The Espionage Effect(7)

A drug lord could have decided to make base camp in my room. Or a seabird could have collided with the light, then crashed onto my terrace. Except, there was no flapping. And the movements suggested something far bigger than a seabird.

A low groan came from the patio. Definitely human.

I’d positioned myself at the wrong visual trajectory to gather further information. With measured steps, I moved forward, tracing a pattern along the shadowed portions of the room with sweeping heel-ball-toe footfalls, silent like a ninja.

The mystery figure on the terrace stood. Its dark shape moved closer, then reached for the door handle.

I eased down the two tiled steps that led into the sitting area, then slid my fingers around a ballpoint pen which rested on a notepad on the corner of the desk. Pressing flush with the outer window, I inched closer to the door, hiding as I gripped my newfound weapon tightly in my fist.

A gentle click preceded a low squeak, then the door slowly swung open into the room. I waited until the intruder cleared the door’s edge. On a hard swallow, I raised my arm and aimed toward the exposed neck on a very tall frame. Male.

In a flash of movement, he spun. Before he fully turned, I compensated and plunged my weapon deep into flesh. An instant later, an agonizing vice clamped on to my wrist until I gasped and eased my hold. We remained motionless for long tense seconds, his dark glittering eyes staring, his tenacious grip…punishing.

Electric heat charged the air.

A familiar scent wound around me, paralyzing my thoughts.

But only for a moment. Adrenaline rocketed me back to my senses. In a split second, I shifted my weight, readying to knee his balls into his throat.

Before I could enact my plan, he crushed me back against the door, and our combined force slammed it shut. The steel cage of his body trapped mine.

Warm breath fanned over my face. He loosened his iron grip at my wrist, but only marginally. Then his fingers slid upward, dislodging the makeshift weapon from my grasp.

“A pen?” Amusement laced his deep tone.

Unwilling to admit defeat, but biding my time until another opening appeared, I gave a half-shrug. “The butter knife seemed cruel and cliché.”

Humor. I had no idea why it tripped out of my mouth on instinct. Maybe to calm me. Throw him off guard.

His chuckle rumbled out. With a sudden burst of energy, he released me, and I stumbled forward a step. Then he walked deeper into the suite, offering me his back.

Okayyy…clearly not intent on rape or murder. Uncertain of what to do, I remained planted to the cold tiles where I stood, the memory of his solid heat pressed against me frying my brain.

Obviously he either wanted to demonstrate that he trusted me, or he was very stupid. Said butter knife was within reach. I could easily reconsider my weaponry. Yet I chose not to. And he hadn’t stayed in the room long enough for it to matter. I watched as he disappeared around the corner and flicked on a light in the bathroom.

Confused beyond my limited-facts reasoning—about his unorthodox entry point into my room, his continued presence here, his disregard for common protocol of offering an explanation for the entire event—I followed him.

Curiosity overrode the fear I should’ve had.

Its glaring absence puzzled me even further.

Had instinct done that? Obliterated something that would’ve served as a healthy protection mechanism?

Maybe. The predator in me still quivered under my skin. The only problem was, the man in the bathroom acted nothing like prey, which began to deflate my fighting instinct.

Moving with mindful caution, I crossed the room, then eased forward, hovering along the opposite wall so I could peer around the corner from the farthest distance. When I caught sight of the reflection in the mirror, I blinked, stunned.

There stood the man I’d collided with before lunch, nearly knocking his coffee mug from his hand. The same man that had stood twenty feet away from Anna and me at the shoreline, wet board shorts clinging to his hips, water droplets glistening off his tanned skin.

Now he stood in my bathroom, shirtless, muscular upper body twisted toward the mirror as he examined his lower left side. A crimson stream trailed down from his lower ribcage.

“You’re bleeding,” I murmured, as if I hadn’t just stabbed him elsewhere.

He made a low dismissive noise. “Just a scratch. Bullet burn.” He turned further, trying to see beyond his shoulder. “Your puncture wound, however; that’ll need stitches.”

A twinge of guilt burned uncomfortably in my chest. Apparently, he’d fled from flying bullets, sought refuge in my hotel suite, and I’d graciously welcomed him by stabbing him.

His head turned, his interest shifting away from examining his wounds as his gaze locked on to mine. Dark eyes, black as midnight, stilled for a moment, unblinking and wholly unnerving. Then his attention drifted lower, his focus gliding downward as he perused my scantily clad body.

And my body reacted, as if his devoted attention had become a sensual touch. My nipples hardened, a dull ache began to intensify between my thighs, and my knees grew unstable, forcing me to widen my stance.

“…bottle of alcohol?” he murmured, tone low and even.

“What?” My gaze snapped back up to his eyes, which stared straight into my mine.

I hadn’t imagined his full-body admiration. Or had I? My nipples remained almost painfully hard and the irrefutable sensual ache still throbbed. Regardless if his sexually charged attention was real or imagined, the man had an effect on me. And had from the moment I’d bumped into him near the restaurant earlier today.