He catches me when I wobble, keeping me upright and moving forward—half carrying me, if I'm honest.
"Ican'trun!" I snap at him. "Do youseewhat I'm wearing?”
"So kick off the shoes and hike up the dress."
"They're Louboutins," I argue. "Vintage."
"I don't fucking care if they're Cinderella’s glass fucking slippers," he snarls. "Unless you want to die, kick them off and fuckingRUN!"
"Fuck me," I grumble, letting my beloved shoes fling away. "You…owe me, you big…dumb…jackass." I'm gasping already; I'm strong, but I don't do a lot of running, for two rather large reasons.
"I'll buy you…a goddamned…warehouse…full of shoes…if we…if we survive this," he says, panting almost as raggedly as me—that makes me feel a little better.
"We?" I screech, jerking him to a halt. "I don't know you! I don't know them! I don't know a single goddamned thing about what's going on!"
He lifts me bodily off the ground as if I weighed nothing, tossing me so I have no choice but to trot, stumble, and keep running. "No, you don't," he growls. "And I'm sorry I got you into this. They've seen your face, now, though."
My bare feet slap against the sidewalk, and he jerks me this way and that, ducking down alleys, crossing streets, weaving through traffic. More than once, he yanks me out of the way just in time to avoid being plowed into by a car.
The shouts of our pursuers have faded. The man, his bare arms, thick and tanned and rippling with muscle, stretch the short sleeves of his button-down. Why I notice that even as we run for our lives, I couldn’t say.
Or don't want to, at least.
He glances up at a high-rise as we pass it, and his expression darkens. He pulls me to a halt, shoves me through the revolving door and into the dark, echoing marble cavern of a lobby, yanks me aside away from the doorway and presses me up against the wall next to the revolving door, chest heaving as he peers outside, watching.
"Are you going to at least tell me your name?" I say, once I've caught my own breath.
"I think we've lost them, for now," he murmurs, and he turns those eyes on me—night-black, cold, glittering with cunning and intelligence. “My name is…Jakob." The pause seems significant, for some reason.
"And why does it seem like you're unhappy to be inside this building in particular?"
"Because I used to own it," he mutters, then frowns at me. "I should not have told you that. Not sure why I did."
I shrug, smirking. “I have that effect on people, Jakob…” I trail off, leading him toward telling me his last name.
"Just Jakob," he answers, peeking outside. Looks down at me again. "And you are? Other than absolutely fucking breathtaking, that is."
I can’t help grinning at his offhand compliment. “Brys Bennett."
He offers me a smile, and I get the impression that smiles from this man are a rarity, to be savored and appreciated. "Brys Bennett? Any relation to Lawrence Bennett, of BDI?”
"My father. He passed a few years ago. I'm CEO, now." I frown up at him—at 5'9", I'm not exactly short, but he still towers over me. "You know it?"
"You resemble him," he says, and looks down at me. "I almost owned BDI, a long, long time ago, in another life. Larry backed out at the last second and wouldn’t come back to the table. One of the only men to ever successfully tell me no."
"I have vague memories of that," I answer. "I was in college at the time."
He frowns again. "And yet again I find myself telling you things you have no business knowing."
"I told you," I say, "I have that effect on people."
His face is close, dark eyes now opaque and unreadable. "You're going to be trouble, I think, Brys Bennett."
"You have only yourself to blame," I whisper, mesmerized by the darkness in his eyes, the anger and sorrow and guilt that seem to swirl around him, emanate from him—along with power and authority and charisma.
And sexual tension.
Lots and lots of that.
