by Angel Payne
A distance that suddenly feels as wide as the Atlantic Ocean—
As the air is ripped by a screech of tires.
And the roar of a gunning motor.
And a massive whoosh as a giant box on wheels barrels past us, flashing red and yellow strobe lights, its back end fishtailing wildly…
Before it hops the curb, taking out a dozen potted cypress trees and a fire hydrant…
And continues on the sidewalk straight toward Emmalina and her friends…
“Friends” who suddenly join hands and jump out of the ambulance’s path, leaving Emma in the middle of the sidewalk like a hundred-point bonus hit for the driver’s kill points…
Meaning I’m left with no fucking choice.
With a low growl, I let the familiar lightning pour through my veins, charging into my limbs with barely controlled energy. As it heats and sizzles, it already starts frying away my jeans, Henley, and knit cap. Thank fuck for the downpour and the necessity of having to wear a leather trench tonight. As if not having one would stop me now. There’s an ambulance racing down the sidewalk, and it’s about to take out the love of my life. I’ll do this shit naked if I have to.
Those assholes picked a bad night to mess with Bolt’s woman.
Chapter Two
Emma
In a flash, so much is different.
A flash feeling too much like a lightning burst.
One second, I’m savoring Mother Nature’s override on New York’s typical magnetism—a second in which the bite of the wind and the slash of the rain are more powerful than asphalt, steel, and neon—and joking around with Ashley and Luke in a post-workout endorphin high.
The next second, the two of them are gone. Whomped away by the new lightning on the air. But I’m not too stunned to figure this part out. The blast hasn’t come from the clouds overhead. This electricity is from a singular source. A distinct force. An intruder who knows every damn way to explode my senses. Every last force to lock me into his sensual tractor beam.
Every mile I’ve flown across the country to escape it.
To get away from him.
To finally get some clarity about him. And yeah, I’ve actually been gaining some headway on the whole thing…
Until now.
Until he crash-lands back in, electrocuting every molecule of the air, warping every thought in my head. And yeah…waking up every tissue between my legs. Dear God, especially that. I’m actually embarrassed with how my body zings to life for him, my atoms surrendering him my electrons, my circuits needing his switches.
Damn him.
I suck in a breath, needing to scream something that’ll convey that, but suddenly realize how thoroughly he’s turned my world upside down. I mean, everything is upside down. My vision is filled with his legs, my thighs are clamped by his arm, and everything whooshes by, wet and confusing and upended. The man has zoomed in from out of nowhere, hauled me over his shoulder like a caveman bagging a saber tooth, and electro-pulsed his way across the street before I can even contemplate a scream.
But I think about it now.
Then more than think.
“Goddamnit.” I get in a couple of whacks to his kidneys before he finally stops. “I swear to all fuck, Reece, if you don’t put me—ahhh!” I start kicking—well, try to—the second he lands a solid smack on my ass. “What. The. Hell?”
I shriek the last of it as he spins around, making the world go by in a crazy panorama courtesy of the one-sided mirrors that form the Obelisk’s front lobby wall.
“Did you see where they ran?” Reece shouts.
“Did I see where who…”
That’s when I choke to a stop, having nothing to do with being turned into his human serape. Again, I look into the mirrored windows. Really look. The scope of the scene hits me. The crowd gawking on the sidewalk, well clear of the fire hydrant that’s been busted open into a geyser. The broken pottery, downed trees, and collapsed canopies. The astounding absence of any pedestrian injuries…or casualties.
The comprehension that I could have been one.
And there’s my proof, in the form of the ambulance that’s now wrapped around the light pole Luke was just getting ready to lean on.
“Oh my God.” I squirm hard enough that Reece is forced to set me down, though I’m toasted so badly by dread, I grab him by the forearms to stay upright. “Luke,” I gasp. “And Ashley. Holy shit, they were right next to me. Are…are they—”
“No.” Reece’s snarl makes no damn sense. It seems connected to new tension that started the second I mentioned Luke. “They’re not dead because they’re not there.”
