Page 10 of Five
He starts toward me as he hisses, “I like ’em fighting. I’m gonna have all the fun here.”
I take a step back and slide my pink leather belt out of my jeans loops. I wrap it around my left hand, so that the buckle end swings loose, without taking my eyes off the advancing prick. “If you find bleeding fun, you’re definitely going to have it all.”
My heart is pounding inside my chest as I watch him rush toward me in slow motion, knife in his left hand ready to do some damage. I wait until he’s on me to duck and slip to the right, which throws him off enough that I can swiftly loop the belt around his wrist and give it a hard twist.
The knife clatters from his hand and skitters somewhere on the ground as I release his arm and give the belt an abrupt jerk letting the buckle hit the bloke straight on the nose. Blood paints his lower face as he bends and stumbles back. I halt his retreat by grabbing a fistful of his hairspray-hardened locks and yank his head up to belt-slap him hard on the cheek.
As I let him go my eyes fall on my hand. My fingers feel sticky from whatever cheap product he applied on his hair, and fuck, my black nail polish is ruined! I hate when that happens, it makes me crazy. My distraction costs me dearly as, out of the blue, his elbow smashes into the side of my skull, on the soft spot high on the temple.
Bloody fucking hell! Black spots cover my vision. I’m barely able to keep my balance as the sharp-as a-broom-stick-in-the-butt pain registers. I absorb the trauma, swallowing the throbbing ache, then kick my way slowly back to the surface. When I open my eyes, Chimney is in front of me, his fist back and ready to send me to the floor.
I’m trying to make my head work and find a way to avoid the hit when Gabe is suddenly looming over us. He lands a nice stiff left on the prick’s face and then hits under his ribs where the sternum ends with the narrow side of his premium leather, solid brown briefcase. It paralyzes the bloke’s diaphragm, making him gasp like a fish out of water and double over, pitching forward onto the hard ground.
I hold back a moan. Seeing a man fighting is four-red-chili-peppers hot, even if the man is Gabriel Reed, my insufferably icy boss. When I’m in his presence, I can’t stop my belligerent side—and hell on earth I try—from bickering, bantering, and quarreling while he barely responds. His indifference around me awakens my bellicose self to clash, battle, and crusade on his ass even though he barely glances my way—or maybe it’s because of that.
For a second, I see a glimpse of rage in his eyes as he kicks the bloke in the ribs again and again until he barks, “Enough!”
To whom? His own Italian full-grain leather shoe-clad foot? I’m not doing anything but holding my head and staring at him, so it must be to himself.
“You okay?” Gabe asks me, and his voice is…different—deeper, gruff. That elbow must have gotten my head harder than I thought because when Gabe turns toward me, he looks like his usual pompous, stunning self. Steel gray, impenetrable eyes and his inscrutable countenance that gives close to nothing away. Fuck, he’s handsome. The more I see him, the more attractive he becomes. The idea of getting him to fuck me is becoming more solid inside my head.
I nod while brushing my curls away from the aching side of my forehead.
In two steps, he’s in my personal space, crowding me, taking my breath away. Gaze focused on my temple, nostrils flaring. His rich cologne envelops me, making me lightheaded for a second. Or perhaps the hit I got does that.
We’ve never been this close to each other—his natural stiffness sends stay-away vibes all around him. He’s not touching me, but I can feel the warmth coming off him and penetrating my cooling body. It’s weird how no inner warning bells are ringing even though Gabe is standing a foot away from me. I mean, I could count the lighter streaks in his wheat blond hair, and for the first time, I notice the dark blue flecks in his gunmetal eyes. They are the color of a night fog, his whole world hidden in their depths.
I feel a delicious and unwelcome tingling sensation in my belly as his gaze lands on my lips, it makes me want to show off my assets, peacock style. Instead, I swiftly turn to retrieve my bag from the ground and put some space between us. Because thisis Gabe cold-blooded Reed. I dislike the handsome twit…very much. Yes. Yes! Very much indeed.
“I was taking care of it,” I tell him, while wiping the bottom side of my Dior. I wouldn’t have gone down. I’d have found a way to beat the arsehole.
He makes a humming sound which says nothing and everything at the same time.
“You think I couldn’t have kicked that bloke’s arse?”
“I’ve seen you do it enough times I won’t be added to the group of idiots who keeps underestimating you.”
Despite the lack of emotion in his tone, the words he utters make me speechless for a few seconds, but then my tongue regains its snark. “I wanted to do my mean high kick.”
“Mean high kick?” That’s lawyer 101, repeating what the opposition says using a slightly derisive or bored tone to irritate them, and boy am I vexed when he does that.
“You sound dubious. Should I feel insulted?” I place my hands on my hips in a defensive move, but the truth is that I can’t be bothered by people’s assumptions anymore. My skin has gotten extra thick—but still soft as a baby’s tushy thanks to my beauty regimen.
“I’m just wondering how you’ll keep your balance if you try to move in those shoes.” His eyes jump to my high-heeled ankle boots. So bloody observant.
I snort. Because he doesn’t know that when I’m barefooted I walk on my tippy-toes like a ballerina after many hours of practice. I feel naked without those extra inches under my soles. I’m so used to wearing heels, I move better in them.
“That sounds like a challenge.” I don’t like to lose—ever. It’s gotten me in trouble more than a few times, but damn what a rush. I’d do that all over again if I had the choice. My usual M.O. is speak first, think and regret later, then ask for forgiveness if I care enough.
“It wasn’t.” He looks more rigid than usual as he takes off his suit jacket and folds it over his arm. He clenches his left hand, then extends his long, masculine fingers out a couple of times in a nervous movement. “Do you know him?”
“Who?” I point at the empty space on the ground where the prick was lying just a few seconds ago and jerk back at the angry, deep growl that comes out of Gabe’s mouth. I didn’t know that fighting could turn him into this sexy beast. I’ve always seen him so composed.
“He must have run off when we were…distracted.” I shrug, studying the slightly darker color of his short beard.
“Who did you piss off this time?” Gabe asks.
“Mmm.” I pretend to take some time to ponder his question as I tap my finger on my chin. “The list is quite long. In this case, it was just some daft creep who smelled like an ashtray.”
