A Love of Vengeance (Wanted Men Book 1)

by Nancy Haviland

  “Oh!”

  Aw, poor him having to play hero, he thought as he pulled her up and in. Damn, she felt nice. Very, very, nice. The scent of her body rocked him square between the eyes, causing every muscle on his frame to whack out. He did the unthinkable.

  He tightened his hold and leaned into that gorgeous wavy hair, inhaling the luscious scent of her deep into his lungs. It was like she’d bathed in . . . fresh oranges. Fresh, juicy oranges and warm jasmine. He swallowed a moan when her statuesque frame softened slightly against him.

  “Jesus Christ,” he breathed.

  She pulled back with a sharp jerk. And winced. At her action or his? He wasn’t sure. And even though he desperately wanted to draw her back and experience more of whatever it was she’d unwillingly offered, Vincente forced himself to drop his arm to his side as she took a step back. Her chin lifted and she met his eyes and . . . pow. Right in the kisser. Like the old-school cartoon characters used to say.

  “Excuse me,” she said, her voice almost musical—a world-renowned symphony to his ears. “I’m not usually so clumsy.”

  Her eyes, although still bright, were now wary, with a hint of sadness in them that made Vincente want to chase away her ghosts. And how fucking laughable was that?

  “I was just . . . startled . . .” She pulled her wrap tighter around her shoulders in a quick movement that made her flinch again. Was that the edges of a bruise he’d seen on her silky-looking skin?

  His brows slammed down both at the thought of her being hurt and because she might as well have finished that with “because you’re so disturbing to look at.”

  “No worries. Be more careful.” His clipped order turned into an unmistakable dismissal when he spun on his heel and walked away.

  He ploughed his way back through the revolving doors of the hotel, narrowly missing a tiny Asian couple who jumped away like he was God-fucking-zilla come to life. And what the fuck? Why was he so pissed? Snap out of it, Romani. Who gives a rat’s ass that you spooked some earth angel the same way you do everyone else? Consider it a plus. Last thing you need right now is a distraction that comes in a package like that one.

  True.

  Glaring like a demon at anyone who dared meet his eye—instead of ducking his head and hiding like he infuriatingly felt like doing—he stalked toward the back of the hotel, wiping his mind along the way. He saw a suit cradling a glass that held a dark liquid and ice and suddenly had the urge to join Alek on his trip to Wastedville.

  It wasn’t until Vincente was nearly out of the lobby that he became aware of heels clicking behind him. Not just the random wanderings of the gawking female guests, but the steady tapping of a determined step.

  She couldn’t be following him.

  Slowing his pace, he took his time passing the entrance to the busy dining room, the tantalizing aroma of fresh seafood and perfectly cooked steak wafting up his nose, making his stomach growl. He hung a right and traveled down the conveniently empty hallway.

  The clicking heels followed.

  Pushing open the door that led to an expansive area of meeting room doors, evenly spaced in a semicircle around where he now stood, Vincente planted his feet and turned, propping open the heavy glass as if he were dressed in uniform.

  “Didn’t get your fill the first time?”

  Her perfect brows, a few shades darker than that hair, came together in a frown as, yup, his dazzling redhead stalled a few feet away. Was this pinup for real? he wondered dazedly. She looked past him and he knew she had to be cursing in that beautiful head of hers because she couldn’t get by without going through him.

  “Was there something you wanted, Red?”

  Her green eyes flared. At his question? Or the nickname? He didn’t know or care. Was too busy enjoying the fact that he could so clearly see her changing emotions in those glittering pools. Outside she’d been afraid, and then a second ago wary, then suspicious, and now she was getting . . . angry?

  “Not from you,” she said frostily. “Excuse me, I need to get by.”

  Not from him. Another stab in his chest. “Go ahead.”

  Her pretty jaw actually rolled. Like she was grinding her teeth. Vincente wanted to smile.

  “You’re in. My way.”

  Yup. Teeth were mashed together. Even as she spoke. “Where’s the fire, Red?”

