Savage Collision: A Hawke Family Novel (Hawke Family #1)(2)
“I can assure you, Ms. Eriksson, that none of my employees are ‘tricked’ into doing anything.”
She scoffs and shifts her weight, drawing my attention back to her impossibly long, shapely legs. The woman must be at least five foot seven without those heels on. With them, she towers over me in all her elegant glory.
“Bullshit…” She searches my desk for a nameplate, then looks at me again when she doesn’t find one.
The corner of my mouth quirks up before I can stop it. “Savage, Savage Hawke. But please, call me Savage, and just what is it you think you know about my employees?”
“Savage?” Her eyes narrow and then she rolls them. “Your parents honestly named you Savage Hawke?”
This isn’t the first time someone has questioned my name, or that my name has left me the butt of some joke. “Yes, they did. It’s a family name.” My gaze naturally drifts to the framed photo on the corner of my desk. It was my father’s second-to-last fight. He’s standing in the center of the ring in Madison Square Garden, the WBA heavy-weight championship belt around his waist, and I’m hoisted above his head, both of us smiling in his victory. I was ten.
She follows my stare and when she sees the photo, her eyebrows pop up in recognition. “Wait, your father is Sam ‘The Savage’ Hawke?”
Stunned doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel, hearing my dad’s name from her. It takes me a moment to shake off my surprise, but eventually, I manage a smile and nod. “I’m surprised you recognize him.” I lean forward to grab the photo and turn it around so she can see it more clearly.
In my thirty years on this planet, I don’t think I’ve ever met a single woman who knew who my father was. Men, on the other hand, gape in awe when they find out my lineage. I guess it just goes with the territory of being the son of a heavy-weight champ, and one who died the way he did.
She takes a step closer to me, bending down slightly to get closer look at the photo. “Holy shit! I can’t believe you are ‘The Savage’s’ son! Of course I know who he is. My dad was a huge boxing fan. I grew up watching your dad’s fights from my old man’s lap.”
“That’s great.” And very unexpected. I’m not quite sure what to say. Talking about my father is always bittersweet.
Her smile and astonishment fade and she glances at me apologetically. “Shit, I’m sorry…” Before she finishes her thought, she seems to realize she’s been sidetracked from her intended purpose. She straightens herself, squares her shoulders, and I can tell she’s ready to get back to business.
“Well, Savage,” she says my name like it’s a four-letter word, “I would very much appreciate it if you kept your sleazy hands off my baby sister.”
Bingo!
She isn’t the first, and she certainly won’t be the last, person to find their way into my office on their high horse, accusing me of taking advantage of some innocent little sister, cousin, or friend.
“And who is your baby sister?”
Her face scrunches in disgust at my inability to immediately make the familial connection.
“Nora Eriksson, she started shaking her ass and tits for you almost three weeks ago.”
The way she throws the words “ass and tits” at me, I have to cover my mouth with my hand to hide my grin. This woman is all attitude and it is sexy as fuck, although I have no idea why. She definitely isn’t my usual type, although, I’m not sure if I even know what my type is anymore. Certainly, she’s about as far from Becca as one can get, yet my cock is still straining against my pants.
I clear my throat before responding, hoping to give myself a second to regain my composure. “Ah, yes, Nora. My manager, Byron, hired her. I’ve only had the pleasure of meeting her on one occasion, but I can assure you, Ms. Eriksson, she was in no way ‘tricked’ into taking her position here.”
She glowers at me and her hands ball into tight fists at her sides. “I know my sister, Savage, and there is no way in hell she just up and decided she wanted to be a fucking stripper. She was tricked, or forced…”
I barely manage to contain an eye-roll. “If I didn’t have such thick skin, I might be insulted by the way you throw your words at me like daggers,” I retort, enjoying watching her distress at my ability to maintain my cool. The color in her cheeks flares and her blue eyes flash at me.
Who knew angry could be such a fucking turn on?
My blood is boiling and this man—Savage Hawke—has grated my last nerve. I can barely contain my desire to climb across his desk and smack him across his handsome, smug face for acting so high and mighty. He is a pussy peddler. A goddamn sleazebag who preys on young, impressionable, desperate girls in order to make a quick buck.
Savage Hawke.
He even has a porn star name. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was shooting them in some back room.
It’s too bad he’s so fucking gorgeous. He runs a hand back through his thick, wavy black hair and focuses his Caribbean-blue eyes on me with a calm that makes me want to throw my purse at him.
My traitorous body reacted to him instantly, heat churning deep in my belly the moment I walked into his office and saw him dominating the space behind his large, wooden desk.
The longer we talk, the worse it gets, and I have to press my thighs together to stop the dull ache there.