CHAPTER TWO #3
I charge forward with intent to takedown and pin. A drill I’ve done a thousand times.
My arms hook around the intruder from behind, trapping her in a textbook restraint that would make Coach Stevens grunt with pride. I don’t squeeze too tightly because, well, she’s a woman. But she’s behaving like a cat in a bathtub, kicking and thrashing.
“Let! Me! GO!”
“Surrender before you make it worse,” I bark in a low voice.
“Where’s the fun in that, Security Ken?”
I firm up my hold, arms forming a human straightjacket. The little maniac braces both feet on the pool house door.
Wait, what is she—
With extreme force, she pushes off the door, launching us both backward. For one suspended moment, we’re airborne—a tangle of limbs rocketing toward the ground.
SLAM!
My back hits against the stone path with bone-pulverizing force. All the air in my lungs evacuates in a WHOOSH . My vertebrae feel rearranged.
This was definitely not covered in Princeton’s Advanced Takedown Techniques.
She scrambles free. Not on my watch.
Pure reflex takes over. My arm shoots out like a spring-loaded trap, fingers latching around an ankle mid-stride. I feel leather, a boot, and then—
WHAM!
She hits the grass face-first with a satisfying OOF.
“Miss, are you okay?” I wheeze, my voice barely recognizable.
“You call that a takedown?”
She wriggles, trying to escape. I yank hard, pulling her across the grass as if I’m reeling in an alligator.
She’s fast. I tighten my grip. She kicks back viciously, catching me square in the stomach. I groan, but I don’t let go.
No, I clamp down harder .
I haul her leg toward me, crawling up her body like a deranged octopus, and manage to lock my own legs around hers in a perfect body scissor hold. Her back is pressed against my chest. I’m a human pretzel with my arms wrapped around her torso.
We’re a twisted, breathing, cursing mess in the damp grass.
She’s still fighting dirty. Bucking. Twisting. Throwing elbows.
“GET. OFF! ”
“SECURITY!” I yell out.
Nothing. Where the hell is everyone?
An arm slips free. A small victory for her. A tactical error for me.
“Hey, asshole!” the female voice shouts. “Take your hands off my boobs, perv!”
And then—
CRACK!
Her elbow connects with laser-guided precision to my groin.
Holy mother of—
White-hot agony explodes through my body. I’m not sure if I’m screaming out loud or if it’s just inside my head. Either way, the universe tilts sideways, and I see every bad decision that led me to this moment.
This gala? Bad call.
Impromptu wrestling? Bad call.
Chasing some lunatic intruder through my mother’s estate? Extremely bad call.
I roll to my side in the fetal position, the cool grass against my cheek providing little comfort for the inferno raging below my belt. Through tear-blurred vision, I see the intruder scramble up, poised to sprint away.
That silhouette. That leather jacket. Those combat boots.
“Pip?”
She freezes like she’s been caught sneaking out of detention. Slowly— very slowly —she turns and pulls the hoodie off her head.
Wide hazel-green eyes blink down at me, framed by a wild mess of tangled black hair and a smear of dirt across one cheekbone. But what I notice most are those full red lips .
“Oh, shit,” she says brightly. “Hey, Moneybags. Fancy seeing you here.”
“DON’T MOVE!” a deep voice shouts.
Two security officers lumber onto the scene, tasers drawn, faces set to “imminent threat” mode.
Petra raises her hands, totally unfazed. “Easy there, Paul Blart Mall Cops. I lost my invite. Figured the hedge was the VIP entrance.”
“You again!” The burlier security guard points accusingly. “We told you at the front gate—no entry!”
“And as I explained, I have a right to be here.” Petra crosses her arms. “You didn’t listen, so I was forced to trespass. That’s on you.”
I stagger to my feet, brushing grass off my tux. Trying—and failing—to look as though I wasn’t just taken down by a woman half my size. “It’s fine, gentlemen. She’s with me.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Sterling?” The second guard eyes Petra suspiciously. “Her car looks like it was in a drive-by.”
“Excuse me?” she fires back, pointing aggressively. “Are you seriously profiling me based on my vehicle? What kind of classist, elitist bullsh—”
Jesus. She’s going to end up tased in front of Mother’s rose garden.
“Thank you for your diligence,” I cut in. “There’s been a misunderstanding. Ms. Brinkman works for my company.”
The guards exchange skeptical glances.
“I asked her to come tonight because…” I pause. I have absolutely no idea why she’s here.
Petra yanks a velvet box from her pocket and waves it around. “Cufflinks! Special CEO delivery for this fancy schmancy snobby event. ”
I blink at the box. Then at her. “Yes. Cufflinks. Let me show you inside, Ms. Brinkman.”