  “None of your business, Black.”

  If he hadn’t been so engrossed, he’d have missed the flash in her eyes as they widened ever so slightly. It was like she’d surprised herself by talking back to him. She took a breath and let it out slowly and seemed to relax, her shoulders losing their stiffness. Her lips quirked then, and Vincente didn’t think he’d ever been so fascinated by a mere woman.

  “You should learn some manners,” Pinup then floored him by saying, clearly getting her groove on, seemingly unaffected by him now. The spook that had been in her expression out front was long gone. Now there was only irritation and something that looked strangely like enjoyment. “Then again,” she continued, “maybe you think, looking as you do, that you’re entitled to play the role of bully. Which you do very well, by the way. I’m guessing you’re not called on it much, huh?” Her chin tilted, and even though she had to look up to hold his eyes, it seemed she was looking down that perfectly straight nose at him.

  Do not let your jaw fall, his pride ordered. And for fuck’s sake, squint your eyes or something before they roll out of your goddamned head.

  “What’s your name?” Was he really going to let that verbal ass slap go without a reprimand?

  Yeah. He was.

  He relaxed against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, and nearly grinned in satisfaction when her eyes followed the movement. Nice. His own eyes zeroed in, narrowing when she licked her lips. The action left a sheen of moisture behind that he wanted to taste.

  Their gazes suddenly snapped together as if both of them had just realized they were staring, him at her mouth, her at his body.

  She shifted her attention down to his duster.

  “It’s real leather. Wanna feel?” Yeah, he could be an asshole with the best of them. So what. For whatever reason, he wanted to shake her up a little. What must her temper be like with hair that color? A gorgeous flush spread up from her slender neck to her cheeks.

  “I think I’ll pass.” Despite her visible reaction, her flat, bored voice robbed him of his moment of pleasure.

  And didn’t that asshole in him rise to the occasion like a predator after prey. “Your name.”

  She glanced around the empty hallway. “What about it?”

  His lips twitched. “You didn’t tell me what it is.”

  “No, I didn’t. Did I.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek to keep it from stretching up and broadcasting the fact that he was enjoying himself. He allowed silence to fall and just drank her in for a minute. Best way he’d found to get people to talk was to say as little as possible. Nothing like a good stretch of quiet to get the guts spilling. But she just stood there looking like she’d been sculpted by Pheidias himself, giving as good as she got. Very nice.

  “You don’t seem afraid anymore, Red,” he commented, not caring that he’d given in and spoken first. Her emerald eyes narrowed at the “Red”—bingo, touchy subject.

  And good. His curiosity hadn’t been obvious in his voice.

  Oh, he’d heard it, but he didn’t think she had.

  She scoffed and scanned the area around them again. What was she looking for?

  “Afraid of you?” she said. “Please.”

  The fun ended in that instant. Vincente’s teeth slammed together at the lie. He hated liars. With a passion. “You’re not going to try telling me it wasn’t fear that flashed in those eyes back there. Are you.”

  A flicker of something that looked oddly like alarm flew over her expression before she hid it. “I’m not?”

  Smart-ass. “No. You’re not. Because that would be bullsh
it.” His voice hardened even more. “Believe me, I recognize the expression when I see it.”

  “Well, you should. Look at you.”

  By the look on her face, she was just as taken aback by her blunt words as he was. Uh, okay. Her arm came up—graceful, maybe she’s a dancer—so she could glance at the sleek silver watch on her wrist. Was he keeping her from something? Tough shit.

  “Somewhere you need to be? Late for an appointment, maybe?”

  She shrugged, unconcerned, and he was suddenly overcome with an uncontrollable urge to smash her unflappable air to pieces. “How long have you worked this place?”

  Ugh. Shut. Up. You immature, nasty prick.

  Confusion put a miniscule wrinkle in the creamy skin of her brow. “Pardon?”

