Page 13 of Gilded Whispers

My head jerks up. Shiny metal doors reflect three massive men taking up the entire space behind me.

Four

Stella

Ispin around and my eyes swing high to meet a set of beautiful brown irises rimmed with black thick lashes. The man behind them oozes mystery and raw energy. Like he could command the skies and oceans with the tiniest gesture of his fingers.

The ones to his right and left stand shoulder to shoulder with their friend. All three stare down at me with an odd expression of sorrow written all over their faces. Not for themselves, but for me. A complete stranger. Like it actually pains them to see a woman cry.

All three have neatly combed hair, tuxedos and wear a cloak of darkness around them that has my skin pebbling with goosebumps.

My brain screams caution. But my inner woman notices other details that have my curiosity piqued. Focusing on them sure the hell beats balling like a baby all the way down to ground level.

The man with the light blue eyes wears a thick scar from the left side of his lip through to the middle of his bottom lip. Violence has touched him and by the scars on his knuckles, he’s touched violence right back.

He’s not the only one. The scars on the middle one’s knuckles stand out against his deeply tanned skin. My senses tell me he’s the leader of the trio. All those white puckered scars look aged and nearly identical to his two other friends’ scars.

Are they street thugs? Boxers? MMA cage fighters? Mafia kingpins? Who the hell knows. Question is, why do I suddenly want to know?

That leaves one other man. The one on my far left. Black ink reaches out from beneath the cuff of his shirt and tuxedo jacket. He’s polished yet rough around the edges. The tall, heavily muscular man silently takes in my shoes, before the heat of his gaze slowly caresses a path up the slope of my calves. But he doesn’t stop when he gets to the hem of my cocktail dress either. His warm, golden gaze that reminds me of amber held up to the sunlight runs along the delicate lines of my tattoo. He seems to like the way the cherry blossoms drape over my bare shoulder and the slope of my breasts before dropping beneath the top border of my dress.

Electricity skates over my senses. It is like ice and fire rotating over every inch of my exposed skin. I can’t describe it any other way.

I pass my tongue over the rim of my bottom lip, catching the middle one’s dark gaze.

“Don’t be scared, little flower. We mean you no harm.”

His voice is thick honey over sun-warmed wood. Soothing and sweet enough to drop my defenses.

“I’m not scared, just a little startled. I didn’t realize I wasn’t alone,” I lie. I'm scared to the core no matter how calming they want to come off.

My heart doesn’t understand words as much as it reads body language. It lurches and pauses. Lurches and pauses, causing me to tremble from head to foot from how they lean in dangerously close.

All this takes place in a blink. Detective Lafleur taught me how to sum people up with one look and put up boundaries when people got too close. And let me say, these three are so damn big, or this elevator is so small, that there’s no other spaceexceptmy personal space.

So far I’m not having any luck with putting walls up. Not when men like these smell so damn good.

I step back but I only get as far as the elevator doors allow. They keep their hands exposed like they want me to know they have nothing to hide. I see no visible weapons. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous. Hello, pay attention to the scars. And those are just the ones I can see.

They are dressed like they make a living with their looks and not by offing people. But I’ve been wrong before.

“I’m sorry. I must look like a mess.” I wipe at the tears still rolling down my cheek, wishing I had opted out of my sister’s big idea of getting me laid.

For a second, the wave of embarrassment that hits screams for me to stab the button to open the elevator doors and escape back into The Gilded Key Society.

But why? Because of one fucking twisted boyfriend is why. I’m broken. Ugly. Unwanted.

“Nothing is further from the truth. I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman.”

That is blue eyes. I get so caught up in the way his scarred mouth moves that I don’t realize he stepped in until the warm pad of his finger drifts across my cheek.

I shudder in a shallow breath. He catches a fat tear on the end of his finger. “Your tears are ones of pain. Let us change that for you, beautiful flower.” His lips brush over my heated cheek before coming over mine for a soft kiss. Our breath mingles.

This man knows what he likes and I can’t find a single reason why I should push him away.

Clutching my evening bag in one hand, I settle the other over his chest. Our gazes hold. Our bodies meld together. And then the softness of our connection deepens. A solid arm made of pure granite wraps around me protectively. He takes my face in his other roughened palm.

“Take a deep breath, beautiful.”

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