My heart’s pounding hard in my chest. “What do you want?” I ask.
“What you so willingly give in that video. I won’t let you make a fool of me in front of my friends,” the rude guy from the bar says.
He grabs my arm and wrenches me away from the car. I kick out at him, catching him in the shin.
He merely laughs. “You like it rough?” he asks, going directly for my skirt and yanking it down over my hips.
Oh hell no. I reach back to punch him like the Ferro brothers taught me when I was younger, but before I can throw down, he’s on the ground, being beaten by none other than Hot Guy, and he’s not letting up.
I scream for him to stop. He doesn’t listen. It’s like he’s on autopilot and won’t give up until the guy on the floor isn’t just bruised and battered but dead. I can’t let that happen.
“Stop!” I yell again, and since I can’t grab his arm without getting hit or jabbed by his elbow myself, I jump onto his back. My only focus is to stop him from killing the asshole who attacked me. “Enough!” I yell in his ear, my ribs taking the brunt of each punch as he draws his arm back over and over.
My screams finally seem to penetrate, and he stops beating the crap out of the other man. I slide off his back and plop down onto the hard ground beside him. He’s breathing heavily and so am I.
He flexes his bruised fingers. A glance at the other guy tells me he’s beaten to a pulp and out cold.
Suddenly I’m shivering as I realize I’m nearly naked in the parking lot and alone with a man capable of violence. I glance at the prone, bloody body and gag before turning away.
“Don’t look,” he says in a gruff voice.
“I won’t.”
He rises and strides over to me and holds out a hand, offering to pull me to my feet.
“I need to fix myself first.” I want to yank up my skirt, and I don’t need him watching me.
“Go ahead.” A slight grin tips the edges of his mouth, and his gaze never leaves mine.
“A gentleman would turn around.”
“A gentleman wouldn’t pound your attacker into the ground.”
I didn’t like the reminder. I wait, giving him a pointed glare.
Finally, he huffs out a laugh and pivots around. I rise and fix my skirt, adjusting myself until I’m comfortable. Then I spin back to face him.
“We need to get the hell out of here.” He jerks his head toward the now-moaning man on the ground.
“I think I should call 911.”
He shakes his head. “Not on your life. Let’s go.” He grabs my hand.
Electricity sizzles up my arm, zaps my brain, and settles into strategic body parts no man has reached before. “We can’t leave him here.”
“Unless you want me going to jail for defending you, you’ll put your sweet ass in my car.”
I frown at him. “I can drive myself home.”
“I take it you didn’t notice he also slashed your tires?”
“What?” I suck in a shallow breath, a combination of anger and disbelief shooting through me. I stalk to my car in the dark corner and bend down near the tires. Now I notice the flats.
“Seriously?” That asshole. I perch my hands on my hips. “How did he know which car was mine?”
A sexy smirk lifts Hot Guy’s mouth. I really wish I didn’t notice, but even with little lighting, how can I not?
“You’re the only one in that bar who reeks of money. Even in that waitress outfit, it’s obvious you have class.”
I find myself oddly flattered. I hear my parents telling me that I’m too stupid because I trust too easily. And this guy’s proven he’s dangerous. But he was dangerous on my behalf…
Still. I shore up my defenses.
“Come on. Get your sweet ass into my truck,” he says. Another order. “I’ll take you somewhere safe.”
With no choice, I nod. “Fine. I’m safe in my dorm room.” Except I remember my roommate won’t open the door and let me in. I also don’t want Hot Guy to know where I live. Safety first, after all. I mentally roll my eyes considering I’m already in over my head.
I chew on my lower lip. “You can just drop me off outside my friend’s place,” I say, changing my mind.
He lets out a frustrated groan. “We can debate this on the road. But I’m not just dropping you anywhere. I’ll make sure you get inside safely.” He prods me toward the other side of the lot, settling his hand on my lower back.
Forget zaps. Laser points of heat settle between my thighs. I really thought I was past responding to any man. But Hot Guy isn’t just any man.
