Page 9 of Ruthless Enforcer

"Breathe." I keep my voice level. "Deep breaths. In through your nose."

She does it without argument, which tells me she trusts me more than she should.

"I'm going to get you cleaned up." I unbuckle and reach into the back seat for the emergency kit I keep stocked. Handing her a bottle of water, I take out the antiseptic wipes. "Then we're going to talk about what just happened."

She nods, still watching me quietly.

I frown. I much prefer her sassy replies to this docile acceptance. I open the wipes and lean across the console toward her neck. "Look at me, Duchess."

She turns toward me fully. "Why do you call me 'duchess'?"

"Because 'princess' is too obvious." I keep my movements deliberately slow, predictable, telegraphing every inch so she doesn't think I'm lunging at her as I'm wiping the blood from her skin. "You've got the pedigree, the security detail, and the attitude, but you don't strike me as someone who's waiting for a prince."

Her eyes hold mine. "And a duchess doesn't?"

"No." I take her chin in my hand. "A duchess runs her own fucking kingdom."

Her skin is pale as milk under the cabin's ambient glow, flawless except for the violent, arterial splatter running from the curve of her jawline down into the hollow of her throat. Holding her jaw lightly with my left thumb and index finger, I pull another wipe and swipe down to the neckline of her dress.

Her pulse is hammering against my fingertips, but I can see her working to keep her breathing under rigid control. I’m reassured by the heat radiating off her chest. Beneath the abrasive smell of the antiseptic, that intoxicating scent of hers hits me again—warm skin and night-blooming flowers, lush and dark and just a little daring.

I wipe down her throat, her clavicle, and the exposed upper slope of her breasts. Clean skin—unblemished, silk-smooth perfection.

"You're good," I say, dropping the crimson-stained wipe into a disposal bag. My voice sounds a fraction rougher than it did thirty seconds ago. I force myself to let go of her jaw, though the ghost of her heat lingers on my fingertips like a burn. "But your dress isn't. Silk drinks blood like a sponge. In twenty minutes, it's going to dry stiff, crack, and start smelling like an abattoir. It has to come off."

Clara looks down at the ruined front of her designer gown, then back up at me, her green eyes narrowing with a flash of dry, aristocratic wit that knocks the wind right out of me. "I didn't exactly plan for a change of clothing."

"Good thing you have me." I reach behind in the back seat, going through the duffel until I find the sweatshirt I see in there. I hand it to her. "Here."

That seems to snap her out of any residual shock. She slowly takes it, frowning at it before looking at me. "You want me to change. Here?"

"Yes." Good—her eyes are clearer. I reach in the back to grab a fresh shirt for myself. This isn't my first rodeo.

"You drag me out of a gala at gunpoint, murder my traitorous security guard in an alley, abduct me into the mountains, and now you're asking me to undress in the front seat of your truck." A faint, wry smirk touches the corner of her lips. "Your bedside manner could use some refinement, Reyes."

I grin. Can't help it. "I'm an enforcer, sweetheart, not a concierge. Put the sweatshirt on."

Her cheeks turn red. "And if I prefer the blood?"

"Then you can sit there and marinate in forensic evidence while I drive." I reach for my door handle. "I'm stepping out for two minutes to make sure we weren't followed. Make it fast."

"Thirty seconds?" she teases.

She fucking teases me, after everything tonight, even given who I am. "Think you can get undressed that fast, Duchess?"

"Sure. I think I can manage that in thirty seconds."

My hand stills on the door handle. Mistake. Spectacular fucking mistake, because now I'm picturing it.

Black silk sliding down creamy skin. Those long legs. Red hair loose around her shoulders. Emeralds and nothing else.

My body reacts with the enthusiasm of a man who's forgotten he left a dead body behind less than twenty minutes ago and has potentially kicked off a war.

Jesus Christ.

I get out of the SUV. Fast. Cold mountain air hits my face, but it's not nearly cold enough to shock my cock back into behaving.

I hear the sound of a zipper from inside the truck.