“Huh?” I gape across the street, looking for the distinct dark heads of the friends who have been so kind to me this week. Trying to figure out why Reece is referring to them like a pair of parasites…
“Hey.” The hail comes from a guy who’s run up the middle of the street, which has already been blocked off by NYPD. After a couple of seconds, I recognize him. The sun-streaked hair. The eyes an arresting green somewhere between moss and grass. The hang-ten vibe mixed with antsy energy. Sawyer Foley, Reece’s new partner in the secret quest against the Consortium. I’m not as surprised to see him here as I’d expect. But nor am I shocked about Reece’s appearance, either—an admission that should probably come with a little more gratitude if I’m correctly interpreting the evidence across the street.
Holy shit.
If Reece hadn’t been here, would I be crushed between the ambulance and light pole right now?
Considering that answer brings on an icy shudder, I wait for the gratitude to sink in—but it doesn’t. A thousand needles of fear replace the icicles almost at once. The pain worsens as I watch the exchange between Foley and Reece.
“Hey.” Reece practically grunts it. “Did you see where they went?”
Foley shakes his head. “Small matter of a rogue ambulance got in the way—but with any luck, maybe they jetted back inside the gym.”
Reece swings back toward me. Before he speaks, I interpret the question in his eyes. “There’s a parking lot out back.” I point across the street. “Just a small one for employees, but you can access it through the—”
“Alley,” Foley finishes for me, his voice jacked with eagerness as he spins and sprints that direction. “On it!” he shouts, dodging the police cruiser that’s just pulled up.
“Stay here.” Reece commands it in a new growl while easing me onto a bus stop bench—and damn it, raining fresh shivers over me in the doing. But these are worse than the others, since fear isn’t their only instigation. The arousal sweeps through with merciless speed, making it impossible to think about moving another step, let alone escaping into the hotel. My limbs are liquid. My mind is a mess.
Focus, damn it. Just a little.
But I’m not sure that dictate is a wise move, either. Re-honing my attention on the incident brings a slew of disconcerting details. The way Ashley encouraged me to cut my workout short just because it looked like Luke was wrapping up at the same time. Then Luke catching up to us with a lame excuse about wanting to talk protein powders. I’d thought I was helping a couple of friends hook up…but right now, examining the angle of the ambulance against the pole… It was a dead-on slam. The truck didn’t just randomly hop the curb. That driver was gunning for us.
For us? Or just for me?
I don’t want to confront that answer, but Ashley and Luke really aren’t anywhere to be found for corroboration.
Did they really escape the accident just in time? Did they know this was going to happen?
Answers I’ve only just begun seeking are now rushing in fast as Reece beats the police to the rig and hauls out the driver by the scruff of his neck. As soon as the guy stumbles into the light, I’m able to get a full view—and despite the rain and blood cascading down his face, I let out a horrified cry.
He’s big, burly, rugged, and dark. Just like Luke.
Exactly like Luke.
The wonder t
wins detail doesn’t escape Reece’s observation either. From all the way over here, I can still hear his gritted “Fuck,” which he repeats as soon as the cops wrestle the guy away from him. But when they’re too busy handling the legal stuff and going PC-gentle with the cuffs and Miranda rights, Reece emerges from the scuffle with the guy’s wallet in hand. By the time a third officer realizes he has it, Reece has gotten an extended look at the contents—resulting in the scowl that takes over his face.
A look thrown right back at him by a fourth cop. Followed at once by a grinning gawk.
“Hey, you guys!” His yell is a hundred percent Jersey boy. “Check it out! We’re on Team Bolt tonight!”
As soon as his proclamation penetrates the crowd, the throng doubles. Shouts and whoops punch through the rain, instantly turning the whole street into something more than a crime scene. It’s about to become a full press event, and nobody’s composure foretells that better than Reece’s—though I doubt anyone but me can see how he forces down his fury in order to throw up a wall of charm, crime-fighter style.
