Flawed ~ Kim Karr

by Kim Karr

  “Belonging has many meanings. If you find the right person, you won’t feel the way you do now. Trust me.”

  That I don’t believe.

  However, she was right about the dress and necklace.

  I giggle a little just thinking about it, and the look of pride on my gorgeous mother’s face when I twirled around.

  My hands glide down the smooth fabric as I walk.

  Soft and luxurious.

  I touch the necklace. No matter how much it’s worth, it’s priceless to my mother. She’d never give it up. And because of that, I never would either.

  Beaming with pride, I keep walking.

  When I get a little too close to the cliff for my liking, I stop. With at least a three-hundred-foot drop below me, I enjoy the moonlit ocean view from a safe distance.

  I can hear the waves crashing against the rocks and the tide going in and out. The mesmerizing sound draws me closer, closer than I should dare step, but I’m not afraid.

  Staring down below, I can’t help but think about how this night is going to change my life—just like the night of the masked ball changed Cinderella’s.

  I’m standing not too far from the edge of the cliff when I hear the quiet thunder of someone running in my direction. The pace slows as the sound nears the drop-off, nears me.

  Annoyed at the lack of congeniality Mr. Cruz’s staff seems to be showing me, I whirl around on my heels to address them face-to-face but lose my footing in the process.

  My heart leaps in my throat at the danger I’m in, and at the same time, hot lava melts in my lower belly when I take in the shape of my hero.

  Strong muscular arms are grasping me tight, saving me from what very well could have been a fatal fall.

  A fall this stranger nearly caused, I remind myself.

  He’s no hero, I tell myself.

  Look away, I warn myself.

  I open my mouth to lash out . . . but the words fall to the ground when I meet his strong, bottomless emerald gaze, and I’m stunned into silence.

  Is this my Prince Charming?

  Chapter 2

  Beating Heart

  Gemma

  A TONED MALE body with a firm chest and six-pack abs is holding me in place; sending white-hot shivers down my spine.

  It takes me a minute to come to my senses and find my voice. “What the hell are you doing sneaking around here like that?” I finally snap. “You could have killed me!”

  Narrowing his gaze, his lips twist in the unfriendliest way. “You shouldn’t have been that close to the edge to begin with. It’s dangerous. And for the record, I saved your life.”

  Scoffing, I glare at him. Somehow, I find myself occupied by his full lips, which aren’t far from my face, and his warm breath, which brushes across my cheeks. Both of which seem to be causing my pulse to beat everywhere—my eyelids, my throat, and even between my toes.

  He’s the dangerous thing.

  Taking a small step back, I release his hold on me and at the same time, put some much-needed space between us. When I do, his electric gaze flashes—beware.

  Quickly peeking behind me, I assess my situation. Like this, my back is against nothing but empty space and air. The cliff is so close to my high heels—just one push could send me tumbling over the edge and crashing onto the rocks.

  This is a dangerous thing.

  Electing to occupy the space of his big, tall body, I step forward and look up to meet his chiseled features. “Thank you, then, I suppose,” I offer tersely, not entirely sure if he’s right or if I am, but for once, not really caring.

  Annoyance shines in his face and his jaw tenses when he hisses through gritted teeth, “What the hell are you doing out here, anyway?” He speaks in a voice that is low, deep, and smooth, and like his eyes, the inflection flashes danger.

  “I’m waiting to get into the event. Not that it is any of your business,” I answer.

  With a quick glance over his shoulder, his body stiffens. It’s almost like he just noticed there is a bustle of activity taking place not too far from where we stand.

  When he turns back, our gazes lock once again. His eyes are a mystic shade of green. Almost the color of the Wicked Witch in the Wizard of Oz. They are bright, crystal clear, and piercing in the most alarming way. And then there’s his mouth. Although his lips are twisted into a scowl, I can see they are full and firm. There’s also his tall, lean frame. It’s unassuming and demanding at the same time.

