A Gorgeous, Mysterious Stranger #2
"….Heard of Acheron, as a matter of fact," Roger says; Roger is the CEO of the tech company Charles is courting this whole evening. "They'll fold in six months at best, I believe. They've no product. Great ideas, and some bankable talent on their roster, but you made the right call, Ms. Bennett."
I force a smile at him—he's been condescending all evening.
He's called me 'sweetheart' at least twice, mansplained a facet of my own industry to me—a technical element of recent telecom hardware advancements that I have personally helped pioneer—and 85% of his comments to me are addressed to my cleavage.
Which, admittedly, is rather impressive in this dress. But still—rude.
Charles is aware of all of this, and is fighting panic. He knows I'm not one to suffer fools like this Roger, and can tell I'm about to verbally eviscerate him any moment.
"I appreciate your vote of confidence in my decision, Roger," I say. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to visit the restroom."
I do my best to tamp down my irritation—I'm here as a favor to Charles, that's all. I got free drinks, a lovely viewing of the opera, and a rather sumptuous dinner out of it. I can tolerate Roger for a bit longer. I just need a moment to regroup my patience—not a trait I'm overly well known for.
I use the facilities and take my time washing my hands and touching up my makeup. A pair of women a few years older than me enter the bathroom, bitching about their husbands. Which is my cue to make my exit; the thought of marriage or commitment makes me queasy.
I'm nearly to the table when movement on the sidewalk outside the restaurant catches my eye.
A man crosses the street at a dead sprint, doing an action movie-worthy vault-and-slide over the hood of a taxi.
Four men in jeans, T-shirts, and body armor follow him, armed with full-on machine guns.
I stop and watch it unfold, fascinated—New York never fails to entertain, that's for damned sure.
The man is dressed in a tan suit with a black button-down, no tie. The suit, I can tell even from a distance, is impeccably tailored to his stunning Adonis physique. Black hair, a bit too long. A sharp jawline, heavily shadowed with stubble.
Horns blare as the man barely avoids being hit by a cube van.
I hear a sharp but muffled rattle, and the windows of the restaurant shatter.
People scream all at once, fleeing their seats.
Before I can blink, I'm caught up in a crush of humanity carrying me toward the exit.
I can't even try to fight it—I can only try and keep my feet and not be trampled.
I've left my shawl on the back of my chair, which I feel a burst of annoyance about—it's cashmere, and a favorite.
At least I have my Chanel clutch with my phone and wallet.
And then I'm outside in the cool evening air, being elbowed and jostled as the crowd flows out of the emergency exit. Trash stinks in the alley, and horns blare and sirens howl. Another burst of shots rings out, and someone screams. There's a crunch of metal on metal—a car crash.
The crowd carries me away from the street where the action is, thank god, and I find myself on a small cross-street, where orange parking cones block off a truck unloading goods; a vent spews swirling clouds of steam. I can hear sirens and shouts and screams, still, but it's distant.
The crowd has thinned, and I'm no longer being swept along. I stumble back against the stone of a building and catch my breath, let my hammering pulse stabilize.
My phone buzzes; I pull it out, answer it. "Charles? I'm alright."
"Oh, thank the good lord. I lost sight of you in the mayhem. Can you believe it? Automatic gunfire on the streets of Manhattan. It's like something out of Hollywood. Where are you? I'll come to you."
“I…” I look around, but I can't see the signs. "I don't know. The crowd carried me quite a way. Look, Charles, I'm really alright, I promise. I'll catch a Lyft."
"Brys, darling—"
"Charles," I snap, letting my voice harden.
"I'm not your darling. I can take care of myself. I’m fine.
Go home to Shauna. Take that blathering, chauvinistic dick, Roger, out for more drinks and close the deal.
Thanks for the lovely evening, though, really.
I mean it. I needed a night out, so thanks for forcing me. "
Charles chuckles ruefully. "You're on speaker, Brys, and he's next to me."
"Oh. Right." I clear my throat. "Well, I don't take it back. Roger, you're an ass. But Charles really is your best bet. Cowper and Danforth can take your chipset and really run with it. You'd be a fool to pass on this deal."
"Noted," Roger says, his tone wry. "And since we're being forthright, I can see why he dumped you. You're all hard edges."