“Before I get into that truck with you, I need to know your name.”
He shot me an exasperated look. “Zach.”
“Do you have a last name, Zach?” I annoy him with my question. It might have been on purpose, but I really do need his name. Of course, since I can’t tell anyone else his name, I might be taking it to my grave. But I don’t think so.
Yes, I am going with the instincts that made me a porn star.
“Anders,” he grits out. Then, before I know what’s happening, he lifts me up and carries me the rest of the way to his truck.
“Hey!” I slam my fists against his back, but he’s strong, and it doesn’t faze him.
“I’ll beat a man up for you, but I’m not going to prison because you want to talk my ear off.” He leans over, pulls the seat belt, and snaps it in place.
He smells delicious, like musky, sexy man, and I do my best not to sigh in approval.
He puts the key in and turns the ignition. The truck roars to life, and he starts out of the parking lot. I immediately give him the address to Robin’s apartment. Then I take out my phone and dial.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling 911.”
He slaps a hand to his head, grumbling something I miss. I anonymously report the beaten-up man in the parking lot and disconnect the call.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“Yes. At least he’ll get medical help.” I glance out the window, too aware of the man’s large presence in the front cab of the truck.
“She’d have to be an angel,” he mutters. He grips the wheel harder, winces, and eases up.
“Does it hurt?” I ask softly, knowing his hands must be sore. He defended me, and I haven’t thanked him.
“I can handle it.”
I want to help. “Do you happen to have a first-aid kit in here?” I open the glove compartment and am surprised when I find one. I pull out some antibiotic cream and gauze.
He ignores me.
A few minutes later, he pulls up to Robin’s address and parks the truck. I know he intends to walk me to the door, so I reach for him first. “Let me see.”
His hand is so much bigger than mine, long fingers, calloused from work, and he’s warm to the touch. I turn his palm down and run my hand over his bruised knuckles.
He sucks in a breath. Shudders as if he’s affected by the contact. And suddenly I’m hot too.
“You didn’t have to go that far with him,” I say, speaking of the beating he gave the other man. I lift Zach’s hand and blow gently on the battered skin, hoping to remove any dirt before I dab some cream onto a gauze pad.
“He shouldn’t have touched you,” he says in that tough voice.
“Why do you care?” I swallow my fear and ask the question that’s been lingering on my mind for weeks. “Why do you watch me but never sit at my station? Never talk to me?” Until tonight.
He hesitates. “Conflicting desires,” he finally says, the words a puzzle.
I look up, confused. I expect to see his green gaze on me, but he’s staring out the window into the dark night. I wonder what he means, what tears him up inside, but I don’t ask. It seems too personal, and if he wants me to know what he’s thinking or feeling, he’ll say.
I take in his strong profile, noting that even when he’s scowling, which is most of the time, he’s handsome, in a gruff, take-no-prisoners kind of way.
I blink, surprised at his sudden admission. Embarrassed and pleased at the same time.
“I don’t like that dark parking lot. I kept an eye out until I knew you were safely in your car.”
Oh. My. Stalkerish or sweet? Maybe a little of both. I’m intrigued by him. I force my attention back to his hands and gently wipe the antibiotic cream onto his knuckles. Taking care of his injuries is the least I can do to repay him for saving me.
I lean down and blow on his hand again. His big body trembles, and I suppress a grin. I like knowing I can affect him too.
Finished with my lame attempt at first aid, I crumple the gauze in my hand.
“Just leave it. I’ll throw it out later.”
I manage a nod and get ready to leave. “I can wave from the doorway.” I gesture to the walk-up building where my friend lives. I’d texted her earlier to let her know I’d be coming. Too late, I realize I left my bag for the morning in my car. Nothing I can do about it now.
“Nope. Inside safe. That’s what I said, remember?” Before I can blink, he’s out the door and walks around to my side of the truck.
I push the door open, slide out, and allow him to walk me up the steps. He props an arm against the glass pane beside the doorway and stares at me with serious eyes.