  “How long. Have you. Worked. This place?” He pushed himself off the door, the soft whoosh of it closing them together in the quiet hallway. “Do you charge hourly or a flat rate? Do you keep a permanent room upstairs or do you make your men pay for it per visit?” He reached her at that point and had to clench his fists at his sides so he didn’t give in and brush his fingers over the flawless skin of her elegant neck. Was it as soft as it appeared? “Can you cancel your next appointment so I can take you upstairs right now and make you scream?”

  Vincente watched something wild skip over her expression at that last question; those soft pink lips even parted on a quickly indrawn breath. But then anger swallowed the lot. And he got a front-row center to the temper he’d known had to be in there.

  She lit up with a blazing fury that left him unable to hide his grin. Expecting it, he easily caught the hand that flew like a bullet toward his face, turning sideways when he heard the rustle of her skirt to catch a sharp knee on the side of his thigh instead of in his junk, where she’d been quite accurately aiming. Her other hand came up as she grunted in frustration—this time with a closed fist? Shit! He almost laughed out loud. His pleasure in her actions didn’t stop him from snagging that wrist, also, and holding both in a loose but unbreakable grip.

  “You big . . . you . . . suckie-baby! What? Did I hurt your feelings when I agreed with you on how you view yourself? So you imply that I’m a prostitute? Seriously? Why? Because I’m half-decent-looking and wearing heels in the daytime? Seriously? And do you even realize what a loser you painted yourself by offering to hire me? Get your hands off me,” she demanded, almost as though only then realizing he still held her. She blinked in surprise when he immediately heeded her order but didn’t hesitate to take an unsteady step back. She didn’t get far when her back came up against the wall.

  “Am I wrong?” he asked, privately astounded at how accurate that rant had been. Pissed, actually, that she’d read him so well. “My bad. And you’re right. When I see a woman like you, strolling through the place like she owns it, which I know for a fact she doesn’t . . .” He inched closer, liking the nearly inaudible catch of her breath and the darting of her focus to his chest and then back to his face. “She’s alone . . .” He closed the remaining distance, so close now that he could see magnificent gold flecks in her eyes. Dammit. He was drowning in that fucking scent. His voice softened—and not on purpose. “Half-decent-looking? Come on, Red. You look like you were created for the specific purpose of lying under a man. And you know it.” Not a man. This man. He bent his head, still not touching, and inhaled deep. He was granite in seconds.

  The rapid rise and fall of her chest told him she wasn’t immune, and as he bent to touch his lips to her temple, something came from his mouth that failed to pass through his brain first. “I apologize.”

  Huminuh wha?

  He was still trying to figure out how that could have happened when he felt the tentative touch of her unsure fingers at his waist. His eyes slid closed, his brain sputtering. She was touching him. Voluntarily. Had to take advantage while he could. “I’m . . . I want to taste you.” Shit. His usually rough voice was wasted.

  His knees just about failed him when she slowly tilted her head up, as if giving permission but at the same time not sure if she wanted to. He came in, unable to wait until she was convinced, and softly touched his lips to hers. And the little sound she made against his mouth nearly had him devouring her whole, but he leashed himself. Last thing he wanted to do was frighten her again.

  Never.

  He dimly questioned the ferocity of that claim as his palm landed on the wall next to her head. For support? Uh, no, not at all. The other finally stole the chance and his fingertips brushed at the silky skin of her long neck. Oh, yeah, so soft. Like fine satin. Not that he’d know what fine satin felt like. But this had to be better. Without a doubt.

  When he used his thumb under her jaw to angle her head for better access, her lips parted. One stroke inside her mouth and he’d be happy. Just one.

  Vincente’s world shook on its foundation at the sweet taste of her, his body following as his tongue delved deep into the warm cavern of her mouth. He heard the creak of leather at his waist and knew she was fisting the light material of his duster. He savored the sound like he would his favorite song. And then, then, that first timid brush of her tongue over his came, and the growl that ripped from deep in his chest nearly scared him. His body immediately moved in to cover hers, pressing utter perfection into the wall, learning the softness of her breasts, the flatness of her belly, memorizing the cradle of her hips, the length of her thighs. Holy hell, she was perfect. She fit him per-fect-ly.

