“Take whatever you want, just don’t hurt— Eeeek!”
My words are cut off as my feet catch on my discarded high heels, knocking me off balance. I feel myself start to trip backwards, head over feet, and I know I’m going to crack my head on the coffee table on my way down, which is probably going to dent the oak and definitely going to knock me unconscious. Or trigger some kind of cerebral hemorrhage, from which I’ll bleed out and die. Alone, with only Boo to witness my passing into the afterlife, as this man steals my valuables to sell on Boston’s black market.
Death by table.
God, I hope Parker doesn’t include that in my obituary.
Time seems to slide into slow motion as I fall through the air, arms windmilling, helpless to stop my descent. My eyes slam closed as my face contorts into a wince, already anticipating the pain of impact. Any second now, my skull will crack against that table and my fragile life will flicker and die faster than a candle in the wind.
Hey, maybe Sir Elton will write a song about me…
Great. I’m going to die, and my last thought is of a sassy gay man. If that isn’t a testament to the pathetic nature of my love life, I’m not sure what is.
I’m so preoccupied with my impending doom, it takes me a minute to realize I’m still alive.
The impact I was so sure would steal my breath simply… never came.
In fact, even my descent has halted.
I’m hovering mid air, locked in what feels like a set of steel bands.
Except they aren’t steel bands.
They’re arms.
Really freaking muscular arms.
Arms that, if I weren’t a click away from death, I’d have to admit feel really good wrapped around me.
My eyes are still pressed closed, but I hear the distinct sound of a low, pissed-off male voice muttering close to my ear.
“Fucking Christ, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
Recognition jolts into me harder than a punch to the gut. Every muscle in my body freezes like liquid nitrogen has been shot through my veins. My heart actually stutters inside my chest, its equilibrium totally and completely thrown off by the proximity of this man who, abruptly, I know is not an intruder.
I’d know that voice anywhere.
I’ve heard it in countless replayed memories, in hundreds of unspoken fantasies, in endless unfulfilled dreams.
Nathaniel Jackass Knox.
(His middle name is actually Xavier. Whatever.) Nate.
The man who’s been steadfastly ignoring my existence for the past ten years as he traveled around the world doing dangerous things for even more dangerous people. The man I only very recently decided I was completely, certifiably, one hundred percent over being obsessed with.
Last I heard, he was in the Middle East, doing some kind of private security gig for a Saudi prince.
And now, he’s here.
In my brownstone.
Holding me in his arms.
Saving me from certain death-by-coffee-table.
Holy frack.
***
My lids snap open and take in the face mere centimeters from mine.
Sharp, angular cheekbones.
Broad, chiseled jawline.
Alert, assessing eyes.
His dark beauty steals what little breath is left in my lungs as I stare up at him, reveling in the fact that, after all these years, I’m finally in his arms — my soft girlie parts pressed firmly against the hard plane of his body, the scent of his skin invading my senses. He smells like leather and smoke and the sharp, coppery tang of metal. Or blood.
Maybe that’s just my imagination.
He’s still muttering under his breath though, in all honesty, it’s hard to hear him over Boo’s ceaseless barking.
“…falling over her own feet.” He shakes his head, as if deeply pained. “…off herself on a goddamned coffee table…those damn come-fuck-me heels…”
My spine stiffens as his hushed words register. “What did you just say?”