Page 15 of Wicked Duty
Her subtle floral scent invades my senses. If I were a weaker man, and if this weren’t my fuckingjob, I might lean in and inhale.
But I’m not weak, and thisismy job. And I have no time or patience for annoying little shits like her. No matter how pretty.
I linger on the dark, purple-streaked hair poking out from the bottom of the helmet. I almost did a double-take when I firstsaw her in person because she barely resembles the photo in her file.
She’s every bit as beautiful, but the happy, youthful glow has disappeared from her eyes. Her once long chestnut hair is now purple and cropped into a stylish, punklike cut.
Her new hairstyle was the first surprise. What came second was…less pleasant.
As much as I hate to admit it, Punk Lucy is way more my type than Girl-Next-Door Lucy from the photo.
The sucker punch of attraction socked me in the face the instant we met.
I’ve never experienced anything like this toward a client before, and I don’t much appreciate the way my body reacts to her now…
A left turn pushes her weight into my arm, and she shifts to keep her balance. I bite back a curse as she nearly grinds against my crotch.
Can she not hold still for two minutes?
The drive back to her Brooklyn boulevard takes well over half an hour with traffic, but we somehow arrive without killing each other. Though my pants are significantly less comfortable by the time we pull up near her building.
Focus, Callum.
My blue balls are not important right now.
She and I need to have a serious discussion about her taking off today, and how, if she’s smart, it won’t ever happen again. But as soon as I find a place to park my Triumph and dismount, Lucy scrambles off the bike and sprints to the end of the block.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I jump into action, racing after her. She darts across the street and speed-walks her supermodel legs—the ones that continually draw my eyes against my will—down the crowded sidewalk.
I tail her at a safe distance while she ducks under the stone arch entryway to her ten-story apartment building. She lives on the eighth floor. I’m thirty steps behind, and I already know she won’t wait for the elevator. She won’t risk me catching up with her.
Sure enough, once I push into the stairwell, the sound of her sneakers slapping the steps three floors up echoes through the cement space.
I lean over the rail and check to ensure it’s her, and she does the same from above. Our gazes lock across the distance.
“You got me home safe. Good job. You’re the man. Now please leave.” She motions toward my bike across the street.
“Not until we have a little talk.”
She huffs out a long-suffering sigh and hurries up the next few flights. I jump-jog to close the distance, and by the time I reach the seventh floor, my muscles buzz with the effort. Finally, I shove through the eighth-floor door just in time to watch her retrieve a gift-wrapped box off her welcome mat.
My eyes fly wide open. “Don’t touch that!”
Lucy jumps, glares at me, and hustles inside with the package.
I sprint the length of her hallway, but she still manages to lock the door before I get there.
My chest tightens as I pound on the door. “Don’t be stupid, Lucy. That could be anything. A bomb. Anthrax. A severed fucking hand. Let me in, and I’ll make sure it’s safe.”
That “present” could even be a body part that belonged to her sister. I shudder at the thought. Based on what I know about the man she’s entangled with, anything is possible.
Silence follows.
I knock again, more forcefully this time. Still nothing.
Less than a minute later, she releases a bloodcurdling shriek.
