Zagari, Trevor snarled two words. “She’s. Mine.”

“Let’s go dance,” Anna urged him in English.

Right. Dance. The only dance he wanted right now was with the two men left standing behind them as she dragged him out onto the parquet floor.

A slow ballad was playing, and a male singer was crooning to the music. Operating on autopilot, Trevor took Anna into his arms and swayed to the music.

“You okay?” she muttered.

“Nope.”

“I’ll help you kill them both later, if you want.”

He jerked and pulled back far enough to stare down at her. “Thanks, but I think one killing a day is plenty.”

She grinned up at him. “There’s my polite Brit. As dry and understated as always.”

“Is that what you think of me?”

“It’s how you are 99% of the time.”

He snorted.

“How would you describe yourself?” she challenged.

“My grandmother—the royal bitch with the money—would call me hot-headed, stubborn, and disloyal.”

“That’s not what I asked. How wouldyoudescribe you?”

He considered for a moment. “I’m disciplined, I guess. Devoted to my teammates. Generally focused.” He took a turn around the dance floor with her and then asked, “How would you describe me?”

He felt her smile against his collar. “Ooh, I’ve been waiting to answer this one for a long time.”

“Uh oh,” he muttered.

“Well, I’d start with the fact that you are not hard on the eye, Mr. Westbrook. That’s the very first thing I noticed about you.”

“What else?”

“You’re fair. You gave us women a break when none of the other guys had, yet.” She considered and then added, “And you’re passionate.”

“Do tell.”

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