Heart pounding, I wait.I may only have one chance to escape, and I sure as hell intend to make the most of it.And I don’t care if he dies in the process.
ChapterThree
Valentina
The lock clicks.
My pulse hammers against my ribs, steady and hard, the kind of rhythm that lives in my throat when I’ve already decided someone is going to bleed.
The lamp is awkward and heavier than it looked, and keeping it lifted and steady makes my arms shake.
Praying the little eye doesn’t see me right here and that I have the element of surprise, I press my back to the wall and lock my muscles while my heart hammers.
Soundlessly the knob begins to turn.
There’s a footstep.Slow.Deliberate.Then a second…
The moment he crosses the threshold, I swing.
The lamp arcs clean and fast.I put every ounce of my body weight behind it, rotating my shoulders and twisting my hips the way Santo taught me years ago when we were still pretending I was just a girl who needed to know how to defend herself from drunk frat boys.
Stunning me, I connect with the side of his head, and he staggers half a step.
That’s all.Half a fucking step.
Jaw set, he snaps his hand up, catching my wrist mid-follow-through.
With precision, he twists.
Instantly pain flares bright and white up my forearm.The lamp slides from my numb fingers and crashes to the floor.
Glass shatters somewhere near my toes.I don’t look down.Instead, I drive my knee toward his groin.
The infuriating man is already turning, as if he was expecting my move.
His thigh blocks mine, and the momentum slams me forward into his chest.
Heat rolls off him—clean sweat, that damning faint citrus scent and, underneath it all the dark, smoky trace of Bonds whiskey.
My breasts crush against the hard planes of his pecs.
Impossibly my nipples pebble against the soft cotton of his shirt even as fury scorches through me.
I wrench backward.He doesn’t let go.
Instead, he kicks the door shut with his heel, the sound ricocheting off the ceiling, and he spins us both until my spine hits the wall.
Then his forearm braces across my collarbone—not choking, just pinning—while his other hand still locks my wrist beside my head.
Our faces are inches apart.His breath brushes my lips in short, controlled bursts.Mine comes in ragged gasps.
Blood trickles from a shallow cut at his temple where the lamp glanced off.A thin red line slides down the side of his face, dark against tanned skin, and pools at the corner of his jaw before dripping onto the collar of his black button-down.
If it hurts, he doesn’t show it.And he doesn’t wipe away the blood.Instead, he watches me with his dark eyes, made even more intense by the single lamp still burning on the nightstand.
“Valentina.”My name in his mouth sounds different now—lower, rougher, like he’s tasting it for the first time since he carried me in here.“You really thought that would work?”
I bare my teeth.“I thought it would hurt you more.”Actually I’d hoped it would knock him out so I could escape.