“Damn straight,” he says, letting the Jersey boy haul him into a gruff handclasp. “And believe me, I’m glad the Big Apple sent its finest to help figure out this mess.”
“Oh, yeah!” One of the first two officers throws a hand up for a hearty high-five, his cell already out for the necessary follow-up selfie. “My man, Bolt! We’re at your service, broheim.”
“As I’m at yours.” Reece claps the guy’s shoulder. “And you know, actually, I’m not really doing the Bolt thing anymore. I was just here as a normal civilian, and—”
“A normal civilian?” The cop spurts with a laugh so hard, I can smell the coffee on his breath from where I’m standing. “A normal civilian, the guy says! Ha!”
“Well, anyhow…” Reece braves his way through a civil smile despite the coffee-breath air freshener. “As a regular bystander, I witnessed the whole thing, so if you want to follow up with any details about any of it, just ask the staff here at the Obelisk to contact me. I’ll be in town for another few days at least.”
“Another few days.” I’m unable to silence the mounting fume beneath my echo or its eerily effortless follow-up. “And just how long have you already been here, Mr. Richards?” Since that part’s so easy, the rest of my message can get injected to him through a glare. Were you lying through all of our texts and calls and FaceTimes? Pretending to comment on the LA “heat,” when you were just getting it off the weather app? Pretending I’d woken you up at five, when you were already working on your second cup of coffee—or even already spying on me from God knows where?
“Well, that’s incredible news.” The first cop’s declaration, two decibels short of a bellow, makes it impossible to get deeper into my seethe. Though that’s probably a good thing. The guy’s cheek isn’t exactly what my mood needs right now. “What, you taking a break from tofu burritos and spray tans? Deciding to enjoy your retirement the real Manhattan way?”
Reece joins their laughter, making me glad I don’t have to. He’s so believable that even the glance he throws back over to me is, for all intents and purposes, a portrait of bro-time fun—making the invisible meaning he pierces at the end of it, meant for me alone, even more maddening. And electrifying. And arousing…
“Yeah,” he drawls out, even cocking half a smile. “Something like that.”
Jersey Boy, who’s been helping his buddy out by snapping a few more shots with his own phone, suddenly frowns. “So what’re you doing out here on a night like this, helping pull dipshits out of the muck?”
Reece inclines his head, confirming the validity of the question. He finishes the move with a new nod toward me. “Because this dipshit almost took out my most high-value target.”
“Holeeee eff.” The smile disappears from Cop Two’s face, leaving only a stunned stare. “Uh…you okay now, miss? You need medical attention, or an—” Just in time, he realizes that offering an ambulance might be like extending a blanket in a sauna right now—though I’d gladly offer my freezing nipples for either. Fortunately, Reece reads every syllable of that thought and even seems to sympathize for a second—but as a second shiver rolls over him, my curiosity rises. And my concern. How much of his bioelectrical charge did he have to use in speeding in to save me? I’ve only seen his bloodstream crash after significant bad guy battling type stuff, but he swore off all the heavy-duty fighting months ago…
Or so he told you.
I hate the nagging voice but compel myself to listen.
He also assured you he was only “monitoring” the Consortium. That going after them would be a fool’s game, and he didn’t want to play on that board anymore.
I drag in an aching breath as Reece assures the cops he’ll get me any necessary medical follow-up before he starts walking back to me. At the same time, I force myself to look at him through the lens of the next hard truth.
He told you all of that even as he had Sawyer Foley waiting in the wings, helping him formulate a plan to infiltrate the Consortium at their “Source”—using intel they got with the help of Angelique La Salle.
Angelique.
The woman who’s already fucked her way into his circle of trust once. Who turned around and used that trust against him in the most despicable way possible…
And that, I’ll never be able to accept.
But that’s the thought that gets me back to my feet as Reece approaches. And go rigid as he steps in, sliding a steady hand around my waist. And keep my lips clamped as he dips his head toward my ear. And command myself not to cave as he whispers my name like a parched man thinking he’s found an oasis.
And attempt a professional tone as I quietly answer him, “I guess I owe you some thanks.”
