Page 2 of Working for the Enemy

"You're in the way," he growls.

His voice is a low, gravelly rumble. It sounds like rocks grinding together, deep and resonant, vibrating right through the soles of my shoes. He isn't just grumpy; he sounds actively offended by my existence on this sidewalk.

My armor kicks in automatically. I push my shoulders back, tilt my head up, way up, and flash him my brightest, most obnoxious, hundred-watt customer-service smile.

"Well, good morning to you too, Sunshine!" I chirp, placing a hand on my hip. "Pardon me for occupying public property. I didn't realize there was a size requirement for standing on the sidewalk, otherwise I would have cleared a path for the mountain moving through town."

He doesn't blink. His jaw flexes, his hand rising to unconsciously rub at the scar along his face. The dark blue of his eyes hardens into cold, uncompromising iron.

He doesn't smile. He doesn't roll his eyes. He just stands there, towering over my five-foot-five frame, his massive shadow completely engulfing my curvy body. I've always been soft, all hips, thighs, and chest, and standing in front of this solid, rugged beast makes me feel impossibly small. Vulnerable.

And yet, I don't step back.

His gaze drops. It tracks down the line of my throat, over the rise of my bust under my thin shirt, down to where my knuckles are white around my tote bag. He sees it. I know he sees it. He’s reading the tension in my shoulders, the slight tremor in my knees.

When his eyes snap back up to meet mine, the hostility softens by a fraction of a millimeter, replaced by something far more dangerous.

Possessiveness. Intention. A raw intensity that makes my breath hitch in my throat.

It feels like he’s looking directly through the perky smiles, the jokes, and the bright blonde hair. I’ve known him for all of ten seconds, and he’s already reaching straight into the dark corner of my soul where I keep my secrets. He knows I’m running. He knows I’m scared.

The spell holds us frozen for three long, agonizing seconds. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs, split right down the middle between terror and a sudden, primal urge to throw myself into his arms and let him handle everything.

Get a grip, Marlowe.

"Right," I clear my throat, my voice squeaking slightly before I force it back into an easy laugh. "Great chat! Let's do this again never."

I sidestep him, my arm brushing against the tough canvas of his jacket. Heat radiates off him like a furnace. I practically scurry down the block, my heart hammering against my throat, my hands trembling as I clutch my bag.

I don't need to look back to know he’s still standing there. I can feel his heavy, suffocating gaze burning into my back all the way down the street.

Well, whoever the hell that was certainly hates me. He looks at me like I'm a trespasser, a problem, an enemy.

So why do I feel safer in his shadow than I have in months?

2

KANE

Iwatch her go.

She moves fast, her hips swaying under that floral skirt as she practically flees down Main Street. I stand dead center on the sidewalk, a six-foot-four wall of muscle, iron, and frustration, watching every single step she takes until she disappears around the corner of the diner.

My jaw aches. I realize I’m grinding my teeth so hard my back molars feel like they’re going to splinter. My hand comes up, fingers digging hard into the faded scar along my jawline. A nervous tick. A remnant from a deployment in Eastern Europe that left half my squad six feet under and sent me back to Colorado with a mind that refuses to shut down.

You're in the way.

That was the best I could do? Four words. Barked out like a drill sergeant ordering a recruit to clear the choke point.

She looked at me like I was a lunatic. A giant, ugly brute who just stepped out of the woods to ruin her morning.

I drag a heavy hand down my face, swearing under my breath. Eight years in Special Ops, clearing rooms and relying on hand signals to keep my team alive, stripped away whatever useless small talk I ever possessed. I don't know how to talk to women. I sure as hell don't know how to talk to a curvy, golden-haired angel who looks like she was crafted out of sunshine and pure sin.

I turn and head toward the hardware store, my boots striking the pavement in a rigid, rhythmic march. My eyes sweep the street out of habit. Sightline clear. Alleyway on the left, two exits. Rooftop line on the right, clear.

Hyper-vigilance isn't something you can switch off when you trade a rifle for a nail gun. Taking over Forge Creek Municipal Contractors and spending my days in the yard was supposed to burn off the adrenaline, burn out the noise in my head with heavy lifting and molten steel. It worked, mostly. Until seven days ago.

Until Marlowe rolled into Forge Creek.