Page 4 of Ruthless Enforcer

I clear my throat. Gabriel Reyes is not what I came here for tonight. I sincerely doubt a man with tattoos, blue eyes, and a reputation for violence is the answer to the endcap for my exhibit.

Gabriel's gaze flicks behind me, and his expression changes. “Clara, come with me. Now.”

Just like that, the flirtatious teasing is gone and the man is all business. It’s like watching a portrait change when the light shifts. Same man. Entirely different picture.

And this one is dangerous.

Fourteen-year-old me would have followed him anywhere. Twenty-four-year-old me knows better.

I glance around the gallery. The man Gabriel was watching has his hand inside his jacket now, and he isn’t looking at Gabriel.

He’s looking at me, and his expression makes me shudder.

I turn to Gabriel. “You have your thirty seconds. Don’t make me regret it.”

5

GABRIEL

Idon’t wait around for her to change her mind. Sliding an arm around her waist, I pull her flush against my ribs and angle us toward the service exit, keeping my broader frame locked between Clara and the two men trailing in our wake.

Fuck, she smells good. Like some expensive garden that only blooms after midnight.

Clara stiffens under my grip, though she doesn’t pull away. “What are you doing?”

I inhale her scent one more time before I get my head in the game. “Getting you out of here before someone else does.”

She matches my stride, her heels clicking in crisp tempo over the polished marble. “Is the manhandling part necessary?”

“No,” I say, letting my palm settle into the warm, narrow curve of her waist through the silk. “It’s a perk.”

Her hip brushes mine with every step. In those ridiculous heels, the crown of her red head comes right to my nose, putting that sharp, painted mouth at a dangerously distracting altitude. I ignore it. Mostly. It’s hard to stay completely indifferent when a woman fits against your side like she was custom-tailored for it.

Across the gallery floor, the man by the bronze sculpture changes direction, cutting a diagonal path straight for the service door. The waiter abandons his circuit, angling in from the opposite flank. Meanwhile, Clara’s rented muscle is still scanning the center of the room, blatantly turning his back on what’s going on.

I weave her through a knot of champagne-sipping patrons without breaking our rhythm, doing my best impression of an attentive admirer looking for a dark corner to steal a kiss. If we run, we spook the room and force their hand; worse, we light up the board before I even know who else in this building is bought and out for this woman.

“Where are we going?” Clara murmurs beneath the chatter of the crowd.

“Out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

I lean down and press my mouth close to her temple, pretending to whisper something sweet while my eyes track the perimeter. “It’s the important part of one.”

“Reyes.” Her hip bumps mine with deliberate force.

I tighten my grip, pulling her an inch closer. “Careful, Duchess. You’re starting to sound possessive.”

Her chin comes up, her gaze locked dead ahead, though a faint flush blooms across her cheekbones. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’d be folly to think a man like you could belong to one woman. Your reputation precedes you.”

A low, entirely inappropriate warmth sparks in my chest. “And what exactly do you know about a man like me, Duchess?”

Her blush deepens. “I listen.”

Behind us, the waiter sets his silver tray onto a high-top table and sheds the polite posture. Both of them are closing in fast—twenty feet, maybe less.

Clara’s gaze cuts toward her guard by the archway. “My bodyguard is right there⁠—”