In Rides Trouble (Black Knights Inc. #2)(57)

He looked so startled she almost managed that laugh.

“Don’t you tempt me with this now,” he groaned. “Not today.”

“Why?” she demanded, scowling up into his hard, stubborn, wonderful face. “What’s different about today?”

Something frightening flashed behind his eyes and a strange chill streaked down her spine.

“It doesn’t matter.” He shook his head so forcefully she wasn’t sure whom he was trying to convince, himself or her. “I refuse to give in to this thing between us.”

Ow. Okay, now that stung.

“Your choice,” she told him as she stalked toward General Lee.

Shoving her helmet over her head, she tried to ignore the erotic sensation of his big body warm against her back as he mounted up. He dwarfed her, and she realized he was the only man on the entire planet who made her truly appreciate her own femininity.

Most of the time, with paint on her shirt, grease under her fingernails, and a power tool in her hand, she forgot that she wasn’t just one of the guys.

But when Frank walked in the room, so large and powerful and male, suddenly she remembered that she had breasts and a womb and needs, and, oh for Pete’s sake…

Before she started the engine and joined the others out on the city streets, she decided to throw all her cards on the table once and for all. An emotional Hail Mary play. Glancing over her shoulder, she pinned him with a challenging stare. “Should you ever change your mind, you know where I sleep…”





Chapter Fourteen


Grafton Manor

St. Ives, England

The trip had been interminable, the pain excruciating, but Sharif clenched his jaw against the overwhelming urge to lie down in the cool, wet grass blanketing the expansive lawn and just sleep for the next century. Instead, he shuffled up the wide, flagstone steps of the Tudor-revival-style house, and fumbled with the front door.

He could’ve rung the bell, he supposed. Phelps, aged, stoic, and so typically English, would’ve been quick to respond to the summons. But he had no stomach for answering the question he knew he’d see in the old butler’s shrewd eyes.

When he stepped into the cool, tiled foyer, with its precise line of cherrywood pedestals supporting priceless Ming vases, he heaved a small sigh of relief.

He’d made it.

For a few moments during the flight, when the unbearable pain caused his vision to narrow to a tiny, dark tunnel, pierced only by a small shaft of light, he thought perhaps he was nearing his end. And he lamented, in a strange, detached sort of way, the prospect of never seeing the bright green fields of England again. Africa might have been his birthplace, but England was his home.

Allowing himself one more moment of peace, he finally shuffled toward the immense set of carved mahogany doors at the end of the dark hall. Upon reaching them, he screwed his eyes closed, knocked, and girded himself for the confrontation to come when a deep voice bid him, “Enter.”

Born from the brief dalliance between a wealthy English lord and an affluent African princess, Asad Grafton had struggled to make his way between the two worlds. That struggle had molded him into the man he was today. Tough, razor sharp, and completely merciless.

Sharif had had occasion to witness that mercilessness once, and the memory still haunted him…

Pushing open the heavy doors, he stepped into the wide library with its large, cheerfully crackling fireplace and two-story bookshelves filled with first editions. The floors were hand-laid parquet, lacquered to a high sheen so that his reflection stared up at him. The furniture, imposing and ornate, was Sotheby’s quality antique Chippendale.

And in the midst of all that opulence Asad sat perusing the latest edition of the London Times. He glanced up after carefully folding back one corner of the paper. “You shouldn’t have come here. Interpol is after you. My sources say they’ve already picked up your trail from Kenya to Heathrow. You should’ve been more careful.”

Sharif’s mouth twisted with a cynical smile. “It’s good to see you’re alive as well, father.”

“Don’t be so sensitive,” Asad sneered. “You’re just like your mother.”

Ah, the worst insult the man could conceive of. “I came because I need information. And I hadn’t the time to be more careful.”

“Then you should’ve killed that backward bush pilot you paid to fly you to England. I doubt he waited until you cleared the tarmac before he called the authorities, giving them your description.”

Sharif held up his bandaged hand. The movement caused blood to pound in the wound like a second heartbeat, a second heartbeat with sharp, venomous teeth. “That backward bush pilot was twice my size, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’m more than a little impaired.”

“I heard you lost a finger.”

“I could’ve lost much more,” he snarled, feeling a sick sweat break out all over his body. He’d been oscillating back and forth between hot and cold ever since he’d awoken in the Kenyan hospital. “I could’ve lost my life.”

Asad—Sharif didn’t think of him as Dad—leaned back in his leather wingback chair, steepling his long fingers under his aristocratic chin. “And you blame me?”

“I would not have been there, out on that tanker, had you not sent me.”