Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
And Pearl.
For fuck’s sake.
“Listen, Ms. Dove, I’m a busy man.” With a missing wife. “Can we cut to the chase?”
“How formal of you.” She smiles, a long, lingering smile. “Of course.” Leaning forward, she rests her hand on my knee. “Maybe we should go somewhere quieter and be less formal.”
I look down at her hand. My gut didn’t fail me. She thinks fucking me will get her protection? My temper flares. “You said you have information.”
“Well, less information, more a proposition.”
I bet. I remove her hand. “I’m married.”
“And?”
“And . . . I love my wife.” Wherever the fuck she is.
“I don’t want a lifetime commitment, Danny. Just”—she shrugs—“some fun.”
She wanted some fun from Brad an hour ago. She’s got fucking front, I’ll give her that. Like all the whores who came and went for years. But I’m insulted. She thinks she can talk her way into my bed and blow my mind, send me dizzy with pleasure, so much so I’ll deem her precious and valued enough to protect?
My phone dings the arrival of a message, and my heart leaps into my throat. I look down. It’s not Rose. It’s Higham replying to my message.
Elsa Dove? The FBI have connected her to the Russians. Be careful.
I swallow down the instant rage. She’s still smiling, still trying to seduce me with her eyes, her smiles, her body language. The fuck?
She’s already got her protection. And this is what they want in return.
Me.
I roll my shoulders, keeping a lid on my anger.
Then I feel something.
A presence.
My wife.
No mistake, it’s my wife. I inhale and look over my shoulder and see her at the entrance of the club.
Staring at me.
She looks fit to kill.
Could drop every man in the club with that outfit.
She has a fucking nerve.
Elsa Dove. Another woman with a nerve. Except, this one I don’t adore. Wouldn’t kill for. But, actually, want to kill.
But . . . can’t do that.
So I lick my lips, and Elsa Dove’s eyes follow the journey of my tongue from one side to the other. Then my glass to my mouth. I burn holes into her with my cold stare that I’ve no doubt is loaded with heat.
Touch me.
Her hand finds my knee again.
For approximately a second.
She yelps as Rose yanks her from her stool by her perfectly styled hair, tossing her to the floor, removing the imposter from my personal space. I keep my drink at my lips as I watch Rose sink her six-inch stiletto into Elsa’s side. Jesus. But before she dives on Elsa and starts throwing punches, I move fast and grab her around the waist, pulling her back. She’s still delicate. And if Elsa hasn’t got the message, I’ll happily reinforce it with a gun to her head.
“Get the hell off me,” Rose screams, going ballistic in my hold, trying to pry my hands from around her waist. “Danny!”
“Shut the fuck up, Rose.” I look at Elsa on the floor. She’s in a state of shock, scrambling to her feet, embarrassment rife. “Meet my wife,” I say, holding on to Rose a little tighter. “I think it’s time for you to leave, Ms. Dove, and I don’t recommend coming back.”
She frantically grabs her handbag off the bar, while Rose fights like a wild animal to get free. Elsa is understandably alarmed.
“I’m not going to be able to hold her forever,” I say, smiling sickly.
She’s gone like a shot, and I release Rose when I deem it safe, fully aware that I’m about to cop a load of her crazy. I lean back, just swerving her slap, and grab her wrist, yanking her into me, my face up in hers. I expected it, yes. Doesn’t dull the rage, though. “Don’t you ever fucking run away from me again, do you hear me?” I roar.
“Danny,” Brad says, bravely moving in, a hand on my shoulder.
“Get the fuck off me.” I release Rose, and she shoves me away, going to the bar and demanding wine. Mason looks at me. I shake my head. Not a fucking chance.
“Get me a fucking drink!” she screams.
“Calm the hell down,” I warn, trying to heed my own advice. I could fucking burst. Again. I know what she’s doing now, her behavior—it’s fear, nothing more, nothing less. She’s mad with me, I get it, but I am backed into a corner here, and I do not need her rabid temper coming at me.
“Fuck off.” Rose lowers to a stool, looking exhausted. I’m with her. “Who was that?”
“We should take this to the office.”
“Fine.” She’s up off her stool and marching through the club, arse swaying, boobs bouncing, hair swishing. Every man eyes her. God help any of them if they try their luck. God help Rose if she goads them.
She doesn’t, but she looks back at me, and her eyes . . .