Chapter 4
Callum
I yank Lucy’s infuriating ass right off the sidewalk in front of her shrink’s office building and drag my leggy, purple-haired client into the nearby alley, covering her mouth while she unleashes a muffled scream against my hand.
She digs her teeth into my palm violently enough to draw blood and elbows me in the chest with impressive force. If this were my first rodeo, she might’ve loosened my grip.
Pain radiates through my hand, but I don’t release her until we’re deep enough in the alleyway to hide from any passersby.
Putrid privacy brought to us by Manhattan dumpsters.
I lean down to whisper the truth in her ear. “If I were one of Roguilin’s men, you’d be dead.”
Her struggling ceases.
Lucy rounds on me the second I slacken my hold, absolutely seething. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I flex my injured appendage, which is still stinging and bleeding from her teeth. “Showing you how easy it would be for someone to abduct you. You had no idea I was even there.”
She blanches, fear flickering across her face between one blink and the next. “Oh, so you think it’s funny that you can just grab me whenever you want?”
Funny? Not the first word that comes to mind when describing touching Lucy Marlow. Not at all. Electrifying is more like it. Intense. Arousing. Oddly…enjoyable.
I’d be lying if I denied how much I relished yanking her off the street to teach her a lesson.
Entitled as she is, crazy hair and all, Lucy is still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.
She’s about five-nine or five-ten. Slender, with graceful proportions and lean, toned muscles. I found that out the moment she nailed me in the solar plexus with her elbow. High cheekbones. Full lips. Expressive dark brown eyes that stab me with every scowl.
She’s a model for a reason.
Too bad her personality could curdle milk.
Her infuriating attitude sends excessive amounts of irritation prickling behind my eyes. But I refuse to let her know she gets under my skin.
Something tells me the little witch would love that entirely too much.
I rake my gaze up and down her body. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t as fun for you as it was for me.”
“Ass.” She narrows her eyes and subjects me to an angry once-over.
Part of me wants to shake some sense into her. The other part wants to shove her up against the alley wall and kiss her into submission. Press my body against hers and dominate her.
None of those urges are appropriate sentiments. But if I’m being honest, the stench of garbage stops me from ravishing my client more than anything else.
I step closer, unsure of what to do with her. I just know I can’t let her out of my sight again.
Lucy scrambles back, whips out a can of pepper spray with lightning speed, and aims the nozzle at my face.
Raising my palms in surrender, I retreat to put some distance between us. “What exactly do you think you’re going to do with that?”
Her heated glare could probably do more damage than that pepper spray. “Empty the contents in your face and hope your fucking eyes burn for a week.”
“Ouch.” My mouth twitches. “Assuming you can aim as well as you curse.”
“Bite me.”
“Don’t tempt me with a good time.”
A subtle blush creeps into her cheeks, and a hint of an emotion I can’t put my finger on shines in her eyes. Fear again? Panic? Embarrassment? She rearranges her features into an arrogant mask before I can dissect it.
For a short eternity, we face off alone in this alleyway. Light dwindles overhead, but neither of us shows any sign of backing down.
Finally, I release a long exhale. “Put the pepper spray away.”
No response.
I’m not even a week into my newest assignment, and already Lucy’s every bit the brat I expected her to be. From the very start, she’s done nothing but try to piss me off and get under my skin.
Surely, she cares that one of the most dangerous men on the planet painted a target on her back.
“Look, Marlow—”
“No.” She gives the can a menacing shake while backing away. “No deal.”
“It’s getting dark.” I fish my keys from my pocket. “Come on. I’m escorting you home.”
“Like hell you are.” Lucy continues retreating without checking for obstacles behind her.
The second her ass connects with the seat of my vintage Triumph Speed Twin, she shrieks. Flails. If she falls, she’ll bring my baby down with her.
Christ, she’s hopeless.
In one swift motion, I clamp my fingers around her bicep and pull her toward me and away from the motorcycle. “Careful.”
She catches her breath for a second before attempting to tug free of my grasp. “Where the hell did that come from?”
“My garage.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “It’s yours?”
“Yeah.” I throw a leg over the bike and slide the key into the ignition. “It’s also your ride home. Get on.”
Lucy releases a horrified laugh. “I’m not going anywhere on that pile of junk.”
My forehead furrows. Did she just call my fully restored 1938 Triumph motorcycle with a revolutionary parallel-twin engine a pile of junk?
Stuck-up little shit.
I rip my phone from my pocket, toggle to my contacts, and flip my wrist back so Lucy can get a front-row seat. Her eyes widen when she sees that I’ve got her sister’s phone number at the ready.
“Get on. Now.” My voice drops low when my patience wears out. “You don’t want me to ask you again.”
“Or what?” Her confidence audibly wavers.
“I’ll call your big sister, tell her a man dragged you into an alley, and when I tried to help, you wouldn’t let me.”
