My heart soars like a firecracker as I track her gaze. Down the corridor that leads to the elevator bank, a tall, elegant man speaks with a short, bald employee.
He seems too well-mannered and gentlemanlike to be a lieutenant for the Irish Kings, but I suppose that controlled charm is what makes him so good at his job.
Salvation is a mere thirty feet away.
I take a single step in his direction, ready to race toward him like an Olympic sprinter if necessary. Clearing the length of the reception desk, I’m almost within range to call out hisname when an iron fist clamps around my forearm and rips me sideways through a doorway.
On the other side, a rigid body slams into me from behind. An arm like a steel pipe folds around my waist, yanking me back into the shadows of a dim, narrow hall.
The cold, unmistakable muzzle of a pistol presses into the small of my back.
At Brody’s low growl, a shudder quakes through me. “Going somewhere?”
My hope shatters like bullet-shot glass. “I…”
“You call for Kellin, I shoot you,” Brody whispers. “Or him. Maybe both, if the mood strikes.”
I stiffen. “No, you won’t. Because then they’d kill you.”
Every nerve in my body braces for action. If I scream Kellin’s name in this moment, he’d probably hear me.
Brody releases me just enough for us to lock eyes. “And I’m also dead if I don’t bring you back to Declan. I believe they call this an impasse.”
Dust motes swirl in the faint light streaming through a high window as I scour his face for the lie.
“Come here.” Brody grabs my hand again, like he did when he towed me through Koreatown. He drags me out of the recessed doorway and to our right.
I whip my head back and glimpse Kellin in the hall. He’s finished his conversation and is walking our way. I can still?—
Brody jerks me around a sharp corner and shoves me inside a cool, empty office. I barely have enough time to gasp before he’s at my back again and closing the door behind us.
My eyes adjust to the dimness in time to witness Brody rip open a walk-in closet. He all but tosses me into the cramped space, following me inside and slamming the door shut.
“What the hell are you doing?” I raise my voice to just below shouting volume.
“Shut up.” His throat rumbles a deadly warning. “Because of you, we’ve got to sneak out of here.”
I lunge for the door handle, but he snares my wrist and tugs. Next thing I know, he’s pressing me face-first against the nearest wall, his body forming a suffocating barrier at my back.
He’s so close, I can feel the coiled tension in his muscles, and the warmth radiating off him. The fire spreads from his body to mine, curling through me like a creeping blaze.
One of his hands clamps over my mouth, stifling my scream. His free hand snakes around my waist and rests there, his fingers splayed wide over my stomach.
Possessive. Threatening.
Tantalizing.
I try to speak but only manage a muffled huff of nothing.
Brody shoves a knee between my thighs, towering over me with his hand still covering my mouth. Panic, tension, and acute arousal flood my system.
My logical mind shrieks of danger, but the hard heat of his body fills me with frenzied sexual signals that buzz through my veins. His warm breath on the back of my neck chases away the shadows with bright colors of lust.
I tell myself this involuntary, unwanted physical reaction is totally normal for a woman my age and has nothing to do with Brody.
Any handsome man enveloping me in a dark closet on the second worst day of my life would elicit the same unfortunate sexual response.
Me compartmentalizing the hotness of this moment as an anomalous psychological phenomenon seems to work…until Brody bends his head toward me.
