Page 111 of Lady and the Hitman
When I came down the stairs, Ronan looked up and stilled. Just … stilled.
Like I’d knocked the breath out of him.
He had changed, too.
“You clean up well,” I said, because it was safer than sayingyou look like sin in a suit.
He was wearing charcoal slacks, a white dress shirt open at the collar, and a watch that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. He looked polished and lethal. Elegant and undone.
“Get in the car,” he said softly. “Before I change my mind and fuck you against that wall.”
My pulse jumped.
But I walked past him, letting my hand trail across his chest as I moved toward the door. “We have a reservation to make, Mr. Hale.”
The drive to the airfield was quiet but charged. My thighs pressed together, my breath shallow. Every brush of his fingers against the gearshift felt like a promise waiting to be cashed in.
When we pulled onto the private runway, I saw the sleek jet waiting, engines already warming. A man in a pressed suit stood by the stairs, nodding as we approached.
Ronan didn’t bother with introductions. Just opened the car door, helped me out like a gentleman, and guided me up the steps with one hand firm at my lower back.
Inside, it was just as I remembered—sleek lines,buttery leather seats, and the kind of low lighting that made everything feel indulgent.
The same jet that had flown us to Miami now felt different somehow.
Even more dangerous.
Even more deliberate.
I sank into the seat I’d claimed once before, my skin already prickling with anticipation.
Ronan moved to the built-in bar without a word, poured two glasses of deep red wine, then handed me one with a look that made my breath catch.
“To privacy,” he said, his voice low.
I clinked my glass against his, heart pounding.
“To power.”
His smile was slow and feral. “They’re not mutually exclusive.”
The flight was short, but the tension made it stretch like a rubber band ready to snap. Every look. Every sip of wine. Every brush of his leg against mine.
By the time we landed, I was ready to combust.
21
The restaurant overlooked the Savannah River, perched above the cobblestone streets like it had been waiting centuries for Ronan Hale to walk through its doors.
He didn’t knock. He didn’t announce himself. He simply entered like he belonged—hand at my back, jaw set, eyes scanning the room like he was memorizing exits.
I should’ve been nervous.
I wasn’t.
Not with his hand on me.
The maître d’ rushed over with a nervous smile. “Mr. Hale. Your private table is ready.”
