Page 129 of Tempt

Inside, a guy who can’t be much older than me surveys a computer rig I’d give my leg for. An error message lights up the screen in front of him, blinking like some doomsday prophecy.

“Can I help?” I ask. With a quick head-to-toe that ends on the pass clipped to my waist, he ushers me in.

“What the hell took so long?” the tech asks. “I called IT ten minutes ago.”

It’s moot to point out that I wasn’t with IT ten minutes ago.

My eyes adjust to the low light as the door slips closed behind me. There are no outside windows, just the glass half panel facing the studio and a closed door that connects the two.

Someone’s recording in here.The figure in the other room is facing away from the glass, bent over a guitar like he’s tuning it.

I push aside the bubble of nerves. My focus is on the computer.

“Is ten minutes a long time?” I ask as I set my paperwork and my jacket on the desk. My fingers start to fly over the keyboard.

“It is whenhe’shere.”

I hit Enter, and the error message goes away.

It isn’t until I straighten that his words start to sink in.

“When who’s here?”

That’s when I’m viciously assaulted.

At least it feels that way because two horrible things happen in such close succession I can barely tease them apart.

Hands clamp down on my bare arms from behind.

Hot breath fans my ear, and a voice rasps, “What the fuck is going on?”

Every hair on my body stands up, my skin puckering, and I do what any reasonable woman grabbed by a stranger in a vice grip would do.

I scream.

It’s not a cry for help.

It’s a bellow of rage and defiance. Like a banshee or Daenerys’s dragons en route to scorch some slave traders.

Channeling strength I didn’t know I had, I whirl on my heel and collide with a wall. My hands flail in front of me, lashing out at my attacker.

I’m not a puncher, I’m a shover. But when I shove, all that happens is my hands flex on a hard, muscled chest.

I trip backward, my grown-up skirt hobbling me as I fall.

I grab for the desk but only get my papers, which rain down like confetti as I land on my ass.

My heart’s racing at an unhealthy speed even before I take in the white sneakers inches from my face.

“Jax. I’m really sorry,” the guy behind me says. “I called Jerry ages ago.”

Sneakers, as white as the carpet, are pointed straight at me. Dark-blue jeans clinging to long legs, narrow hips. A faded olive-green T-shirt stretches across his chest, like it started out too tight but gave out over dozens of wears. Muscular arms—one covered in a sleeve of tattoos—look like they lift more than guitars.

I force my gaze up even though I want to melt into the floor.

A hard jaw gives way to hair the color of dirt faded in the summer sun. It’s sticking straight up in most places but falling at the front to graze his forehead. His nose is straight, his lips full and pursed.

His eyes are molten amber.

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