Page 29 of Hit Man
I shake my head. No. Not for you.
If he’s casual and relaxed, I’ll be voting Republican in the next election.Poisedis a better word to describe him. Poised like a big puma.
“Don’t run off,” the devil says.
“What makes you think I’m running?” Which, of course, was exactly what I was about to do.
“Or maybe you’ve been down that way before?”
I put one hand on my hip and clutch my red pumps tighter in the other. “I was about to take a closer look. Yet the insinuation in your tone is hard to miss. I’m not snooping around the place.”
“Then what are you doing?”
I stiffen my spine. He’s stopped me to argue? And over something so ridiculous as my strolling through the gardens? It’s not like he knows I’m trying to steal a peek at the waterfall.
Such an infuriating man.
“What I’m doing is ending this conversation.” I spin on my heels and stride away, purposely continuing on the path in question, unwilling to allow him to ruin my fun.
I’m the worst judge of men. And I am beginning to detest the arrogant devil.
I lengthen my stride. But I’m not quick enough to avoid being swooped off my feet and into his arms.
“Put me down.”
“Chava, I’m not a man you want to mess with. Or challenge.” He speaks in a sharp hushed tone. “So let me tell you straight how this is going to play out. You’ll keep quiet while I to carry you back up this path. We’re going to hold each other in front of the littlehijo de putawith the arrow. I’m going to kiss you. You’re going to kiss me back. We’ll make up after a little bout of cat and mouse. That should be explanation enough.”
“Explanation. For who?”
“Dame un beso.”
“Kiss you?” I hiss. “I don’t even like you.”
He bounces me in the air, which forces me to throw my arms around his shoulders or fall. “How about I kiss you like I like you and we’ll take things from there?”
His tone is deep with whiskey and grit. His faint accent sexy as hell. His words full of promise. Innuendo. Confidence. His raw sexuality is overwhelming. Explosive. Irresistible.
“Put me down,” I demand. Oh. My. God. Warning. Sinking ship. Stop him. Stop it.
His hands shift to my hips then he lowers me to my feet. With a quick glance at the damn statue, he cusses beneath his breath, “Pendejos.”
I can’t breath let alone move. Falling into deer-in-headlight-mode except with the promise of a more pleasurable outcome.
I’ve seen him strip. I’ve seen him naked. Up close and all over me. But standing before me now in his dark suit, the starched white shirt unbuttoned at his throat, and his red tie stuffed halfway inside his pants pocket, his dark hair falling across his face with him cursing and clearly displeased with me, it’s impossible to do anything except stare at him.
Unpredictable. Unsettling. Nothing but trouble. Way out of my wheelhouse of men . . . lovers . . .
Deer-in-headlights, meet disaster.
His expression changes, less angry, more attentive, and I’m instantly aware of the shift in energy between us. He cocks his head, softening his lips.
Then he shoots me this look so full of hunger, so sexually charged I feel like the littlehijo de putadid indeed nail me with an arrow to the heart. Once in the heart, another straight between my thighs . . .
He reaches for me and, in a smooth purposeful movement, yanks me up onto my tippy-toes and into his hard chest.
“How about I remind you about how much you like me?” he murmurs, his lips a fraction of an inch away from mine. Close enough to smell the brandy on his breath. Close enough to taste. “Showtime,” he adds.
Okay . . .My eyebrows arch up toward the stars overhead but then his mouth is on mine and I forget everything except him.