He stops an inch above my mouth, the corners of his own taking on sexy twitches. “Which I’ll accept in a number of forms, little bunny.”
I flatten my hands on his sternum in order to set him back by a few inches. “Yeahhh, you see, that’s just the thing.” I shove him harder. Fortify my glare with equal ire. “Bunnies aren’t supposed to wander into the doghouse.”
* * *
“Dog house?”
I have to give it to the guy. Even on his sixth repeat, his incredulity hasn’t waned. Does he really not get it, or is he trying to wear me down? Either way, now that he’s decided to follow me in through the Obelisk’s side door, past the bar mitzvah cranking into full swing in the ballroom, and right into the empty—thank God—ladies room, it’s time to set the man straight.
Easier said than done.
And as long as I’m going for clichés, maybe absence does make the heart—and other body parts—grow fonder. And for that matter, wetter. And hotter. And…
Holy hell.
I’m just going to admit it. I’m a full-blown ball of horny as he twists the latch on the main restroom door, locking us in here. I drop my gym bag as he paces forward, warping the air by a thousand more molecules with each step, until he’s looming over me with all that soaked, thick hair and that chiseled, stubbled jaw and those lightning-crackled eyes…
“Okay, wait.”
I get in a relieved breath as he heeds me, though his sudden jerk backward rustles his trench enough to release tendrils of smoke, smelling like someone fried a computer draped in a sweaty T-shirt. I’m not making that up. One, the electrical stench speaks for itself. Two, after years of scooping Lydia’s tennis clothes into the bathroom hamper, I know Eau de Sweaty T-shirt like the backs of both hands. Fitting reference. I lift them both, flatten them to his chest, and then shove him far enough away so I’m unable to maul him inside three seconds, smell or no smell.
“First things first,” I say, nodding to myself in encouragement. “I do owe you proper thanks…for whatever the hell that was out there. So, thank you.” When all I get in response is a pause of unnatural stillness, I dare a glance back up. He’s still looming, only now it’s with barely reined tension and gorgeously terse features. “Annnnd the customary
answer for that is…”
“Not what you’re going to get from me right now.” The smoke winds its way into his voice as he shifts toward me by imperceptible inches. He’s closer but hasn’t encroached enough to validate more pushback. Not yet. Hustler. “I’ll have my moment once you have yours.”
And just like that, I’m back to needing a sky full of rain—or at least a throat that hasn’t turned to a desert—as his statement settles its double entendre right between my legs. I’m not even readjusted to the man’s carnal force field yet, and now this? And damn it, the hustler knows it too. Is even well into enjoying his quiet, arrogant gloat about it.
Fine. The bastard wants my “moment”? He’ll have it.
“Cool.” I manage a devil-may-care shrug before letting my hands fall. Blithely, I pivot toward the mirror. It’s a big risk, since I catch a glimpse of the heat flaring even higher in his gaze now, but if the last three months have taught me any ruling paradigm about Reece Richards, it’s his need to prove he’s evolved from the man-slut who used to walk into the ladies’ room with a woman for only one purpose. Maybe two, if his date had hit up her supplier that night. If he’s that eager to prove it, maybe I’m that keen to help him.
“You do have my gratitude,” I reiterate—while stripping out of all the drenched workout clothes above my waist, including my tank with its built-in bra. “But you’ve also earned yourself about a thousand new warning sirens too, buddy.”
And yeah, maybe I’ve pilfered a play from the hustler handbook—a move well worth it, just to bask in the glow of his lusty stare. “Warning sirens about what?”
He grinds out the last word so hard, it fills in his silent subtext. He doesn’t like buddy. Not one damn bit. Beneath the rising temperature of his gaze, I’m not sure I like it anymore, either.
“You know damn well what.” My body betrays my enjoyment of the game with its pronounced goose flesh and pebble-hard nipples. Still, I’m coherent enough to find a dry T-shirt in the bottom of my bag. “You were there just when I needed you tonight. But why were you there, instead of where you should have been?”
