Page 3 of The Mafia Enforcer's Temptation
“But—”
“Shut it, Dec.” I lower myself down again to study the bomb.
There’s a timer and enough Semtex to make a big impression—and an even bigger hole in the grounds and the side of the mansion. Everything in me closes in on the bomb. I check the wires, the cutters the dead moron used to set it up ready and waiting.
It’s simple… I think. There’s less than one minute left on the timer, the red numbers ticking down. My temples throb, sweat prickling on the back of my neck.
I choose one of the wires.
And if I’m wrong…
“Boom,” I whisper as I snap it with the cutters.
The clock stops, and then I pull it apart. “Got it. Sweeping for more, but…” I check the other body. No tattoos, but this one has more weapons. “Get the perimeter swept again.”
He came looking for his buddy, or to make sure the bomb was still set. And there might be one or two more assholes out here scoping the place out.
Above, the moon peeks out and I catch a glimpse of something, someone moving. Black streaking behind the figure, then a flash of white.
I take off.
Whoever it is moves quick and sure, darting around trees and bushes.
They know the grounds. I pull my gun and fire a shot to the left.
The person veers right, and I dart around a tree before coming face-to-face with her.
A woman.
Even in the dark cover of the trees, she’s fucking beautiful with long black hair and dark eyes. I feign a move to the right, and she races to the left, thinking she can fake me out. I come at her hard and hook a foot around hers, toppling her to the ground.
I don’t expect how fast she moves as she turns and grabs me, pulling me down on top of her.
I land on soft, sweet-smelling flesh. Night jasmine, musk, and sandalwood, making the scent sensual, unforgettable, and for a single, twisted moment, I’m mesmerized.
“Get off me,” she hisses.
“Fuck no,” I say, planting a knee between her thighs, up high, where heat and moisture tantalize the skin beneath my pants. “Who are you and why were you breaking into the Romanov mansion?”
“I wasn’t breaking in.” Dark eyes flare. “I just needed?—”
I grin. “To get some air, sweet thing?”
“There’s nothing sweet about me,” she growls as I sweep her hands above her head, pinning them there.
I nudge her soft hair away from her ear. “More like poisonous sweetness, am I right?”
“You’re Irish.” She says it with a twist of hate.
There’s something in her antagonistic tone that rubs me the right way.
“That I am, and we both know Romanov would love to have words with you.”
Her reaction isn’t something I expect. She goes still, breath caught, tits pushed up against my chest. She’s not terrified or upset.
She’s thinking, weighing options.
“I’m a guest.”
