Page 29 of Property of Chaos

He lifts the book, flicking it in his hold to read the cover. “Yeah. It ain’t got my name on it. You’re right.”

Fucking smartass.I take a moment to study the treat before me, my heart thudding painfully against my ribs. His torn jeans pull open at the knees with how he sits, legs folded before him. Chunky boots dig into the underside of his calves. The pithy light in my bedroom makes it hard to see what’s printed on his T-shirt, but two distinct things give away precisely who thismotherfucker is: the leather vest adorned with stitched badges, and his fucking two-tone hair—half blond, half a warm chestnut brown.

“You,” I growl deep in my throat. “You were at the fucking cafe.”

He lifts a finger as though to shush me while he reads.

The hell?I lean left, tilting to stretch my hand towards the floor.

“Looking for this?” The asshole lifts my bat in his right hand, head down, still engrossed in my journal.

“I’ll phone the cops.”

“Tell Marty I said hi.” He turns the page. “You’ve got great handwriting. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“No,” I snap. “Probably because nobody hasever read my fucking journal.”Goddamn it.I dive toward the guy to snatch the notebook back.

He moves backward off the bed with such speed and grace that I can’t help but tilt my head, eyes wide, as I stare at the fucking anomaly. He’s not necessarily overly muscular, but he’s broad enough that I didn’t pick him for being so agile.

My gaze tracks the shadowed tattoos down his bare forearms and settles on my journal. “The things in there are private.” If he wants to know how much of a nutcase I am, he could get enough from simply watching me for twenty-four hours. He doesn’t have to read the scratchings of my soul.

“I figured.” He continues to read. “It was kind of why I picked the book up.”

“Huh?”

“Because the shit in here is private?” He lifts his bi-colored gaze, waving the journal in his hand. “I wanted to know more about you.”

“Most people just ask,” I sass, angered that I feel naked beneath his inquisitive gaze. “Mostpeople introduce themselves inpublic spaces, not other people’s homes.”

“I’m not most people.” He retreats toward the wall until his back hits it, then lifts the sole of one boot to the papered surface to continue with the great American novel. “And I’m not introducing myself. I’m introducing you.”

I’m struck speechless.

Not only by his fucking audacity but by the guy’s breathtaking profile. The pale moonlight creeping through my open curtain highlights the angles of his face—just as arresting as I remember from the cafe. But it’s the slope of his strong shoulders, the swell of his thick thigh as he braces his bent leg against the wall, and the tendons highlighted across the back of his hand as he clutches my innermost secrets in his fingers that have my heart quicken.

The devil disguises himself with beauty.Evil looks like temptation.

“I’d like my journal back, please.” I slide off the side of the bed and stand, shoulders back.

He glances over the top of the book and gestures toward me with the bat. “Cute pajamas.”

“It’s a T-shirt,” I deadpan.

“That’s my point.” His gaze drops pointedly to my exposed thighs.

I squeeze them together. “Journal?”

“Not finished with it.”

“Give it.”

“No.”

“It’s mine,” I whine like a frustrated child.

“And that’s why I want it.” He glances over the pages at me again, leaning his weight on the bat.

I burn beneath his scrutiny. “Who the fuckareyou?”

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