Page 11 of Fiery Romance

“The guys would die for her, but at the end of the day, a security company is not a day care center.”

“I know. I’m here, aren’t I?” I grumble. “I’m giving other people a chance.”

“You’re micro-managing.”

“I’m being meticulous.”

“You fired the last three recommendations over nothing!”

Turning to my brother, I cross my arms over my chest. “I had very good reasons.”

“Excessive blinking is a good reason?” Cody flattens his lips.

“Excessive blinking is a sign of guilt.”

“Or a sign of anxiety, which any woman would feel staring at your scary mug.”

“Not everyone is scared of me,” I murmur, thinking of the spunky salon owner who started this mess.

Island Hayes.

Her beauty took me by surprise and almost made me forget that I came there to destroy her. She had curly hair that defied gravity, honey-brown eyes, warm brown skin and a coconut scent that I wanted to lick off her.

I cut off the memories and curl my fingers into fists.

By rote, I stare at Regan again. She’s on the see-saw, laughing brightly, her white smile a contrast to her ebony-toned skin. Her little fingers grip the see-saw handles and her legs are kicking with glee.

My heart rearranges. There was a time when I thought I would never see that smile again.

After Anya died, our world flipped upside down. Abe was older and capable of understanding what losing his mother meant. But Regan…

Telling my little girl her mommy had died was brutal. She was her mother’s shadow. Anya’s heart and soul—as much as Abe was.

I’ve just gotten her to fall asleep at night without asking for stories and pictures of Anya. She’s finally making friends and not being a lone wolf at kindergarten.

I thought everything was looking up and I was wrong.

Miss Zakharov’s misdemeanors are a blight on me and I cannot bear a repeat.

Not a hair on Regan’s head can be harmed.

For my sake.

For Anya’s.

My brother walks closer to me. His voice is soft and, from the pity in his eyes, I know I will not like what he has to say next.

“Clay, it’s been over two years. You can’t keep—”

A loudthumpwhips my attention back to the playground.

My heart stalls. My battle instincts take over.

In less than a second, I take a mental snapshot of the scene.

Regan, in the sand under the monkey bars.

The nanny, phone in hand and mouth gaping.

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