Page 3 of The Vow

My self-satisfied smirk evaporated, and my head whipped to his just in time to catch his wink and be caught by the flick of his wrist as he adjusted his cock in his pants.

Fucker. Only a criminal would twist the story into something it’s not.And only a fool would walk straight into his memory trap,I silently chided.

“We’re done talking.” I balled the cloth in my fist, prepared to shove it back in his mouth if he said another word.

Of course, he did.

“I’ve missed you, Robber.”

A shiver skated down my spine, one that was impossible to suppress. Not for that nickname nor the way he rasped it, drenched in heat and promise and pleasure—my favorite onethat I’d buried with all the rest when he’d disappeared.Wife. Robyn. Robber.

And buried was where they needed to stay.

“Fuck you, Remington.” I stuffed the cloth between his lips and hit my blinker at the last second for the exit, veering off the ramp.

Even though I kept my eyes on the road, my apartment building just a few blocks away, my awareness of him was unbroken. Especially the crinkle of his eyes as he smiled as though the fabric were a rose stem willingly taken between his lips to woo me.

Chapter Two

Robyn

My list of hated men was shrinking.

A year ago, Magnus Sinclair had been captured and turned over to the FBI; the man who’d stolen the inheritance left to me by my parents in order to fund his burgeoning criminal activities would never hurt anyone again. Today, I would mark a second name in my sights. A target soon to be taken out.

It remained to be seen whether that target was Belmont or Remington, but it would be one of them.

The sound of my engine thundered louder as the walls of the parking garage closed in around us, the tires squealing on the concrete as I chose a spot closest to the staircase; I didn’t trust elevators.

My apartment was only four flights up on the second floor. I’d met a secret service agent once—a woman who’d crossed paths with my brothers—who’d told me to always take a roomclosest to the ground floor. Views didn’t matter when they made it harder to escape.

I rounded the back of the car, sweeping the garage to make sure no one else was here before sliding my gun from the holster inside my leather jacket. Opening the passenger door, I crouched by my captive.

“I’m going to remove the towel, and you are going to stay quiet. Understood?”

Damon winked back at me.Winked. Not nodded. Not grunted his agreement. He winked like this was all some little game to him.

Inside, I seethed. Outside, I calmly removed the towel and tossed it onto the empty driver’s seat.

“Out.” I stepped back, showing no qualm as I waved my gun to usher him from the car.

Black dress shoes, their miraculously unscuffed pebble leather hit the concrete first before he rose in front of me, drawing an army of shivers up my spine.

It had been fifteen years since I’d been this close to him. Fifteen years since the tendrils of his musky cologne wove through my nostrils, drawing memories up from the depths of their slumber. That scent on my sheets. In my shower. On my skin. Fifteen years since I’d felt any prickle of warmth in my veins or a flutter in my stomach. Fifteen years since I’d felt the burgeoning ache between my thighs, as irrational as it was physiologically unstoppable.

There was no crime—no sin—Damon could commit that would stop my body from craving his, and I loathed him for it. All the more because the way he looked at me, he seemed to know it, too.

He straightened to the extent of his six-foot-two frame, his bound hands placing his hat on his head as though even imprisonment didn’t excuse poor style.

When I’d first seen him back at Sherwood, he was sitting. Even as we left, I’d been too focused on getting out of the building before the FBI arrived to look too long at the man I’d propelled toward my car. But now…now, my wandering gaze, helpless to the lure of him, skated over all the perfectly stacked inches of him.

His suit jacket stretched over the width of his shoulders and then tapered to his narrow waist. His vest carved out the muscles of his pecs and pulled firm over the washboard plane of his abdomen. And the rich navy of his suit pants wasn’t dark enough to hide the shadows in the fabric as it molded to his powerful thighs nor where it stretched over the thick bulge of his groin.

My throat worked to swallow just as hard as my loathing battled lust. As my anger toiled against ache and as wisdom argued against my weakness of wanting him.

Fifteen years of wanting the man who’d betrayed me was like a steady drip of poison in my veins, slowly inoculating myself to survive this moment.At least, I hoped.

“Let’s go.”

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