Page 20 of Zorro

Zorro, math in motion.

Poetry in motion.

Bad boy in motion.

Threat to a woman’s equilibrium.

After her dream…hers was completely shot and Zorro the sniper.

A T-shirt clung to him with the kind of ease that made it seem unfair. It sculpted over his chest, hugged his shoulders, dipped into that deep vee that marked the place his abdomen sloped into muscle and temptation, that other, melting unmistakable V, that sinful cut of anatomy that should be criminal for any man to flaunt in daylight. The white of his shirt made his dark bronze skin stand out in stark contrast, and above it, those molasses eyes scanned the room, alert, steady, slow-burning. His jeans, low on narrow hips, hugged powerful thighs like they had been tailored by sin. His black military-style boots, the laces untied and dangling, only added to his easy charm. As if conjured by some cruel twist of fate, came the rest.

He was flanked by his family, a dignified father, a regal mother with Valkyrie grace, and a sun-kissed sister laughing beside him. Trailing behind…

Bear.

His name suited him, the quiet sentinel of their team. His hair was unbound today, falling in dark waves around his shoulders. He wore a plain black T-shirt that stretched across his wide chest and fell just past the waistband of dark jeans. Boots echoed as he walked, slow and deliberate. Women tracked his every move.

Everly ducked behind a column, heart thudding. She couldn’t face him. Not after that dream. Not after everything. She pressed her palm to her chest. Zorro. Here. In Rio. Laughing. Beautiful. Whole. She was hiding like a woman unraveling at the seams.

The elevator dinged. Footsteps receded. Her pulse spiked. Then Flint. The dog looked right at her. A soft chuff. Recognition. Then Bear’s command. “Flint.”

Calm. Dismissive. But his glance, brief and sharp, said he knew she was there.

She held her breath. They kept walking. Only when they vanished from view did she move. Still trembling, she stood, adjusted her bag, and peeked around the column.

Clear.

She bolted for the elevator, muttering, “Do you hate me that much, universe?”

Apparently…yes.

The elevator loomed like salvation. She mashed the button, shifted from foot to foot. Just get upstairs. Just make it to the room. She twitched as she rode up.

A soft ding. The elevator doors slid open.

“No, I’ll grab it from the room and meet you down there in two minutes.”

That voice. Low. Familiar. Wicked in its memory. Zorro. On her floor.

Universe you are really a cruel bitch.

She practically launched out of the elevator like her life depended on it because in some ways, it did. Her heart thundered, blood roaring in her ears, her body still shaken from the lobby ambush. One hand clutched her keycard, the other her conference tote like it held answers to the psychological trauma currently tap-dancing through her nervous system.

Too bad panic didn’t have GPS.

Instead of turning left toward her corridor, she whipped right and sprinted.

It wasn’t until she rounded the next corner at full tilt, breath snagging in her throat, that she saw him, far too late.

Zorro.

In the flesh.

Right in front of her.

Oh, God.

There was no time to stop. She collided with him like a linebacker on adrenaline and bad decisions, the momentum knocking him clean off his feet. His body hit the carpeted hallway with a solid thud. She landed sprawled on top of him, hands on his chest, legs tangled with his, the bag half-flung over his hip, the weight of her body stretched over every sculpted inch of his.

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