  Damn him.

  Hard features carved from granite coupled with that explosive stare are the perfect complement to his tight black shirt and pants. If his face shouts defiance-and-trouble, then his body screams don’t-mess-with-me. “You should be up there then, not out here, alone.”

  His words ignite my irritation.

  How dare he!

  Is there no place a person is allowed to be on this estate? It’s rather ridiculous if you ask me. I’ve honestly had enough of all this.

  His glare is fierce.

  Forced to speak, I say, “I know, I know.” I can’t contain my eye roll as I continue. “I shouldn’t have left the confines of my car. The area hasn’t been cleared yet. But really, I’m nowhere near the art or the tent, so what does it matter? And besides, I’ve gone through hoops just to be where I am right now,” I tell him saucily, crossing my arms to make my point. “So I’m not moving.”

  I’m so done being bullied.

  Those broad shoulders appear to go even wider when he closes the remaining few precious inches between us. “Who are you?” he snaps.

  My heart gallops in my chest. I might have pushed things a little too far. I don’t want to get kicked out before the party even starts. I open my mouth to speak, to tell him who I am, but he silences me with the flare of nostrils.

  This man is intimidating. “It doesn’t matter who you are,” he barks. “You still shouldn’t be out here alone.”

  “Why?” I find myself adding fuel to the fire when I know better, but I just can’t help myself. “Because I’m a woman?”

  He cocks his head to the side, saying nothing.

  The silence he gives me means yes, of course, that’s why. Absofuckinglutely because I’m a woman.

  After rolling my eyes once again, I drag them up his fit torso and then back down. Sure, he looks similar to the other security guards—dressed in black from head-to-toe—but there’s something different about him. He isn’t big and bulky like them. Sure, I can see the definition of the lines of his muscles through his tight t-shirt, but he’s leaner than the other six men. Hard, long, and lean. Not a muscle head or beefcake.

  I find myself licking my lips.

  There’s something else that’s different about him, as well, I just can’t put my finger on it. A sudden pang of fear whispers up my spine. “You do work for Mr. Cruz, don’t you?” I ask.

  If he moves any closer to me, he’ll be pressing his hard, muscular chest against mine.

  Intimidating me again isn’t going to work. This time I raise a brow. “Well?”

  He raises one back, as if asking a question, especially that question, isn’t permitted.

  Okay, so yes, he outshines me in the intimidation department, hands down. The tension in his entire body is so intense, it’s nearly palpable.

  Well fine, since he, like everyone else, wants me to wait in my car until Mr. Cruz gives the green light, I can only assume he does work here, which means he can’t be that much different from the others.

  On second thought, at least he’s speaking to me. The others merely pointed their silent order to remain in my car with their fingers, and only after I’d been cleared through the gate because I insisted on witnessing the transfer of the art. It is my job after all.

  The man before me grunts, and the sound is insanely sexy, breathtakingly so. It’s a grating whisper against my bare skin. I shake the feeling off. I’m delusional after all the soda.

  “Fine,” I say in a huff. “I’ll go back to my car.”

  He s
teps aside, and I step forward.

  We’re shoulder to shoulder.

  So close, so dangerously close.

  I take another step, and another, one more and then I turn back. He’s already turned around and watching me. It’s in that one moment that our eyes lock, that I realize he isn’t wearing an earpiece. I notice this because his hair is shaven close to his head, showing off his high cheekbones and steely gaze.

  The glow of the moon is hitting his eyes just so, and they look silver—beautiful, striking, and dangerous all at once. “Hey,” I say, “why are you here?”

  The way his stare slides over me hungrily pierces me to my very depths. Butterflies swarm in my belly as if wanting to take flight. With my pulse throbbing out of control, I don’t care that he doesn’t respond.

  He’s dangerous.

  I know I should keep walking. He’s ordered me to leave and I should for my own safety, yet I’m frozen in place, and so is he. It’s like an invisible rope is holding us both in place.

