Page 11 of Lesson In Forgiveness

Small hands ran through his hair as though testing the softness before she fisted them on either side of his head and used them to bang his face into the floor. “Bad man. Bad, dirty man! Don’t like it. Dirty, dirty, dirty!”

Jesus Christ, where was an insane asylum when he needed one? He hissed between his teeth as his nose made repeated, painful contact with the wood. With a grunt of exertion, he managed to draw his elbows into his sides, lifting himself up like he was simply doing a complicated rep of push-ups.

The tiny assassin on his back—perfectly capable of slitting his throat—smacked him on the top of his head, then slid her arm beneath his throat and caught him in an effective chokehold.

Oh hell, no. There wasn’t a cat in hell’s chance he was getting choked out by a skinny little lunatic; Atticus and the rest of the damn team would die laughing, and he’d never be allowed on a solo mission again.

Her arm tightened, putting pressure on his windpipe. Curling his fingers around the limb, he gave serious thought to snapping the bone beneath skin and muscle.

Luckily, he wasn’t feeling vindicative, even though his nose felt like it was one of those squishy stress balls. “Enough with the games, tiger. Let go.”

“Dirty,” was her emphatic reply.

Spots began to dance at the edge of his vision, his sight wavering. Damn her to hell and back, she was going to force his hand, wasn’t she? The crazy in her wasn’t listening to anything, let alone reason.

If she wanted dirty, he’d give her… he lost that train of thought as oxygen leeched from his brain. Grunting with the effort to stay conscious, he opted for the one last hope in his grasp; he pitched himself onto his back, insane gremlin and all.

He heard her breath erupt in a noisy exhale, felt the waft of it ruffle his hair—which was oddly sensitive. The death grip around his neck loosened as he heard her head thunk against the floorboards; he sucked in air like a drowning man.

Now was the time to get up, pin the psychotic female to the floor, and knock her the fuck out before she did any further damage to his person, or someone else. If he borrowed one of the company trucks, he could stuff her in the back seat, transport her to the airport, and in under two hours, her insane ass would be safely in Jasper’s custody.

Hell, Evander might even let him commandeer the private jet to get rid of her.

That was his plan, until Tabitha laughed delightedly, squirming from under him, and bent over to kiss his forehead with a loud mwah! “This was fun. We’ll have to do this again if you can catch me.”

Oh no. No, no, no.

Ignoring the burning in his lungs, the weakness in his extremities, Grit gained his feet as Tabitha tapped her fingers to her temple in a cocky salute. He charged, knowing damn well she was going to win this fucking round by a mile.

She sidestepped, gave him a kick up the ass that propelled him forward, then tsked. “Better up your game, big boy. You’re playing in my league now… and you’re lacking some very important skills.”

His hands slammed against the section of wall his prey had skillfully completed, catching himself before he slammed face-first into it. Muttering a stream of curses—both at himself and at the bane of his present existence—he spun around.

Tabitha was gone.

Atticus and Jasper were going to string him up by the balls for this, he thought, stampeding toward the door. He doubted they’d be impressed he’d retrieved her wig and used contact lenses after having his ass handed to him.

When he burst out into the yard, the music was still blaring, the crews were just starting to filter back to work, and there was no white-blonde pixie in sight.

Goddamn it all to hell, he was screwed.

Chapter Two

Tabitha

The mercenary was going to be an issue.

For two weeks after their initial skirmish—oh, how she loved that word—Tabitha didn’t go into hiding as such, she just kept her head down. The voices were getting worse, and she was laying the blame squarely at the feet of the big goof who’d thoroughly fucked up her undercover recon.

For the first time in a long time, she’d felt the weight of a man on top of her, felt the prod of his erection against her ass, and she’d freaked. Her golden rule was simple, was it not?

Do not get pinned down by an enemy.

Death, dying, wasn’t something she feared. She dealt too much of it to others for her to be afraid of it. Being tortured fell under the same umbrella—pain was simply the nervous system signaling a problem; it could be controlled, muted, even blanked out with the right training.

Tabitha had all the training.

But succumbing to a man, getting pinned down beneath him, was a hell no.

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