Mission: Impossible to Protect (The Impossible Mission Romantic Suspense Series Book 6), стр. 54
The solid, muscular wall grabbed her elbows with hot, rough hands and held on until she was steadier.
“Running from a fight?” His voice was polished, smooth, and smoky, like the fifty-year-old Scottish single malt whisky Morley liked to go on about ad nauseam.
Jordan looked up…and up…into penetrating aquamarine eyes. A darker blue circle rimmed each iris, like a ring around an outer planet.
“Fight?” Her voice came out high-pitched and strangled.
He leaned closer and confided as an aside, as if they were well-acquainted, “First the itsy woman you nailed with your shoe. I was hoping to see more. And now, from the way you’re high-tailing it away from the door, I’d say you’re avoiding Mr. Zippity Slick…” He tipped his head toward her ex.
She twisted around to see Morley run his hand over his perfect hair, held in place by his designer clay pomade.
“Zippity Slick?” She could barely contain an unladylike snort, and the simultaneous urge to burst into hysterical giggles. Not the image Morley was aiming for with his pricey hair product.
Her muscular wall grinned, softening the razor-sharp angles of his cheekbones and making his light eyes even lighter. “An angry ex?”
Jordan’s mind raced, trying to keep up with their off-kilter exchange. This was the strangest conversation she could ever remember having, made more distracting because here was a man who easily put Chris Hemsworth to shame, with his shredded body and blue-flame-of-intensity eyes surrounded by inky black lashes.
What he was he playing at?
“Nailed it, didn’t I?” His warm, minty breath brushed against her cheek when he chuckled.
Jordan stared up into the enormous man’s piercing eyes, practically baking in his heat and virility. “Let go of me, or I’ll call over my bodyguard.” She hated that her voice came out puny and tinny.
He waited a second too long to release her arms, then moved in close, too close, further invading her private space. “You’ve got to be kidding.” He crossed his arms and grinned, his eyes alight with amusement and a challenge. “Go ahead. Call him.”
She quickly scanned the hall, looking for Harry and the crew who guarded her and her sister 24/7.
“Your bodyguard is sick. And you haven’t noticed that he isn’t here, have you?”
Her heart kicked into tachycardia speeding out of control. “Harry is sick?”
“Not Harry…Pete, the man who regularly guards you. You didn’t notice, did you?”
Jordan searched for Pete, a middle-aged, retired policeman who was a regular member of her security detail. He hadn’t been at his post, which this evening was at the door downstairs, vetting everyone who entered the building.
Relief surged through her when she spotted Harry, who was standing by the door wearing his rumpled navy blue suit and the burgundy Armani tie she gave him for his birthday.
Mr. Mountain shook his head. “Unbelievable. You have absolutely no situational awareness.”
“Shows how much you know.” Situational awareness. She had it in spades—no, in sharp-edged diamonds. She was hyper-aware of Sophie’s discomfort when greeting Rob Boyer, an associate of their father’s and married man who had been hitting on Sophie since she was sixteen…and of Laura Stuliley cornering Sarah Sorenson’s husband…and the tension between the elderly Dr. Levin and his hottie young bride.
Jordan wanted to defend herself, but she had a feeling he wouldn’t be impressed.
And she had noticed Pete was absent from the downstairs entrance earlier. But, honestly, how much risk could there be while socializing in a private room, in a private club, guarded by her family’s private security firm?
And who the hell was this man to criticize her…situational awareness…anyway?
“Who are you? I know you weren’t invited tonight.”
“Stand out, do I?” The edge was back in his voice, his granite jaw getting tighter with every word.
Interesting. Mr. Chiseled was sensitive?
Excerpt from
A Code of Wonder
by Jacki Delecki
December,1803
Rural England
Nicholas Balthasar Trentham, Earl of Wessex, sprawled in the rickety chair, propped his feet on the table, and took another swig of ale, the best the Dragon and Cock had to offer. Peering through the soiled window, he watched the clouds blowing across the sky. A winter storm was brewing. If he didn’t leave immediately, he’d be forced to spend the night. He had stayed in worse places, but, at those times, he had always been deep in his cups.
Anger and resentment swirled in his gut like the beginning snow flurries outside. The ale wasn’t dimming the memories. It had been over a year since his father, the old earl died, and he still hadn’t gone home, if you could call Wemberly Abbey a home. It hadn’t been home since his mother had died in childbirth, trying to bear a spare heir for his father.
He had impulsively decided to return to his estate after becoming thoroughly bored with the holiday parties. Bored with his last mistress, bored with his drunken friends, bored with society; he didn’t need to affect ennui to be fashionable. None of his usual pursuits piqued his interest.
What half-witted reason drove him to want to be at the estate for the holidays? Refusing any form of introspection, he sat upright, yearning for action. If any of his disreputable friends got wind that the rogue Nash longed for the holiday spirit of his childhood he’d be ridiculed out of his clubs.
Disgusted by his self-pitying thoughts, he resolved to return to town. He’d spend the holidays staggering from party to party. It was better than being alone during the holidays with no siblings, no family but distant cousins. Lady Stafford had been hinting for months, and perhaps he’d succumb to her advances since it had been a month since he ended his affair with Genevieve.
As he scanned the darkening sky, motion from a window at the adjacent inn caught his attention.
Someone was trying to escape without paying his bill.
An arse molded into tight riding breeches backed out of the open window. His rake’s eyes rapidly recognized the shape, firmness, and the perfect size