Page 61 of Ruined By Protection
Fuck.I slam my palm against the marble tile.
This wasn't supposed to happen. I wasn't supposed to care this much. Three years ago I walked away after a one-night stand without a backward glance. I'd had women before her, after her. None of them mattered.
So why does she?
I turn the temperature colder, gritting my teeth as my skin tingles with an exquisite burn. The shower in my apartment is state-of-the-art—Italian, of course—with enough pressure to strip paint. Right now, I wish it could strip away whatever this is that's crawling under my skin.
Hazel Taylor. No—Hazel Montgomery.
A married woman. A woman running from her husband.
I scrub my hands over my face, water streaming through my fingers. It doesn't matter how much I want her. It doesn't matter that I can still taste her on my tongue three years later. It doesn't matter that seeing those bruises on her body made me want to commit murder.
She's off-limits.
I should be focused on security for the casino. On a hundred other things that actually matter to the family business.
Instead I'm standing here like some lovesick teenager, thinking about the way she looked at me across the dinner table. The way she gasped when I walked in on her changing. The way her skin felt under my fingers in that Austin hotel kitchen.
Madonna mia.
I reach for the soap.
I scrub harder, as if I could wash away the want. It doesn't work.
The rage comes next, building in my chest like a gathering storm. I'm angry at her for walking out without a word that morning. For showing up here of all places. For getting married to that piece of shit who put his hands on her.
But mostly, I'm furious with myself. For caring. For wanting. For not being able to shut it off. What the hell isTHISfeeling anyway?
I slam the water off and grab a towel, roughly drying myself. In the mirror my reflection stares back—eyes dark with anger, jaw clenched tight. I look like a man on the edge.
I scrub the towel over my hair, leaving it damp and tousled then wrap the towel around my waist and step into the bedroom.
The phone vibrates against the nightstand—again. The screen lights up with Daniel's name for what must be the fifth time in ten minutes. I ignore it, pulling on a pair of black boxer briefs instead.
Focus on what matters. The family. The business.
Not Hazel Taylor with her honey-blonde hair and eyes that haunt me. Not the way she looked in that emerald dress or how she trembled under my touch when I tried to calm her.
The phone buzzes again. Daniel. Persistent bastard.
"What?" I snap, finally answering.
"Where the hell have you been?" Daniel's voice comes through tight and controlled. "I've been calling for fifteen minutes."
"Taking a shower. What's so urgent?"
"Montgomery's in New York."
The words go through me like a bullet. My body goes rigid, every muscle tensing at once.
The Ducati roars to life beneath me and I weave through midday traffic like it's standing still. My mind races faster than the bike. Elliott Montgomery is here. The man who put those bruises on Hazel's body. The man who terrorized her into flinching at shadows.
I park the bike in the circular driveway of the Feretti estate and take the front steps two at a time. The door opens before I reach it—Giovanni, one of our security guys, must have seen me coming on the cameras.
"Where's Damiano?" I ask, not breaking stride.
"Nursery with thedonnaand baby."
