I grip his waist loosely as he drives into the building, unease running up my spine at the pitch-black we’re disappearing into. I take a deep, steadying breath and then frown as I look into the darkness and ask, “Do I smell hay?”
He grunts but doesn’t say anything as the door behind us slowly closes. No sooner does it click shut than the room is flooded with light. I blink rapidly, grateful for the tinted visor.
He nudges me, and I ungracefully remove myself from the back of the bike, standing there rather awkwardly as he kicks down the stand and eases it into position. Removing his gloves, he places them on the tank, his fingertips stroking along the black-gold paint almost lovingly as he swings his leg over and stands beside me.
I tilt my head back a bit, watching my reflection in the visor on his helmet, relieved he can’t see the look on my face because I’m sure it must be comical. Leaning back on my heels, I do my best to shift so I can get a better look at him without it being too obvious that I’m gawking behind the helmet.
Either people shrink when you’re holding a gun to their head, or I’m the least observant person in the history of least observant people. Not being a short woman by any stretch of the imagination, it’s not very often I’m faced with a truly tall person. This guy is freaking tall.
Wanting to distract myself, I raise my cold hands to the buckle under my chin, only to be startled when he swats my hands away, his fingers working the metal with practiced ease. He lifts the helmet slowly, and I gradually turn my head as I’m freed, then shake my head, hoping my hair isn’t completely stuck to my head.
He removes his own helmet, and I look away, turning to check out my surroundings as an excuse to pretend not to be interested in what he looks like when I’m not distracted by rage.
The room is large, open concept, but it’s divided into sections. In one far corner, I see a kitchen and a living area. On the far side, which happens to be the side closest to me, there’s what appears to be another large sliding door.
I frown at the door, listening intently, then I turn back to him and ask, “Is there a horse in there?”
He gives me a rather bland look and then shrugs as he replies, “That would be Seamus. He’ll put up a stink if I don’t go say hi.”
I’m sure I’m staring at him like he’s a crazy person. I attempt to school my features, but my attempt at a blasé expression fails, and instead, I find my mouth hanging open, and I shut it with a crack of my teeth. He raises his brows at me and asks, “What?”
Now, I shrug and shake my head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
But it’s not exactly nothing. I did a fair amount of research on these people before making the decision to go searching for my sister. This guy probably thinks I know nothing about him, and now I’m questioning exactly what it is I do know about him.
Zion Cruz.
Sargent at Arms and resident dickhead extraordinaire.
A tall, golden-haired Adonis, a fact I was not at all prepared for.
And apparently a horse-lover, which indicates the likelihood that maybe he’s not all bad.
His throat clearing snaps me out of my tangled thoughts, and I look up to find him staring at me, a puzzled expression on his face that has me asking, “What?”
“What’s your name?”
“Vivian,” I croak, then pause to clear my throat, “Vivian Jones.”
He was standing a mere five feet from me, but then, suddenly, he’s directly in front of me, stooped over, so he’s looking directly into my eyes. “Have we met before?”
I shake my head, my hands coming up instinctively as he begins to crowd me further. “No. We definitely have not met before.”
He cocks his head, his eyes searching mine as he leans in so close that his two eyes become one giant dark orb in front of me. I stop myself from flinching back, from rushing away, putting much-needed distance between us, and instead close my eyes.
I fully expect him to tell me to open them, to look at him, but he doesn’t. At first, he doesn’t say anything, but I feel his presence, his warmth, then his hands squeezing my upper arms, holding me in place.
“Do you feel that?” His question is a hot whisper across my lips, and my eyes open even as I will them to remain closed. He moves back slightly, so I’m once again staring into both of his eyes, but this does nothing to decrease my sudden wariness.
The look on his face is awestruck, the glint in his eyes wild, those dark orbs seeming to fire with lightning. I swallow the sudden searing lump in my throat, barely manage to whisper, “No.”
He blinks at me, some of the wild dissipating, and then he shakes his head sharply, as if trying to remove some invisible object. Frowning, his hands on my arms loosen then drop, and he steps back, his expression turning confused, rattled, even.
Wanting to change the subject as quickly as possible, I ask hesitantly, “Is Seamus your horse?”
Blinking a few times, he clears his throat again, then replies, “No, he just lives here.”
“So, he’s boarded here?”