“Thanks for the ride. And for the save.” I glance down because I sound like an idiot, but what do you say to the guy who— I don’t want to remember what he did to the jerk who accosted me. I’d rather just consider him my hero without thinking about the gory details. Or his intense reaction to my being attacked. Or the fact that he’d been watching out for me.
He tucks a finger beneath my chin and forces my gaze to his. “You okay?” he asks, his voice like sandpaper, gravelly as it scrapes over me, bringing a distinct sexual awareness with it.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“I’m glad. Now, think I can get your name?” he asks, those sexy lips tilting upward.
I grin. I can’t believe I demanded his and never gave mine in return. “Chloe,” I say as I ring the buzzer to Robin’s apartment.
He nods. “Pretty name.”
My skin prickles with awareness. He leans in close, his lips inches from mine. “Get inside safe, Chloe.” His breath tickles my lips, teasing me with his delicious scent. I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. Against all common sense or reason, I want him to.
The buzzer sounds to let me in before he gets the chance. He straightens and pulls open the door before I lose the opportunity to get inside. “Sleep tight, Princess.”
I shiver and step into the hallway. He walks away, and I watch until he’s at his car. Even his swagger is a turn-on. One thing I know, sleep is the last thing I’ll be able to do.
Chapter Two
I wake up on my friend’s couch the next morning. Robin has already left for work. It’s Saturday, and I don’t have classes, but I do have to study. And get my tires fixed. I have two choices. I can call AAA or BMW Roadside Assistance, but then my parents will find out since I’ll need a credit card and they’ll see the bill.
Or I can ask Sean to help me.
I choose Sean. He won’t tell my parents, and he’ll lend me the money for the tires and repair. I call. He’s curt and sounds busy, but he doesn’t rush me off the phone. I quickly explain my situation, omitting the part about being attacked in the lot.
“I’m sorry to bother you but—”
“Just text me the address where you left the car. I’ll have it handled, and the car will be returned to you good as new.”
“Thanks, Sean. You’re a good guy,” I tell him because he needs to hear it.
“You know better than that.” His answer is predictable. And wrong.
He has more important things to deal with than an old friend with car problems, yet he agrees to help. And he refuses to discuss money and my paying him back. That’s my definition of a good guy. At the very least, he’s good to me. I hope Avery is worthy of him. He needs someone who cares in his life.
“You need a ride home? A car in the meantime?” he asks.
“Nope. I made other arrangements,” I fib because I don’t want to put him out any more than I already have. “Thanks again.” I hang up before he can ask me specific questions about how I plan on getting to and from work, dorm, and classes. This is my chance to learn how to handle the bus and the subway.
From here, it’s a fifteen-block walk to the dorm, and I exit the brownstone. Robin left me shorts and a tank top and a pair of sneakers to wear, which I appreciate. I don’t have too many close friends. Growing up, I was isolated, thanks to my parents’ inability to see the good in anyone except people they chose for their money or connections.
I met Robin when I started at the university, and we clicked immediately. She doesn’t understand my rich people problems, as she calls them, but she gets family dysfunction, and as a result, she gets me.
I step outside and the fresh air surrounds me. After a not-so-decent night’s sleep on the sofa, I can almost believe the surreal parts of last night never happened. Until I lay eyes on Zach Anders.
He leans against the brownstone railing. The morning sun hits his hair, making the blond strands even more noticeable and his green eyes even more striking. His arms are folded over his broad chest. He’s wearing a light blue tee shirt that molds to his toned body, and I am sure if I take his right hand in mine, his knuckles will be bruised and raw.
I shake my head, accepting that everything I remember about last night really occurred. No dream, no nightmare, or combination thereof.
“Hey, Princess,” he says. “Can I give you a lift?” His gaze travels over me in blatant appraisal.
I feel his stare on my bare legs and thighs, on my tingling breasts beneath my top. Even the hair on my arms prickles and lifts in awareness.