  He was just tilting his pelvis, shaking at the thought of grinding his aching—

  The doors opened behind him, and out streamed a crowd of chattering women. Who he immediately wanted to lay waste to. Every last fucking one of them for daring to interrupt something so mind-blowing. Shit! He tore his mouth away from what he knew had just become an addiction, but stayed right where he was, hiding her from sight. The erotic little puffs of air coming from her, every inhalation pushing her breasts into his chest, nearly had him going in again, but he didn’t. He focused instead on trying to get his own ragged breathing under control. He was panting like a pit bull from a fucking kiss.

  “Oh, God. What am I doing?”

  Her words were so faint, Vincente figured she was talking to herself, but they still made him frown. Made him feel bad. He leaned down and put his lips to the top of her bent head. “It’s okay, babe,” he murmured quietly, savoring the feel of her. “They can’t see you.”

  She drew back what little she could and looked up at him, and he nearly staggered back from the stark terror in her expression. At least he knew it wasn’t him that had caused the look this time, since she still had a deathlike grip on his jacket, making it impossible for him to put even an inch between them. Not that he would have at this point. So what was it? Why was she looking as if she expected someone to come charging down the hallway and put a bullet in her chest?

  “Hey.” His voice was gentle as he stroked his thumb across her jawline. “It’s okay.” Man, he wanted that look gone.

  She dropped her lids, shutting him out, and shook her head back and forth while she took a couple of deep breaths. “I have to go.”

  He scowled at the sensation those words caused somewhere behind his breastplate. He didn’t want her to go. He wanted to take her upstairs to his suite and . . . talk to her? Fuuuck. Find out her name. Find out what she really did for a living. He wanted to know where she lived. When he could see her again. And, yeah, of course, he wanted to fuck her into a boneless puddle.

  “I have to go,” she repeated a little louder, her fingers releasing his leather.

  And since the last of the prying eyes had just disappeared around the corner, he had no real reason to keep her there. Dammit. “Then go,” he gritted out without moving.

  Her gaze locked with his and the visible regret staring up at him just about had him asking what the hell her story was. Instead, he dropped his hand from her neck to give her a way out. “Go. Before I change my mind about letting you.”

 
Her features tightened at his bark, instantly making him want to smile through his discontent. She obviously didn’t care for taking orders. But she went. And he didn’t watch her leave him. Couldn’t, for some reason. He stayed where he was, his hand on the wall, head bowed.

  Until he heard, “Just in case you really were under the impression I was following you earlier . . . I wasn’t.”

  His head whipped to the side just as she turned away, but he caught a mischievous little glint in her eye. She passed through the door he’d been holding open earlier and moved with that feline grace across the large empty area.

  Vincente’s stomach cramped like someone had hooked his abs up to a set of jumper cables as he watched his redhead pull open the very door he’d been heading to himself.

  CHAPTER 20

  Two servers entered the meeting room with loaded trays, signifying everyone to take their seats once more. Gabriel was just shaking out his napkin when Vincente snapped in Russian, “Look somewhere else.”

  He glanced up from placing the fabric across his lap to see Maksim’s heated eyes locked on Nika as if she were sitting there naked. Which would have taken some doing, because she was noticeably overdressed for the beautiful June day it was in that silky wrap. But then, Gabriel was feeling suspicious and might be looking for trouble where there wasn’t any. After all, Vincente was wearing his goddamn leather duster, for chrissakes.

  “What’s your problem today, Pops?”

  Gabriel frowned as Vicente turned to Maks. The fact that he still wasn’t reverting to English—presumably so the girls wouldn’t know what he was saying, Paynne either—had Gabriel listening intently.

  “You stay the fuck off that girl. She has enough to deal with without adding your tired dick to the pile.” V’s Russian was as fluent as Maks’s.