by Carol Devine
"Hey, come back here!"
Pounding footsteps. A heavy weight hooked her arm. She rammed her elbow back and whirled away, gaining a few yards. The hall stretched as far as she could see, empty. Barely muted applause wrapped her in noise. Amanda screamed for help but the crowd's roar drowned out everything.
He grabbed her from behind, catching the material of her jacket between her shoulder blades. Amanda fought with all her strength and heard the rip of fabric as she twisted and kicked away from him. He swore as the jacket fell from his hands, empty. She sprinted but he grabbed her again in seconds.
Running hadn't worked so she launched herself at him, using a technique learned from a self-defense class she'd once taken.
She aimed at his eyes with clawed fingers. He ducked at the last second and grabbed her up in a massive bear hug, his thick arms wrapping her against his chest. He'd lifted her so that her entire length was flush against his. Her toes barely scraped the floor. Amanda flailed with her legs but he moved forward and pushed her spine against the wall, effectively sandwiching her between his body and hard concrete blocks.
"Stop it," he yelled.
Amanda was so incensed she barely heard him. He smelled all-man, all sweat and power, and she struggled like a wild thing caught in a trap. He held her securely, one arm angled across the back of her shoulders and head, while the other arm wrapped her hips. His knees pressed her knees, pinning them against the wall. She felt his thighs pushing hers, felt the heat of the male bulge above, and went crazy.
"Damn you!" she screamed.
"Stop fighting!" he roared, using his considerable weight to smother her against his chest. "I won't hurt you."
Amanda didn't believe him. Panicked and barely able to breathe, she worked desperately to free her hands. One wrist was pinned between his hip and hers. The other wrist he held, his fingers locked over her rocketing pulse.
"Hold still," he said close to her ear. "If you run scared, you'll hurt yourself. Calm down and I'll let you go."
Amanda's next scream strangled in her throat. His deep voice reassured her like none she'd ever heard, despite the mortification she felt at being so easily caught and pressed to the wall by his bulk. She swallowed and tried to think, halting her struggle. The pressure of his body eased and he spoke to her again in a low tone. She had to stay still in order to hear it.
"I'm going to let go of you in a minute. We'll count the last twenty seconds or so together to give you time to calm down. Once I release you, you'll be free to leave. But don't run. You've lost your shoes and this floor is slick cement."
He paused as if waiting for an answer. Amanda didn't trust him enough to oblige.
"I know you have no reason to trust me," he said as if he could read her mind. "But if you attack me or run away, I'll hold you until you do trust me. Do it now and save yourself a whole lot of trouble. Okay?"
Slowly she nodded. The motion was small because her face was wedged against his chest.
"Say something so I know you've understood me."
Amanda opened her mouth but no sound could get past the huge lump in her throat. She swallowed several times before she croaked, "I understand."
"Good." His hand squeezed her wrist as if to reassure her.
She swallowed again at the unexpected gesture. If only he wasn't so damned big. Amanda shut her eyes and fought a wave of pure panic, reminded of how bodyguards once pinned her to the floor in a similar hold when she was twelve years old. There had been gunshots then. Many shots. She remembered her terror and that mind-numbing feeling of helplessness.
He continued to talk, his voice low and deep. Sonorous.
She bit her lip and concentrated on the steady baritone, ordering herself to focus on it. Memories receded, replaced by the reality of flesh and blood, sweat and strength. Vibrations from his voice rumbled beneath her cheek.
"I'm going to begin the countdown now, from the number twenty on down," he explained. "Twenty, nineteen, eighteen ..."
The pressure of his body eased after each count. Opening her eyes, she didn't say a word, preparing herself for anything.
"Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen ..."
So far, so good. He'd kept his word. The small of her back left the wall and the hand pinned between his thigh and her hip became free. She flexed her fingers, hope and fear alternating within her. She didn't want to believe she could trust this man. When she recalled how easily he'd caught and held her, she didn't want to believe she couldn't.
"Thirteen, twelve, eleven ..."
He loosened his hold on her shoulders and let her body slide down his until her feet touched the floor. Her head was freed and she tilted it back in order to read his expression. If he looked the least bit threatening she was going to shove him with all her might and take her chances.
"Ten, nine, eight ..."
His heavy black brows were drawn together in a fierce frown. Yet his eyes were mild, a yellow-green, communicating a hint of wry humor. The humor alarmed her, for she remembered his sarcastic smile in the arena. She searched his face to see if he meant to convey consideration or mockery.
"Seven, six, five … "
His jaw was set in tight control. What that meant, she couldn't decide. Large hands circled her waist as he took a half step backward, setting her away from him. His voice resonated as he slowed the count.
"Four."
She tensed, too aware of the change in tone, of his hands, of how strong he was. He could squeeze the breath from her with one brutal motion.
"Three."
Amanda stared at his mouth, listening for clues, unable to forget the violence with which he'd wrestled, be it entertainment or not. She weighed her options, wondering what might happen if she kneed him in the groin.
"Two."
