Page 40 of Fiery Romance

“I’ll be in touch,” I tell her.

Without another word, I leave the house my wife grew up in and drive to meet the woman who puzzles me more than any woman ever has.

Maybe I drive a little faster than I should.

Maybe I turn curves a little too steeply.

A part of me thinks Island won’t show up and yet the first thing I do is look around when I get to the warehouse.

As I park my car, I see a taxi roll to a stop right at the curb.

I hold my breath and watch as Island climbs out, wearing a freaking heart attack of an outfit. An African-print jumper. Sleeveless. Long, flowing pants. Fabric that clings to hips that could rock a man’s world.

Her hair is brown and wavy today. Long. All the way to her hip. The bottom is blonde-tipped and that bold splash of yellow makes her brown skin stand out like she’s dripping in melted freaking chocolate.

She stalks closer and my attention is immediately driven to lips that are a dark grape color. Luscious and overripe. More tempting than any grape I’ve had the pleasure of plucking.

I want to pretend the heat splashing over my chest is from sunstroke, but I’ll admit it. My eyes are glued to her shape, her face, and those lips that—mere seconds ago—spit every hateful syllable in the dictionary at me.

No, I wasn’t prepared to be this affected and now that I know she’s the cause, I probably shouldn’t be anywhere near her. For many reasons. Starting with the fact that I still love my wife.

But I pop my door open and exit, nice and dramatic so she can see me.

Island freezes and gives me a wide-eyed look.

I hold in my smirk, shut the door and drift toward her.

The closer I get, the lighter I feel.

Damn.

There’s some kind of magic in this game of hate and disdain.

And I think I want to play for just a little longer.

CHAPTER5

THE BAT THAT GOT AWAY

ISLAND

Clay Bolton isover six feet of pure sin and utter destruction. He stands, wide-legged, by his car, bracketed by sunshine. Arms straight. Head straight. A soldier in formation.

His pink lips are pressed tightly together, emphasizing a square jaw that looks broad enough to crush what’s left of his tiny conscience.

My anger’s at a boiling point, but I coach my expression so it doesn’t show on my face.

Hold it together, Island. Remember the plan.

With each step, I grip the baseball bat hidden behind my back a little tighter.

When it comes to messed up power dynamics, ours seems to be dipped in adrenaline and wrapped in rocket fuel. There’s no level playing field where I can fight him and win.

I know that.

Keenly.

And so I made a choice.

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