She recoils. “That’s a lie!”
“A lie that’ll have Maya boarding the next plane home from Italy.” I stare her down, noting the emotions that flit over her features. “Is that what you want?”
“What are we, five?” She heaves a sigh of defeat. “Don’t call Maya. I’ll get on.”
I slide the phone into my pocket. “Here.” From the mounted storage compartment on my bike, I grab an open-face helmet and toss it to her. She almost drops her pepper spray. “You’ll be riding up front.”
“What?”
“In case you get any ideas about running off into traffic.”
She clamps her mouth shut when I reach for my phone again. Without another word, she shoves the spray in her bag, puts the helmet on, and throws a long leg over the seat in front of me.
“Grab the bars.”
Immediately, I discover the flaw in my plan. Lucy riding in front means she can’t get away, yes. But this position also requires me to fold my entire body around her.
Fuck me.
With a vengeance, I shove my flip-up helmet over my head and settle into the seat behind her. My bike roars to life as I place my grip on the handles outside hers. Our fingers press together.
The curve of her back against my chest is incredibly distracting. She must agree, because she tries to lean away as I ease us into traffic but only manages to wiggle her ass closer to the line of my cock. Which is way worse.
Her subtle floral scent invades my senses. If I were a weaker man, and if this weren’t my fucking job, I might lean in and inhale.
But I’m not weak, and this is my job. And I have no time or patience for annoying little shits like her. No matter how pretty.
I linger on the dark, purple-streaked hair poking out from the bottom of the helmet. I almost did a double-take when I first saw her in person because she barely resembles the photo in her file.
She’s every bit as beautiful, but the happy, youthful glow has disappeared from her eyes. Her once long chestnut hair is now purple and cropped into a stylish, punklike cut.
Her new hairstyle was the first surprise. What came second was…less pleasant.
As much as I hate to admit it, Punk Lucy is way more my type than Girl-Next-Door Lucy from the photo.
The sucker punch of attraction socked me in the face the instant we met.
I’ve never experienced anything like this toward a client before, and I don’t much appreciate the way my body reacts to her now…
A left turn pushes her weight into my arm, and she shifts to keep her balance. I bite back a curse as she nearly grinds against my crotch.
Can she not hold still for two minutes?
The drive back to her Brooklyn boulevard takes well over half an hour with traffic, but we somehow arrive without killing each other. Though my pants are significantly less comfortable by the time we pull up near her building.
Focus, Callum.
My blue balls are not important right now.
She and I need to have a serious discussion about her taking off today, and how, if she’s smart, it won’t ever happen again. But as soon as I find a place to park my Triumph and dismount, Lucy scrambles off the bike and sprints to the end of the block.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I jump into action, racing after her. She darts across the street and speed-walks her supermodel legs—the ones that continually draw my eyes against my will—down the crowded sidewalk.
I tail her at a safe distance while she ducks under the stone arch entryway to her ten-story apartment building. She lives on the eighth floor. I’m thirty steps behind, and I already know she won’t wait for the elevator. She won’t risk me catching up with her.
Sure enough, once I push into the stairwell, the sound of her sneakers slapping the steps three floors up echoes through the cement space.
I lean over the rail and check to ensure it’s her, and she does the same from above. Our gazes lock across the distance.
“You got me home safe. Good job. You’re the man. Now please leave.” She motions toward my bike across the street.
“Not until we have a little talk.”
She huffs out a long-suffering sigh and hurries up the next few flights.
I jump-jog to close the distance, and by the time I reach the seventh floor, my muscles buzz with the effort.
Finally, I shove through the eighth-floor door just in time to watch her retrieve a gift-wrapped box off her welcome mat.
My eyes fly wide open. “Don’t touch that!”
Lucy jumps, glares at me, and hustles inside with the package.
I sprint the length of her hallway, but she still manages to lock the door before I get there.
My chest tightens as I pound on the door. “Don’t be stupid, Lucy. That could be anything. A bomb. Anthrax. A severed fucking hand. Let me in, and I’ll make sure it’s safe.”
That “present” could even be a body part that belonged to her sister. I shudder at the thought. Based on what I know about the man she’s entangled with, anything is possible.
Silence follows.
I knock again, more forcefully this time. Still nothing.
Less than a minute later, she releases a bloodcurdling shriek.
“Lucy!” Roaring through the door, I rear back to give it a good kick.
Before I can, it flies open and Lucy shoves the box into my hands, utter disgust contorting her features. “Take it away!”
The door shuts again, and the lock engages with a click.
With an irritated sigh, I tug the lid off the box and grimace at what’s inside.
A mutilated rat carcass accompanied by a single red rose. A gift for the ages.
A message is scrawled on the bottom.
You can’t escape your fate.
Every cell in my body shifts into high alert. I lift my gaze to the door.
What if one of Roguilin’s men is in there with her?