Page 7 of Diamond In The Rough

I laugh. It’s dumb and impulsive and I’m not entirely sure it’s rooted in sanity. But it happens anyway, the sound surprising us both, evidently, as the handsy guy straightens his neck and watches me like I’ve lost my damn mind.

Maybe he’s right.

“History shows I’m prone to doing stupid, dangerous things,” I admit. “I don’t set out to do them. In fact, I try to be cautious and sane and respectable most of the time. But crazy shit finds me, even when I keep my head down and mind my own business.”

“Sounds like you’ve got problems.” He releases me, a little too quickly, the abrupt absence of his grip a little too shocking, so I literally stumble back and risk dropping to my ass.

I flounder a couple of steps… two, three. Maybe even four, before my knees lock in again, and I get my unladylike flailing under control—sort of. Then I get a fuller look at the brick-wall-man.

His broad shoulders, and his tapered waist. The shaded tattoos that mark one bicep and shoulder and the front of his chest, over his heart. His thighs are thick, and his legs, long. His hips sit several inches higher than mine.

And because I’m staring at them, my eyes drop to his hands, balled by his sides. Finally, I scowl. “What happened to your?—”

“Are you a New York native?” he interjects. “Or are we going with the cliché, just-got-off-the-bus thing?”

“Cliché?” I whip my gaze back up to his and gulp. Because he’s kind of cute, in that probably gonna murder you and toss your body in the river kind of way. “You think I’m a cliché?”

The corner of his lips twitch. Just the smallest, subtlest movement, so fast that a less observant woman would wonder if she saw it at all.

“You look like you might’ve come from small-town Nebraska,” he rumbles. Setting his hands on his hips, he rolls his bottom lip between his teeth. “Just got to the city. You’re wearing your purse like a chick who’s never read a crime blotter in her life, and your shirt says I’m a cowgirl, headed to the big city to make it as a singer/songwriter.”

“A singer/songwriter?” My lips curl into a wide smile, as I’m momentarily charmed by the monstrous dude in basketball shorts. “I do neither.”

“You write for the college newspaper, then?” His eyes flicker between mine. “Looking to become the next Anderson Cooper?”

“A reporter?” I wrap my fingers around the leather strap of my purse. My heart continues to thunder, but those who drift the alleyways no longer scare me. For this moment, anyway. “No.” Still grinning, I briefly glance down at my boots. “I’m not a journalist. And if I was, I think I’d aim to become the next Cannon.”

Instantly, his eyes narrow to dangerous, threatening slits. “What do you know of Cannon?”

“That she has the highest-ranked circulating paper on the East Coast.” I lift my shoulders, then drop them again in a shrug. “Seems if I was a woman looking to be a reporter, I might confer with the top journalist in the state.”

“Hm. Kindergarten teacher?”

Stunned, I jerk a thumb back in my direction. “Me?”

“Mm.” He studies me the way schoolkids might study a dissected frog in biology; morbidly curious, but not particularly interested or impressed. “Small-town girl, small-town job. You wanted something bigger, so you hopped on a Greyhound and came to Manhattan.”

“Nope…” I pop the P at the end of my word, and smirk. “Not a teacher.” I rock to the back of my heels, faux-relaxed. “Not a teacher at all.”

“Hey!” That other guy, the catcalling douchebag, whistles, the sound grating on my nerves and wrenching me around to search for him in the shadows.

“Looking for somewhere to stay tonight, beautiful?” he jeers. “I have a room, and you have the payment.”

My lips wrinkle. Long forgotten is my smile, and in its place is a disgusted sneer.

“You need to get off of this street.” The brick-wall-guy grabs my arm and takes off, his stride twice the length of my own, forcing me to lurch into an awkward gallop to keep up.

My neck tweaks from whiplash. My stomach swirls with nerves.

Am I safer with the douchebag? Am I willingly running toward danger?

Again.

“Uh… mister!” I release the strap of my bag and try to pry my ‘rescuer’s’ meaty hand from around my arm. “Hey! Let me go.”

“You won’t survive the night if you don’t get your ass inside.” He drags me toward the club I was heading to anyway, closer to the thumping music and the milling crowd. His fingers bruise my flesh, and the scent of his aftershave, competing against the natural tang of sweat, flitters back to me on the nonexistent breeze and fills my lungs.

“I….” He speaks again, but I can’t make out the words. “Da… t…”

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