Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
For a moment, I freeze as I take in the copper glow of his hair that is reflected in the beard trimmed close to his chiseled features. Dressed in a T-shirt and Bermuda shorts, the power of his physique is undeniable. The clothes don’t hide the broad expanse of his chest or the strength of his muscles as he cuts across the sand.
Keeping one eye on him and the other on Eden, I reach under the counter for the gun I’ve taped there. My hand doesn’t shake as I curl a forefinger around the trigger. I diligently practice at the shooting range.
Our gazes lock as his muscular legs eat up the distance. His hair is longer now, pulled back into a man bun. The rusty color of his eyes is a deep hue of bourbon. I’ve always found his eyes his most beautiful feature, not for the rare color but for how mesmerizingly expressive they are.
They crinkle in the corners as he stops in front of the counter. “Hello, Christina.”
The baritone timbre of his voice washes over me. The sound alone does something to my belly. My stomach heats like when I’ve swallowed a mouthful of whiskey. Tingles run down my arms.
“Hello, Roman.”
His regard is wide open. He says nothing yet everything as he looks at me and lets me see. My pulse speeds up. He’s not here to kill me. If he were, his mask would’ve been in place.
“You can put away the gun,” he says, confirming my thought. “I’m not here for that.”
I slide the gun onto the shelf under the counter where it’s within my reach. “Then why are you here?”
He glances over my head at the cocktail menu on the blackboard, but his expression is troubled. He’s studying the menu like a man who’s not interested in a drink.
Giving up on reading, he asks, “What are you making?”
I rest my elbows on the counter. “Piña colada.”
He slides onto a barstool, mimicking my pose by putting his elbows so close to mine we’re almost touching. “That sounds good.”
I watch him as I take another glass and pour the liquor into a shaker, purposefully creating distance between us. “How did you find me?”
“I always knew where you were,” he says in a soft tone.
I nod, accepting the fact like it’s written in stone. Roman Malan has means and power. Nothing is out of his reach. “In that case, why did you come if not to kill me?”
“To say thank you.”
Adding the juice and coconut milk, I give the shaker a few twirls before pouring the liquid into the blender. For a few seconds, the noise of the motor cuts off our conversation. I use the time to get a hold of myself. After everything that’s happened, he still does things to me. He may not be here to push a gun against my head and pull the trigger, but he still makes me feel like a prey. Cornered in the confines of the bar, I have nowhere to run while he stalks me from his seat, following my movements with undivided attention. He still makes me feel vulnerable on too many levels.
When I switch off the noise, I’m still not myself. Except for making me vulnerable, he also awakens a deep ache inside of me. He’s the center of all my mysteries, the person I didn’t know I was missing. He’s the blue in my Sunday, the answer to my riddle. I can handle him, but can I handle myself?
I steal a glance at him as I pour the drinks and immediately regret it when I catch his intense gaze on my face.
Ignoring the heat that creeps over my cheeks, I ask, “What?”
He drags that intense gaze in a slow path over me. “You look different.”
“It’s my hair. It’s my natural color.”
“Not just your hair. You’re different.”
I raise a brow. “Tanned?”
He laughs. The sound is deep and husky. “Happy.”
I balance a toothpick with a slice of pineapple and a maraschino cherry on the rim of his glass. “I am. Are you?”
He considers that before replying. “I suppose I am.”
“You came a far way to say thank you.”
“It’s not something a man does over the phone.”
That’s so typical of him to have such strong yet warped values. “So, it’s okay to kill in cold blood but not okay to thank someone if not in person.”
“Yeah,” he says with a grin, taking the drink I slide over the counter. “Something like that.” Raising his glass, he quotes me as he continues, “So, here I am, saying thank you in person.”
I’m curious. “What took you so long?”
“I wanted to give you time to get your life back in order.” He shrugs. “I needed to do the same. Tie up the loose ends.”
“I heard what you did to Warren. Tom told me.”
The line of his jaw hardens. “He deserved that.”