  As he opens his mouth to speak, his cell phone rings and the magical spell binding us together is broken. The trance lost. The moment gone.

  He quickly answers it. “Fucking get me out of here, like fucking now.”

  Out of here?

  Is there an evacuation taking place?

  Alarmed, I look ahead, but see nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Yes, fucking do it!” His voice is a hybrid of elongated California vowels with a smattering of good old-fashion profanity—a lilt punctuated by f-bombs. It’s a delicious combination that solidifies the sexy-rebel vibe I’ve already gotten from him. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and resumes his stare. My breath hitches at the pure raw sight of him.

  “Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?” I raise both of my brows in question, not in the least bit worried that this man is dangerous because I already know he is.

  I also know he isn’t going to hurt me.

  He presses back a smile as he strides toward me. Standing only inches from me, his eyes shift to my neck, and for a moment I assume he’s going to snatch my necklace. But only for a moment because then I notice he’s looking at it in more of a curious way and not an I-must-have-it-now kind of way.

  Again, I’m not scared, but I probably should be. Primarily because of the way this man’s tight body breathes sin and oozes sex.

  He’s dangerous.

  When he extends his hand, and his fingers outline the heart shape, my entire body quakes. “Beautiful,” he whispers.

  “I think he went this way,” I hear a voice shout in the distance.

  The eyes of the man in front of me flash toward the sound, and so do mine. When I snap my head back, he’s already running, but where? There are only a few remaining feet before—

  I gasp in shock as I watch him leap forward and jump.

  Jump.

  Over.

  The.

  Edge.

  He jumped over the edge.

  Oh my God!

  Chapter 3

  I Still Think About You

  Gemma

  DISBELIEF WASHES THROUGH me from head to toe.

  As I run in his direction with my heart in my throat, I consider screaming for security to help him, but I know they won’t. They’re hunting him. They want to hurt him. Maybe even kill him.

  He is dangerous.

  A myriad of voices yell from a distance. “The intruder went this way, hurry, over here, that way.”

  Their tones are sharp, harsh, cold.

  Panic explodes in my veins. I’m just about to switch direction when I see his fingers grasping the ledge, holding onto it for dear life. The voices grow louder; I can’t help him. Not physically anyway. The only thing I can do is to start running away from him instead of toward him.

  Lead them away.

  Maybe I can cause a distraction.

  What am I thinking?

  I should notify security that I know exactly where he is.

  I don’t.

  I can’t.

  Within moments, the six-man security team surrounds me. Even quicker all guns are pointed right at me. “Freeze!”

  Feeling uneasy and very unsafe, I slowly raise my hands. My heart pounds wildly in my chest with fear.

  The man hanging from the cliff might be dangerous, but something tells me these men are even more so. “I’m not a threat. I’m from the museum,” I tell them. “Remember?”

  They stare at me without an ounce of recognition.

  “I was the woman in the car. You all saw me there not even thirty minutes ago.”

  They’re like robots set upon a task. I could be their sister, and they’d still be doing what they’ve been told to do.

  I step forward, and they put pressure on the triggers of their weapons. Nervousness overtakes me in a single bound. They could kill me right here.

  I clench and unclench my fists, blood whooshing in my ears like a roar. This is not the way I saw the evening going. I open my mouth to try to convince them I am who I say I am, but I’m cut off.

  “Lower your weapons,” a thick Spanish accent directs in the harshest of tones, and just like that they do.

  I jerk my head around.

  The man walking my way is tall, but not as tall as the man who just slipped away. He’s lean, but more in a thin way. A runner perhaps. He too is good looking—handsome, actually. His hair is an inky jet black and perfectly styled to look messy. He is clean-shaven, broad-shouldered, and wearing a very expensive suit. Custom-made is my guess.

  Distinguished.

  Wealthy.

  A tycoon.

  A king.

