Page 32 of Lethal Torture
There’s something about Luke Macarthur’s huge, silent bulk that obliterates decades of hard-won self-control as if it never existed.
And that right there is the problem.
The only con that really matters, no matter how many pros there are.
I put my hands on the low stone wall overlooking the river, breathing deeply to get myself under control.
Out on the water, a lone rower powers toward me in a single scull. His back is to me, every corded muscle clearly delineated beneath the tight-fitting rowing tank.
It’s only when his head turns briefly side-on that I realize the rower is Luke.
I shrink back from the stone wall, flattening myself against the flat block at the base of the statue of Boadicea, knowing I should leave but unable to take my eyes from him.
Luke slides forward in the set and explodes backward, the scull leaping in the water like a living thing. There’s a controlled intensity to his movement that is mesmerizing, a raw power only barely contained.
He pulls a particularly vicious stroke, with such explosive force the boat’s balance is upset. His oar catches in an eddy, and for a precarious moment the scull teeters on its side as if it will upturn. His muscles bulge under the strain as he holds the oar in the water, forcing the scull into submission with a ruthless strength that takes my breath away.
Luke glides closer to me, barely fifty yards from where I’m standing. He’s so massive it seems impossible that he can even fit into the narrow scull, let alone be capable of the deft, perfectly executed strokes that send it flying through the water. The early-morning moisture runs in rivulets over his shoulders and arms, snaking down the fiercely sculpted bulk. Just as he draws level with where I’m standing, he eases oar and draws his knees up, resting his elbows on them, his whole body heaving as he catches his breath.
I’m frozen in place, terrified he will see me.
There’s a strange vulnerability in his posture. I feel like I’m seeing behind the control Luke showed last night, to a private part of himself that I sense is carefully guarded. There is something both disturbing and electrifying about the intimacy,like catching a covert glimpse of a dangerous predator at rest in the wild.
I could watch him forever.
He runs an impatient hand through the unruly thatch of hair, shaking the moisture from it like a great beast coming out of the water. Turning the scull decisively, he slips the oars back into the water and draws them at a more leisurely pace toward his body, clearly setting a slower pace to home. Even from a distance, it’s clear his eyes remain on the river in front of him, his face set and focused, like he’s seeing something inside that I’m not party to.
I want, more than anything, to be inside his head. Inside his body. Part of whatever that intense focus is.
Or better yet, be the object of that focus.
Christ.
What the fuck, Zinaida?
I put a hand out, reaching for the cool, damp reassurance of stone.
You need to get control of yourself. Right now.
Luke’s scull disappears around a bend in the river, and I feel the snap of the broken connection like it’s a physical thing. Heart still thudding, I turn to look up to Boadicea looming above me in her chariot, spear in her right hand, her left in the air. Neither Boadicea nor her bare breasted daughters are making any attempt to rein the horses in.
I suppress a sudden urge to laugh.
The statue feels like as clear a sign as I’m going to get.
I take out my phone and hit Mak’s number.
“Zin.” He answers immediately, despite the hour.
“Brief Luke Macarthur.”
“Already done, darling.”
I grip the phone hard enough to leave marks, wishing I could throw it into Mak’s smug face.
“A little premature, don’t you think?”
“I’mneverpremature, darling.”
