Match Me Later (Chinese Zodiac Romance Series Book 4)

by Rachael Slate

  My life isn’t over. It’s just beginning.

  Right. She straightened her spine and strode to the French doors. Twisting the lock, she flung them open, letting the moist, greenhouse-like humidity crash over her. As she inhaled the floral air, she embraced its purity. Cleansing. Renewing.

  Shucking her sandals, she followed the path, her bare feet soaking in the warmth of the stones. Her head tilted back, she drank in the sunlight. After months in a quarantine cell, this freedom was heaven. Despite the hefty sum of her ticket, paid for by her uncle, she had spent three long months in a secured lockup before being allowed into the country. If not for her desperation to come here, she might have gone nuts between the whitewashed walls of her cell.

  As she lowered her lashes, she caught sight of movement behind the copse of leathery leaves. Quirking her head, she treaded around the corner into the clearing at the end of the path.

  Her foot snagged on a tile, and she tripped forward, her hands and knees slamming onto the pathway. Ouch. Focused on the blur of motion ahead, she’d missed the uneven stonework. She hissed while she examined the mild scrape on her hands, brushed the pain off, and lifted her gaze.

  Wow. A sexy, tattooed exhibition of bronzed skin greeted her. As she blinked, she realized the statuesque figure was actually a man. He sat cross-legged in the center of the clearing, his back to her, clad in only a pair of black, tailored martial arts pants.

  Her gaze meandered over ripped muscles and the darkly inked, tribal tattoo of a tiger. The animal stretched from its head on the man’s left shoulder to the tip of its curved tail near the base of his waist on the right side.

  “Oh, sorry.” She shot to her feet, wiping her hands on her skirt. “I assumed this was my terrace. Sorry for intruding.”

  He remained silent. His back ramrod straight, hands balanced on his knees, he was clearly deep in a form of meditation like qìgōng. Just as she was about to leave him be, he tilted his head toward her and regarded her from the corners of his dark-lashed eyes.

  She froze and her mouth dried while those eyes stalked her, a covetous flash in them. Suddenly, the vulnerability of her situation became clear. A woman alone, where no one would hear her screams.

  Her instincts assessed the threat. Flight or fight?

  As her mind raced along every possible outcome, her reasoning kicked in. Her uncle wouldn’t have placed her next to a crazy, dangerous man, would he? The guy hadn’t seemed like a psychopath a moment ago, as peaceful concentration had been etched into his features. But dangerous?

  Oh, yeah.

  Dangerous as hell.

  The fluttering in her stomach spiked and then sank lower as he continued to stare at her, unspeaking.

  “I’m Lucy,” she tried in Mandarin, since maybe he didn’t speak English. “I just arrived from America. This is my uncle’s condominium.”

  The words rambled out of her before she slammed her mouth shut. Next, she’d be telling him about the private jet’s food and what movie she’d watched.

  Switch on that censor, Luce.

  He might not be a nut job but, by now, he likely concluded she was one. Especially since she continued to gawk at his muscular body.

  “Um, what’s your name? Should I go? I should probably go, right?” Pivoting, she winced at the desperate tone of her voice. It’d been so long since she’d chatted with anyone, and this new freedom was…even lonelier.

  “Don’t leave.” The smooth, sexy, accented voice stopped her retreat.

  A command? Sure sounded like one. Despite the stiffening in her muscles, she obeyed. She swiveled around, her eyes widening as the man rose with effortless, smooth grace, mimicking the tiger on his back.

  He kept on rising, stretching at least six and a half feet tall, his body so much bigger than what she’d pictured at first. Her foot inched backward.

  High, youthful cheekbones accented a robust, square jaw, obscuring her ability to tell if he was in his twenties or forties. His irises weren’t brown, but a deep, jet black, matching his straight hair. Longer pieces slashed across his eyes, and she curled her fingers into her palms to combat the urge to brush aside those dark locks.

  Recognition struck her. Sexy mouth. Strong jaw. “You’re my driver.” The accusation burst out of her mouth. What the hell was he doing here, being her new neighbor?

  Unless he really was her bodyguard. Yikes.

  Their standoff of silent appraisals continued as the muscles of his massive, sculpted body flexed. The intensity in his eyes made her lower parts needy so she dropped her lashes, peering past them to broad shoulders and across his delectable, carved abs.

  She fought against her mouth falling open and drool oozing out as she admired every sharply honed edge of him. Her nails cut deeper into her palms. She reprimanded her fingers against the impulse to poke him and determine if he was indeed pure muscle. No one should be that sexy. Pressing her thighs together, she ignored the demanding pull of desire warming her core.

  The tiger tat on his back wasn’t alone in gracing his smooth, burnished skin. A palm-sized stylized yin-yang symbol was etched onto his front right shoulder, one Chinese character in the center.

  Her gaze followed the straight line of his hands down to his bare feet. As he stepped forward, she shook out of her lust-induced stupor and focused on his face, only to note the slight quirk in one corner of his mouth.

  Damn.

  Continue reading here.