  His walk oozes confidence and control. It’s in the way he strides, the way he speaks, and the way he commands attention.

  All you have to do is look at him to know he’s a man of distinguishment, of great wealth.

  It’s crazy how the closer he gets, the more still the air becomes. Everyone is afraid to move in his presence, including myself.

  He stops before me and smiles. His dark eyes appraise me like I’m a piece of art. He’s a wolf. A lion. A predator of the most vicious nature.

  It’s unnerving, and I cross my arms over my chest as a way to protect myself, to shield myself from becoming his prey.

  “Gemma Hart,” he finally says, almost tsking it.

  “How, how . . . do you know my name?” I sputter to the Latin man before me.

  A strange kind of amusement dances across his lips. “I make it my business to know the face and name of every single person who sets foot on my property.”

  I swallow, a strange, uneasy feeling coursing through me. He’s not a king—he’s something darker—he’s a tyrant, a regent, a baron.

  He averts his eyes and raises his hand. The large blue stone in his ring sparkles in the moonlight as he circles his finger. Then, just like that, at his silent command, the security team scatters. “Oh, and Smith,” he calls.

  “Yes sir,” answers someone who is already a fair distance from us.

  The man before me cocks his head to the side. “Cancel the event and find the perpetrator, now.”

  Anger and frustration rip through me. I want to shout, “No, your perpetrator is right here! Don’t cancel,” but then I steal a sideways glance and silence myself.

  From where I stand, I can see long fingers clinging to the rocks, clinging to life. My heart gallops out of my chest.

  Perhaps he’s good.

  Perhaps he’s not.

  Since I can’t be certain, I find myself saying nothing.

  Stupid, stupid, girl.

  I know if I reveal his location, something bad will happen to him. What? I don’t know for certain, and honestly, I don’t want to know, either.

  I quickly jerk my gaze toward the man who is without a doubt Enrique Cruz.

  I’ve researched this man. I know everything public there is to learn about him. At thirty-one, he’s only seven years older than me, but the air of sophistication his presence holds makes me feel lik
e a child.

  The man has a wife and two young children, and that also makes him seem older than he is. The idea of having a family seems so far out of my reach. That entails love and a stable relationship, neither of which I have time for. I have a career to build. A family to help out of bankruptcy. A name to make for myself.

  Mr. Cruz stares at me for a long moment, as if waiting for me to balk, to argue, to stamp my feet and have a fit.

  I know better.

  He is not a man who will stand for anything but obedience.

  Under these circumstances, I should be scared for myself, and yet, all I can think about is the other man. The one hanging on to the edge of the cliff. The one I didn’t hesitate to put in his place. The one with the bewitching eyes.

  What he’s doing here, I haven’t a clue. There was a time I thought Mr. Cruz’s security measures seemed so unnecessary. That he might be paranoid. It is even rumored that he never leaves the house without a decoy or his six-man team. Now, standing here, in this situation, I’m not so sure it isn’t necessary.

  Is he being targeted for something?

  By the man over the cliff?

  Perhaps.

  Is it warranted?

  Again, perhaps.

  He’s very wealthy and a member of The Powers of the Higher Mind, which is cult-like in its own right.

  It’s also rumored he has illegal ties to the drug cartel. However, that accusation has never been proven.

  Again, just a rumor.

  Who Mr. Cruz is and what he does is irrelevant right now. What matters most to me at this moment is that I draw him away from the man he is looking for—and I don’t know why.

  I shouldn’t.

  It will cost me this night and the upward movement I hoped to gain from it. I should stop all of this right now and tell him where the perpetrator is.

  Yet, I don’t. Instead, I start walking toward the tent and away from the man hanging from the cliff. I get about ten feet before a hand grasps my shoulder. “Ms. Hart, where are you going?”

  I pivot around on my toes so as to keep his back to the cliff. “To arrange for the return of the collection to the museum, Mr. Cruz.”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll take care of that.”