Stomach a goddamned fireball of nerves, Clay reached up and pulled off his aviators. He stood there and let her see what Ape had done to him, what he’d have done himself for the sake of the mission—and waited.
* * *
The man who stood in her reception area didn’t look like he needed help. But then he removed the glasses, baring eyelids marred by ink, and George squinted over the desk at him. Taking off those lenses transformed him from a hard wall of masculinity into something more appealing, if just as intimidating.
“The eyelid tattoos?” she asked, moving around the desk.
“Yeah. Others too.”
Up close, she felt the difference in their sizes more keenly. He was huge. “Lean down, please. Let me get a look.” Lord, what had the man done to himself? “Ouch.”
“Yeah.” The word emerged on a half laugh, as if she’d surprised it out of him.
“You haven’t had this long, have you?”
He shook his head, and George’s brain filled with questions—some appropriate, some not. She went with the former.
“How long?”
“Few months.”
“Any idea what was used?”
“Used?”
“What kind of ink?”
“No.” He cleared his throat before going on. “Tattoo ink, I guess.”
“They protect your eyes while they did this?” she asked, and he snorted in response.
“Not exactly.”
“Did you consent to having your eyelids tattooed?” she asked, knowing this wasn’t the sort of question you asked a man this big, this badass.
His eyes shot open, and George fought not to step back.
Oh dear God, his face.
“Have we met before?” she asked, wondering where she’d seen those eyes; the high, flat cheekbones; the perfectly shaped mouth outlined by dark stubble that made her fingers itch disconcertingly.
“Don’t think so, Doc. I’d remember if we had.”
George blushed at what she thought might be a compliment even as she continued to study him.
Those wide cheekbones, a sharp nose, and an obstinate-looking jaw made her think this wasn’t a man who’d easily ask for help. Layered over his striking features were the ravages of life: those lids marred by black ink, a scar bisecting a cheek and disappearing into short, dark hair.
But most intimidating—and appealing—of all, were the darkest eyes she’d ever seen, perfectly in keeping with those dark looks. They were wide and hard. Just like the rest of him, she thought, with a hiccup of something sharp and hot and previously dormant in her abdomen.
“You have others?” she asked, ignoring the unwanted twinge with a quick step back.
She wouldn’t allow herself even a glance as he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it. She saw the ink on his arms only peripherally, barely looked at how it contrasted so dramatically with the bright-white cotton of his T-shirt. He reached to take that off too, and she stopped him with a hand on his arm, immediately removed.
His golden skin was covered in tattoos, starting at his hands and crawling over solid shoulders to seep through his tee, dark enough to look like a design on the surface of the white cotton. He was wide, his arms long and strong-looking. She didn’t say anything for a time, caught up in ink and muscles and the crisp-looking hair of his forearms.
He finally broke the silence. “You get it now?”
“I’m sorry?”
