Savage Collision: A Hawke Family Novel (Hawke Family #1)
Gwyn McNamee
Dedication
To my wonderful husband, who puts up with my crazy on a daily basis and still manages to love the hell out of me.
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I need to give a HUGE thank you to my beta readers—Dawn, Kim P., Jennifer W., Janice, Renee S., Diane E., Rachael F., and my super-betas, Star and Christy—without all of you, this book would have remained dormant on my laptop for another two years. I also need to thank Donna and Lea, who are always 100% behind everything I do and love all my crazy ideas. The same is true of my Pirate Wenches, the wonderful group of writers who are always there with support, to bounce ideas off of, or to listen to me rant when I lose my mind. Finally, thank you to Kim G., who stepped up and helped me at the last minute to make sure this book got finished on time. Everyone’s support and encouragement has been absolutely essential to getting me where I am today. I love you all!
Naked women gyrate on stages—asses, tits, flesh on display—their images covering three-quarters of my computer screen, but they are merely blurs in my peripheral vision.
My focus is on the top right corner, where one of my vendors is unloading his truck on the loading dock, and taking his sweet-ass time doing it. He’s no doubt using it as an excuse gawk at the girls. Byron, my club manager, is in heated discussion with him about something. Hopefully, he’s reaming him out for taking up so much of our damn time with an unload that should take only minutes.
Why are people so fucking lazy these days? What happened to work ethic?
My parents made damn well sure all their children understood the importance of a hard-day’s work and always giving it one hundred percent. I guess that kind of thing just isn’t instilled in people anymore. It shouldn’t surprise me really, the degradation of society, not when I see the degenerates who always manage to find their way in here, despite my best efforts to keep the club clientele upscale.
Byron and the vendor move to the back of the truck and start unloading several handcarts-full of cases of beer at a time. At least I can always rely on Byron to get the job done.
I return to the paperwork on my desk but barely have time to regain my train of thought before my office door flies open, slamming against the wall.
Instinctively, I reach under my desk, wrapping my hand around the grip of the Sig Sauer 1911 Scorpion I keep mounted there. I look up, expecting to find one of Domenico Abello’s thugs, because, surely, that would be the only person capable of making it past both Gabe and Byron to end up in my office unannounced.
My breath catches in my throat when, instead of a burly threat, my eyes land on what I can only describe as a Victoria’s Secret model. An enraged one.
She is furious—the fire in her stormy blue eyes and her scowling red lips are a dead giveaway. With a toss of her long, wavy blonde hair behind her shoulder, she thunders into my office as if she owns the place.
I track her progress across the room, taking in her polished appearance—from her French-manicured nails, thousand-dollar bag, and Burberry trench down to the four-inch Louboutin stilettos that make her long, elegant legs extend beyond comprehension as she clicks across the wood floor with purpose.
My cock hardens instantly and, despite my surprise at my body’s reaction to her, I steel my expression and shift uncomfortably in my chair.
Damn. This woman is livid, and hot as fucking hell.
I doubt she’s a threat, though—to anything but my libido—so, I remove my hand from the gun and surreptitiously slide it to my crotch to adjust my erection before reclining and watching her speculatively. Despite this being my office, my domain, I wait patiently for her to say something. I see a hint of uncertainty and maybe discomfort beneath her diamond-hard demeanor.
“Are you the owner?”
She stops several feet short of my desk, props her hands on her shapely hips and huffs in defiance. Her voice is level and steady when she asks the question, but her eyes give her away. They roam over me with blatant interest and the slight flush on her neck and cheeks only confirm my suspicion—she’s checking me out.
I relax in my chair and school my features, trying to hide my amusement. I answer her question with a nod. “I am, and you might be?”
“Danika Eriksson.” She tosses her name at me like a poison dart and her bravado impresses me despite my uncertainty about her purpose here.
Do I know her? Should I be recognizing her name? No, I would remember a woman like her.