Page 10 of Sinning for Santa

“Sorry, Miss. I can’t let you leave.”

“Please,” I rush out. “I need to get home.”

He answers with a simple and annoying shake of his head.

Dammit.

If I don’t get away, they are going to kill me.

Weighing up my options, I know that staying here isn’t one I’m willing to give in to, so I do what any smart minded woman would do.

I stomp on the man’s foot with the heel of my Tony’s.

The deep timber of the man’s voice has disappeared as a broken squeak flies from his lips, and I don’t waste another second, darting to the side and shoving through the doors.

Heavy feet pound the stone floor behind me, moving faster than these damn heels and pencil skirt will allow, but themediaeval looking doors are in sight, so I charge forward, my arms outstretched ready to shove them open.

A moment before my hand touches the door, a strong arm snakes around me from behind and a scream lurches from my lungs as I’m lifted and I start kicking my legs wildly, trying anything to get free.

“No! Let me go!”

“Calm down, love.”

It’s him.

I only heard his deep rasp for the first time just minutes ago in the confessional, yet it has a profound effect on me.

An unhealthy effect.

You’re engaged, Jaxcen! Get your head out of the gutter.

“Please let me go,” I whimper as I continue to struggle, quickly realising my attempts to break his hold are futile.

I can’t overpower him. His strength far outmatches mine.

“Come and sit down, little mouse.”

What did he call me?

Still trapped in his arms, my back to his chest, he spins us and carries me back through the foyer doors, humiliation flaming my cheeks as all eyes turn to us. Well, more like they turn to me as I get carried like a useless doll.

“I won’t tell anyone what I saw,” I plead, my fingers trying to grip his arm to pry him loose. “Please. I just want to go home.”

He ignores me, carrying me easily to a nearby pew before lowering me to my feet and releasing his hold. I immediately spin to face him, our gazes locking. Mine pleading. His deadly.

Dark eyes. Damp hair. Wet shirt.

“Sit.”

“But—”

“SIT!”

His cold demand sends my arse to plonk on the pew and a pleased smirk tugs at his lips. Bending, he leans down, putting his face level with mine and stares into my eyes.

Can he see what I hide?

Can he see who I really am?

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