Page 2 of Those Who Are Bound

When she faced forward again, she visibly startled. Quickly recovering, she raised a hand in greeting and called out, “Oh, hi!”

Jonah heard no response, but after a few moments, Lucy suddenly back-pedaled, her heels clicking sharply on the patio tiles, arms pin-wheeling slightly so she wouldn’t lose her balance as she moved.

Jonah’s focus was locked on the corner of the building, waiting for the mystery that could cause Lucy’s momentary stupefaction—it was rare, the ability to stun Lucy—to be revealed. From around the corner came a sultry dark-haired woman steadily stalking her, moving like a panther, sleek and sure of her prey, a sheen of sweat covering her fantastically proportioned body.

Enraptured, he understood Lucy’s astonishment because he was struck silent by white-hot lightning.

Her concentration was fixed on Lucy, a slight wariness combined with curiosity. She wasn’t unfriendly, but she wasn’t tossing out the welcome mat, either. Her arms swung out a bit wider at her sides to account for the open-fingered boxing gloves she was wearing.

The thumps: boxing. Jonah’s interest in Lucy’s beguiling stalker skyrocketed.

With a slight stutter, Lucy offered, “I—I didn’t mean to interrupt your… you… your… boxing… thing… but I was hoping that either Gage or Elliott Rork was around.”

The woman continued to look at Lucy with cautious fascination, coming to a halt near the red door. Lucy skittered to a stop, too, glancing back at him—yep, still here—although he didn’t look away from their reluctant, captivating hostess. She sniffed and used the back of one glove to swipe across her nose. It was a masculine gesture from a definitively feminine form. The action was likely to imply that she may look like a woman, but she’d kick your ass like a man.

Noted. It was sexy as hell. Not what she was going for, but he wasn’t a man who was put off by a woman who looked like… well, her: a woman covered in sweat from a workout. One who could handle herself. One who wouldn’t take anyone’s bullshit.

He hadn’t minded bringing Lucy to her impromptu job interview today, but now he felt the time had been well-spent, merely to look at the woman with transcendent silver eyes.

She suddenly shifted focus to him; he was ridiculously giddy to have her undivided attention. He could tell she was assessing whether he posed any threat. The intensity of her stare shot through him like an electrical prod. Not heeding her nonverbal cues, he took his time in perusing her, leisurely roaming up from her bare feet (he reclassified: kickboxer), over her tanned and toned legs, abs and stomach, curved hips and full breasts. He suspected the nipples displayed against the tight black bra were aroused by adrenaline from her workout rather than the effect of his assessment… although a man could hope.

He was infuriatingly aware of a definite tightening as his attention lingered, as though the tips were delighted to have an audience. He was a fan.

Her pink lips parted for air and possibly to express her disbelief at his obvious inspection, and he drank this in, as well—her lips—before he noted her sweat-soaked hair. He cocked an eyebrow, his own lips twitching, indicating hearty approval of what he saw. She glowered at him in warning, which, of course, he didn’t feel the full effect of because he wasn’t looking directly at hereyes.

He ran the risk of being mistaken for a misogynistic asshole, he knew, for not heeding her glare. But he was receiving mixed signals, and he wanted to puzzle them out; wanted to know why his attention pleased her body, but her stare threw daggers.

Withdrawing her warning look, she focused on Lucy. “Gage isn’t available. What do you want with Elliott? The space is closed right now.” She glanced once more at him, taking stock more thoroughly, and he was perfectly fine with her attention.

“Oh!” Lucy shoved out her hand, which had the woman shaking her head and holding up the gloves with a baffled expression. “Oh, right.” She gave a breathy laugh. “I’m Lucy Moore. There was an ad for an event planner?”

The woman furrowed her brow in confusion. “Did you have an appointment?”

“Oh, no,” Lucy assured her. “No, don’t worry, you didn’t miss anything. But if he’s here, and you can get me in to see him real quick, I wouldsoappreciate it. I mean, I wanted to be spontaneous and surprise him. It’s kind of my thing; it’s how I work.”

The expressions crossing the woman’s face didn’t hide her reactions to what Lucy was saying. At first, she looked offended at the inference that she was a secretary who may have messed up an appointment, and then she looked at Lucy like she was insane. She tossed him a look of accusation, like it was his fault because he’d driven her here.

Again, he was more than happy to be the recipient of her attention. He could look at the combination of her black hair and unique eyes surrounded by dark lashes all day. She had the most penetrating gaze he’d ever experienced, and he found himself wanting to be speared. He was comfortable under her stare.

She was currently looking at him in confusion and irritation, seeking answers or maybe reassurance, but he didn’t add anything to the conversation; this was Lucy’s deal. Instead, he crossed his arms over his broad chest and his feet at the ankles. Leaning back against the Jeep, he prepared to settle in. He knew Lucy, and he was resigned to the fact that she wouldn’t be waylaid. He hoped his pose was a silent indicator to the woman that resistance was futile.

The slightest twitch of an eye let him know she got it. Looking again at Lucy, she jerked her head toward the door. “Inside. Just you.”

“Oh, thank you!” Lucy practically squealed, throwing Jonah a grin over her shoulder. He winked at her. She headed toward the door, giving the woman a wide berth.

The woman’s frank assessment returned to him again, watching him, storm clouds gathering. He watched her back, amused. He admired her once more, unable to fight the temptation, impressed with the subtle softness of her body rather than the hardness athletic women often wished to achieve.

She lifted a glove to her mouth and used her teeth to rip away the Velcro: vicious. Again, attempting to project dominance and masculinity. She could have used her fingers but chose not to. He watched the movement with appreciation. Wildcat, this one.

Ripping off her glove, she snapped, “It’s rude to stare.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is it? I’ll try to remember that.”

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