Page 25 of Tempting the King

“Thank you,” I blubber. “You shouldn’t have run into a burning building!”

“I would run through fire and broken glass for you.” The spray of water drips into my eyes as his arms lasso me against him. “I saw that asshole that went in after me running down the hall with you nowhere in sight.”

I bury my face into his shoulder as he barrels through the metal door to the stairway, my body bouncing against him with each rushed step.

Down. Down. Down.

The sound of the alarm muffles and the water isn’t spraying in the stairwell.

I have a fleeting thought that I should have him put me down, but his face is a stone mask of focus. He keeps me cradled against him, descending all nine floors, and he’s not even out of breath.

We burst out of the main floor door into the bright sunlight, making me squint through the droplets of water clinging to my lashes.

The air smells sweeter, even without a hint of smoke inside.

“What the fuck?” I turn toward the voice. It’s Mr. Hart, soaking wet, glaring at the gathering crowd. He turns on another string of curse words as I wiggle out of King’s arms, needing to feel the solid concrete under my feet. I turn to look where Mr. Hart is pointing. “What the hell happened to my car!”

Indented in the roof of a fancy black car parked right alongside the building in a handicapped spots, is one of the enormous potted palm plants that flank the elevator on my floor, in a heavy plaster pot.

Dirt and pieces of thick broken pottery lie scattered on top of the roof and hood, while Mr. Hart’s chin starts to quiver.

King looks bored, and when I look up at my building, I see the hallway window on my floor open. It’s a straight shot to where that hundred-pound pot is now shattered, nine stories down.

There’s no one else on my floor.

“Who fucking did this?” Mr. Hart’s voice cracks as he scans the gathering crowd, his eyes connecting for a second to King’s, but King squares his shoulders, his white t-shirt plastered to the planes of his broad chest, the definition of each valley around his abdominal muscles making me release an inner sigh as Hart falls into a crouch, cradling his head.

“Maybe God did it,” King says, glancing toward the sky scratching casually at the side of his neck.

Sirens blare in the distance as I analyze King’s body language. I’m not sure if I sense anger or satisfaction.

Maybe both.

“Did you do that?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him, tipping my head toward the sacrificed plant.

King tightens his lips against his teeth. “Karma has a way of working things out.”

“What does that mean?”

“He left you behind. You get what you give.”

There’s a new dangerous energy I hadn’t detected from him before, but he’s a wildcard. That I already know.

Chaotic emotional range with a lack of impulse control.

That was in the notes Milton sent over about King Hertzof. That’s at the root of his suspension, and my trusted colleague’s assessment as well.

That’s what these sessions with me are supposed to help with.

How I’m drawn to a man with that sort of lack of self-control is both fascinating, from a professional point of view, and frightening from a personal one. He is everything I would not look for in a partner.

As true as that is, it doesn’t stop me from admiring the view of what God gave him under the clinging fabric of his sweats.

A shiver vibrates through me as goosebumps rise on my skin, watching the fire engine pull into the parking lot.

“God, I hope there isn’t a real fire.” I cross my arms over my chest, hoping to get my nipples under control. “I don’t even have my purse, my wallet…everything is in there. But, at least I grabbed my phone.” I reach into the side pocket of my drenched sweats and tug it out, breathing a relieved sigh when I tap the screen and it brightens, showing the listing photo of the farmhouse I loaded as my screen saver.

I believe what you focus on, you find, so bringing that house into my day as much as possible makes it feel more attainable.

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