The guards lower their weapons. “Very good, sir,” one of them mutters.
I nod as though this is all totally normal and not the single most unhinged moment of my adult life.
As the security team reluctantly retreats, she falls into step beside me like she owns the damn place.
We start walking, and I steer her off the main path to the side servants’ entrance.
“Nice save, B. Though I could’ve taken those lightweights with my eyes closed.”
“After what you did to me, I believe that.” I wince, each step sending a fresh reminder of her combat effectiveness. “I may never father children.”
“Please. I barely tapped you. Besides, consider it payback for the pervy boob grab.”
“I assure you, that was not intentional. You were flailing like a marlin on a fishing line.”
“So, you admit there was boob contact.”
“I admit to nothing beyond the immediate need for an ice pack to my nether regions.”
She bursts into laughter, and I find myself grinning. Pip’s always had that effect on me. She was Gavin’s shadow growing up, and so many of my high school memories are filled with her loud, defiant presence. Back then, only Gavin could match her quip for quip, and I miss seeing that side of him.
As we approach the main house, the noise of wealth grows louder. The clear notes of an overpriced string quartet, the gentle clink of champagne flutes, the distinct voices of people who’ve never worried about their credit scores.
Petra halts suddenly, glancing down at her all-black outfit complete with wrinkled AC/DC shirt. “Whoa there, Richie Rich. I can’t go in there looking this way. Your mom will have me black-bagged and vanished faster than you can say ‘wealth disparity.’”
She’s not wrong. Judith Sterling-Holloway would rather serve boxed wine in plastic cups than allow someone in a leather jacket and combat boots to cross the threshold of her charity gala.
I take in the full spectrum of Petra’s dishevelment—from the leaves still tangled in her hair to the grass stains marring her hands. Her jeans, already distressed by design, now sport a large, fresh tear across the thigh, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of pale, creamy skin.
Yet, inexplicably, it’s the delicate curve of her collarbone that draws my attention—exposed where her shirt stretched during our impromptu wrestling match.
My gaze, defying propriety, drifts lower to the soft rise of her breasts beneath the worn band tee.
The cool night air has made certain… assets …
unmistakably alert, and the thin fabric leaves little to the imagination.
She’s not wearing a bra.
Look away. This is Gavin’s little sister.
I suppress a shudder as a wave of heat courses through me. “You look…”
“Like I just body-slammed a Wall Street exec into his hedge fund?” She cocks an eyebrow, the quirk of her crimson lips daring me to disagree.
What the hell is wrong with me? These inappropriate thoughts need to stop. Now .
I need to quit thinking about where my hands were—gripping bare skin, skimming places I have no business remembering in this much detail. How she moved, what she let me touch… Jesus. I’m going to get slapped if she sees how hard I’m getting.
“I was going to say ‘distinctive.’”
“If this is your rich-boy version of flirting, I give it two stars. I’m guessing you’re one compliment away from asking if I do yoga.”
She rakes her fingers through her wild mane, dislodging more foliage—as if intentionally doubling down on her freshly ravished look.
And now I’m picturing her sprawled across my king-sized bed, that midnight hair fanned out against white Egyptian cotton sheets, those defiant eyes molten with desire as I hover above her, ready to—
Sterling, get your shit together. This is Pip. The same woman who just tried to relocate my testicles to my throat. And the last person on earth I should be fantasizing about.
“Whatever, B. Help me find your bestie so I can hand off this fancy man-jewelry and ninja-vanish Homer Simpson style back through the bushes.”
“Vanish? You’re as subtle as fireworks at a funeral.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Bryce Sterling cracked a joke. I guess all that money finally bought you a sense of humor. What’s next? Eating frozen dinners and firing your personal chef?”
I fight back a traitorous smile. This is the problem with Petra—she’s insufferable in the most entertaining way possible.
“Through here.” I gesture toward the side entrance.
“Ooh, the secret poor-person door,” she stage-whispers, leaning in close enough that I catch her scent—an intoxicating blend of jasmine mixed with fresh brewed coffee.
“Why do I feel like I’m about to be initiated into some weird cult where you all wear Prada robes and sacrifice tax returns to the god of offshore accounts?
Do I need to know a password? Is it ‘the peasants don’t deserve healthcare’? ”
“It’s an art auction for charity. The only ritual sacrifice happening is my sanity suffering through small talk. Try not to attack anyone, please.”
“No promises, Moneybags. If some lady tries to shank me with a Gucci stiletto, it’s go time.”
I should be concerned.
I should have security escort her off the property immediately.
Instead, an unexpected flicker of curiosity stirs in my chest. Something tells me I want to witness what Petra Brinkman is going to do next.