I laugh. "Not taking the bait, Roger. Charles, goodbye. And thanks again."
"Of course. Message me when you're home safely, please. With this insanity outside, you know I'll worry."
"I will," I assure him, and tap the red phone icon to end the call, shoving the device into my clutch as I head for the nearest major thoroughfare.
It's calmer here, only the usual traffic rushing back and forth, clusters and clumps of pedestrians flowing past me as I summon a car from my phone—four minutes until Akhbar H. arrives in a black Lexus IS.
I only register the sound of running feet at the last second—too late. A hard body slams into me, sending me flying. Or, I would have gone flying had a powerful hand not grabbed my wrist and kept me from hitting the ground.
The owner of the hand yanks me upright, and I smack hard against a chest, which feels an awful lot like a very rugged cliff face, if said cliff face was warm, smelled of sweat, and had the firm give of thick muscle.
He spins me, walks me backward. I can't even manage a stammered protest, still stunned from being knocked into so abruptly.
Beneath the scent of male sweat is the layered nuance of extremely expensive cologne.
Hard hands brace my waist, lift me clear off the ground, and then hard cold brick presses against my back, left bare by the low, swooping lines of the expensive—and somewhat revealing—dress I'm wearing.
Dark eyes find mine, close, large, deep, unreadable. "Play along," he says, his voice a sinister, silky-smooth snarl.
He shifts, and the heavy, warm weight of his jacket settles on my shoulders, blocking out the cool night air.
Shouts ring out. "OVER HERE!"
"HE WENT THIS WAY!"
"CHECK THE ALLEYS!"
I press my hands against his hard chest, intending to push him away.
I'm not a weak woman. I lift, hard and heavy, several times a week.
I practice Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. I can take down men several times my size.
But this man? I can't budge him. I lean my head back against the wall and take him in for the first time.
It's him.
The man from the street. The one being chased and shot at.
A few strands of silver stain the inky hair at his temples. His chest heaves from exertion, and sweat streams down his jaw and sheens his forehead.
He's devastatingly gorgeous.
As in my pulse skips. My mouth goes dry. My legs feel weak.
Footsteps echo on the street, layered with male voices—close and getting closer.
His huge, hot, heaving body smashes into mine, pressing me into the wall, crushing my curves against his hardness.
My pulse races.
What's going on?
"You're saving my life, that's what," he says, his voice barely a whisper, lips moving so close to mine I can feel his breath.
I must have spoken out loud.
"Saving your—" I barely get the two words out…
His mouth slants against mine, one hand cupping my jaw, the fingers of the other digging into my hip.
I taste sweat from his upper lip, but then the shocking depth and intensity of the kiss takes over, and I'm lost in his mouth, in the way his fingers splay over the swell of my ass, the way his thumb sweeps over my cheekbone.
It's a commanding and expert kiss.
A panty-soaking kiss—quite literally, in my case.
The footsteps draw closer, and a light shines on us. I turn my face toward the light, squinting; the man buries his face in my neck, kissing my throat, as if he's too enraptured to bother with the intrusion.
"Do you fucking mind?" I snap, burying my fingers in the hair at his nape, not at all faking the way my knees shake as he kisses my throat, my clavicle, my breastbone…
It's them—the men in the body armor with the machine guns.
Who the hell is this man? Who are these men? Why are they chasing him and shooting at him?
Why me?
And why, most importantly, is my body responding to him this way?
"Wait…" one of them says, frowning, sweeping the light on the bottom of his machine gun up so it's blinding me. "That's him!"
"Fuck," The man snarls. "Get ready to run."
Run? I'm in four-inch Louboutins and a six-thousand-dollar Little Black Dress, which is so tight even walking requires concentration and effort.
I have no chance to express any of this. The man pivots to face his four pursuers, putting himself between them and me. He grabs a handgun from the back of his suit slacks, whips it around, and fires off three quick shots.
I'm no expert, but it doesn't look like he knows what he's doing, judging by the way he holds the gun, and the fact that his shots go wide, cracking off the walls nowhere near his enemies.
It does serve the intended purpose, however: they duck and crab walk out of sight around the corner as he fires several more shots in their general direction, all of which go high and wide.