If she attacked first, he possessed the physical superiority to do just about anything. Beneath his thumbs, her stomach contracted in a sudden, obvious inhalation. Anything.
"One," he said with finality.
In the same moment, his hands left her waist. She looked up to thank him, expecting those mild eyes. But he'd changed. Those eyes were now a vivid green, their color swirling like polished malachite. Amanda froze, inner alarms clamoring, held still like a doe blinded by the headlights of an oncoming car.
His head lowered and his mouth brushed hers. The kiss held her in place like a physical shock, rooting her to the spot. She couldn't believe he'd freed her. She couldn't believe he was kissing her either. Both conclusions were so diametrically opposed she couldn't reconcile the truth of what was happening.
But she could certainly feel it.
If he'd been the least bit aggressive, she would have run. But he skimmed, light as wind. The sensation was so soft and nonthreatening, she closed her eyes, unwilling to trust her senses. That was her first mistake.
A thumb grazed her bottom lip. The wind changed direction, gathering heat and momentum. He pressed closer, framing her face with calloused warmth. She raised her hands to deflect what she couldn't understand. Her palms grazed hot skin and flexed muscle. A low moan rose in her throat. She had to part her lips to choke the sound back and he drew closer, weaving fingers in her hair. She forgot where she was as their mouths mated, until hunger existed within her, alone and strong.
"What the Sam Hill is going on here!" yelled Hardy.
Bram tore his mouth away from Amanda's and staggered back, his head shaking in disbelief. What the hell had happened? This woman parted her lips and he'd been ready and willing to take her without thought or care, in a dirty hallway littered with trash, while fifteen thousand people stood on the other side of the arena wall, screaming like banshees.
Bram braced himself and gave her the once over, all too aware of the thick pounding of his pulse. Her hair had escaped its pins. Gold tumbled around her shoulders. She gaped at him and collapsed against the wall. He'd wanted her to be surprised, even shocked. By the looks of her, she was.
"Saved by the bell," Bram rasped. "Thanks,
Hardy."
Amanda's gaze darted between the two men and realized that if the thin man hadn't shown up, she'd probably be sinking to the floor with the Beastmaster--and she wouldn't be wrestling with him either. Despite all he'd done to her, she'd allowed him to kiss her. In fact, she'd been transfixed by it, by him. Amanda drew her shaking arm across her mouth as she let the dreadful insight sober the beat of her heart and wash away any adrenaline, any thrill that may have lingered.
Thrill? Disgust was more like it. Truth was, she should be gagging. Beastmaster indeed. The man was an animal. He'd tried to humiliate her from the moment he'd laid eyes on her. Leering at her. Grabbing her. Tossing her around like she was his own personal toy. Better men had been convicted on less.
"How dare you," she said and advanced on him with narrowed eyes. "How dare you pick me up and throw me over your shoulder like a side of beef! No one has the right to violate another human being like that, do you hear me? No one!"
"You're right," said Bram, casting a significant glance at Hardy. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" Amanda challenged. He hadn't even bothered to look at her when he apologized. She stabbed the middle of his massive chest with a finger, her voice dripping contempt. "You don't know what the word means."
Bram stiffened at the insult implicit in her tone. Her eyes were impossibly violet and glittered in the harsh uneven light from above. Her color was high, streaking her pale cheekbones rosy pink, staining her lips a subtle red. Or maybe the kiss had done that. He recalled the touch of her lips beneath his, cool and smooth, and her tiny gasp of surprise when their mouths met.
He'd meant the kiss to reassure her, he thought. But as soon as he thought it, Bram discarded the rationalization for the lie it was. He'd wanted her. The memory burned, making him want her all over again, especially when he remembered her response.
She'd wanted him, too.
Bram searched her expression, rigid with righteous indignation, and didn't like what he saw. He wasn't going to overlook her part in all this. Just a few minutes ago, she'd come on to him. She ought to shoulder some responsibility for what happened, too.
"It couldn't have been too much of a violation," he said. "You kissed me, remember?"
She slapped him across the face. Bram caught her arm and held it fast, fingers wrapped around the delicate wrist. She lifted her chin a notch, defiant. Bram eyed her, knowing pride when he saw it. What she didn't have in muscle, she did have in sheer guts. So he kept his anger in check and said, "Don't ever raise your hand to me again."
"Don't ever touch me again."
Bram released her. "We're even now," he said and stepped back, palms up in a gesture of conciliation.
"Oh, no, we're not," she denied. "Before we're finished here, you're going to promise that nothing like this will ever happen again, with me or anyone else. It's insulting, demeaning and--"
"Done," he said flippantly and grinned like he knew something she didn't. Amanda stiffened. He was so sure of himself, so bull-headedly male. That he could stand there, utterly secure in his physical superiority, while she ranted and raved, infuriated her. She vowed to break his composure, just as he'd broken hers.
"Who's in charge of this production? Is it you?" she demanded of the thin man. His green suit and purple tie looked like something from a clown's closet.
"No, ma'am," Hardy denied, hands up. "I'm only the Beastmaster's manager."
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