I swallow hard. “I was planning to walk.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Now you don’t have to.” He points to his truck. In the light of day, I see it’s black and definitely fits his macho image.
“Why are you here?” I ask, remaining two steps above him, safe from his magnetic pull. For now.
“Because I left you stranded here and figured you’d need a ride.”
I blow out a breath and start down the steps, walking past him. “I’m good, but thanks.”
He walks with me, matching his long stride to mine. “Where are you off to?”
“I’m going back to my dorm.”
He clears his throat. “How old are you, anyway? Say you’re legal or I might have to throw myself in front of a taxi.”
I roll my eyes at his dramatics. “Twenty-two.”
He grins. “Perfect. Want to get breakfast?”
He’s in a good mood this morning, no signs of last night’s trauma lingering for him. I, on the other hand, had flashbacks all night.
“Why?” I ask, stopping on the sidewalk.
His eyes crinkle in amusement. “Because I’m hungry.”
“No, why are you here wanting to spend time with me?”
“Is it so hard to believe I’m interested in you?” he asks.
When those words come from his perfect mouth, I realize there’s no way to answer without insulting myself. I do it anyway. “Yes, it is.”
He frowns. A seriously angry expression on that handsome face. “Who gave you the idea you don’t make one hell of an impression?” he asks, clasping my hand in his.
I don’t have any intention of answering that. “Who gave you the idea you’re so irresistible I’m going to say yes?” I pointedly stare at our intertwined fingers. His large, tanned hand holds my smaller, paler one. I can’t tear my gaze away from the contrast or how protected he makes me feel.
It’s weird and inexplicable. I worry I can’t trust my instincts anymore, but I really like him, and I don’t want to say no.
“Come on. It’s just a meal. I haven’t eaten yet this morning. How about you?”
My traitorous stomac
h chooses that moment to grumble loudly.
He laughs and I blush.
“Guess that answers that. Come on. I want pancakes.”
I sputter and find myself walking along with him. Of course my hand is still in his warmer one, and I like the sensation. Uh oh. What happened to swearing off guys? And this is no guy. He’s a man. All man.
But he doesn’t know about the sex tape or he’d be leering at me the way the rest of them do. And he seems genuinely interested in me. And sweet, if you don’t count last night’s incident. And even that was nice in a protective kind of way.
“So how much more of school do you have left?” he asks.
“Just this last semester.”
“What’s your major?”
“Business,” I say. “But that’s not my life plan.”
“No? What is?” He sounds genuinely interested.
I smile. “I have a minor in culinary arts.” This I slipped past my parents. To be a sous chef, I need courses in nutrition, food safety and sanitation, and supervisory management. Add in the business classes there and I’m golden. “I want to be a chef.” Saying the words out loud makes my goals that much more real to me.
“Really? Sounds great,” he says.
He seems interested, so I continue. “When I graduate, I need to find full-time work for an accredited supervising chef, and that’s no easy task. There’s one in the tri-state area, at The Westchester Country Club. It’s insanely exclusive, and they’re not currently looking.”
He chokes, and I pause, waiting for him to catch his breath. “Are you okay?”
He takes a long sip of water and nods. “I’m fine. Go on.”
“Well, even if they were looking for an apprentice for their chef, I can’t see why they’d hire me over someone who’s already had experience in big kitchens.
“You never know.” He glances at me, warmth in his gaze. I want to think I see approval too, and my body heats up in the best kind of way. “Things turn up when you least expect it.”
I shrug. “I hope so. Either way, I’ll keep working my way up. I plan to get certified.”
He nods in understanding. “So you’re majoring in business because…”
I glance away. Admitting the truth minimizes my desires and shows I’m still too young. I raise my chin a notch. “My parents wouldn’t pay for culinary school, which would have sped up the process and enabled me to find the right jobs more easily. I figure if I want to own my own restaurant one day, I need the background.”
The Arrangement: The Seduction (Kindle Worlds Novella) Page 2