“Stop talking to him,” Rourke snapped.
Grace didn’t seem to care that Rourke had her. She was being reckless. Reckless with her own safety.
“Grace,” Luke said, sharper now, fear edging into anger, “we can talk about this later, baby.”
“I want somewhere fancy,” she said. “I want you to pick me up. I want you to have flowers.”
Luke’s mind tried—and failed—to hold all of it at once.
She was distracting him and he needed to keep her safe?—
He couldn’t look away from her gaze.
“Grace,” he said, voice barely under control now, “I need you to focus.”
“I am focussed.” Her eyes never left his. “On you. On us.”
She smiled. God, she was so beautiful when she smiled. Luke could barely stand it.
“You’re going to get me out of this,” she said, like she was stating the weather. “And then you’re going to take me out to dinner.”
The adrenaline was flooding his body. He couldn’t?—
“I trust you,” Grace said. “I trust you with my life. And with my heart.”
Something cracked wide open in his chest.
Joy.
Pure, brilliant, impossible joy.
"Grace—" Her name came out wrecked.
Rourke snarled, his grip tightening as his patience finally snapped. “I said shut up?—”
Grace moved.
She shifted her weight. Brought her heel down hard on the top of Rourke’s foot.
The move he’d shown her.
Rourke’s grip loosened. The blade dipped. It was the opening he needed.
Luke surged forward, one arm hooking Grace’s waist, wrenching her out of Rourke’s grip as the man howled and stumbled backward. Grace was suddenly against him, solid and real, and Luke put his body between her and the threat in a single fluid motion.
CHAPTER 43
Grace
One secondshe was in Luke's arms, his arm iron-hard around her waist. The next, he was turning, moving her behind him with careful control.
"Stay behind me," he said.
Grace stumbled back a step, caught herself, and then she was watching.
There was no hesitation. No wasted movement. He drove Rourke face-first into the grass, knee between his shoulder blades, weight perfectly placed. Luke kicked the knife away from them, the blade skittering across the grass. Rourke shouted something—angry, incoherent—but Luke didn’t take notice.
“Hands behind your back.”
