Driven By Fate(35)

It pissed her off, royally. Porter had no right being angry right now. After what he’d done, she had the market on anger cornered.

When Porter took a step in Cartwright’s direction, hands fisted at his side, Frankie reacted. Whatever irritation she felt could be addressed later, when her friends weren’t at risk of being plowed down by the British enforcer she’d always known lay beneath Porter’s surface. She hid her wince as she removed her helmet and skated forward, throwing herself between Porter and Cartwright. “Hey, monocle man. Hell of an entrance.” His gaze remained focused over her shoulder. A ribbon of alarm floated down from her chest to coil in her stomach. Nope. Not an antique dealer. No way. Right then, he looked fully capable of murder. On her behalf. “Game’s over, guys. See you next week.”

The sound of wheels scraping over concrete was instantaneous, but one throat cleared behind her. Greg. “You okay with this guy, De Luca?”

Porter’s considerable arm muscles tensed, warning her that Greg’s physical safety was in question. He started to move past her. No way could she stop him. With anger making his body whip-tight, he was unstoppable. Throw in the haunted look in his eye and her options whittled down to one. Distract him. She curled her fingers around the lapels of his coat, using her grip as leverage to boost herself up against his body. Kissing him felt like selling out after what he’d done, making her hesitate for a bare second, their mouths a breath apart.

“I’m so pissed at you,” she whispered. “I want to slap your stupid face.”

He came back to her in degrees, his gaze clearing little by little. “I was in my car watching you play this absurd game and then you…and he. This is—”

“—highly irregular, Francesca,” she finished for him.

A gruff noise filled the scant inch between them. “I need you back. It’s the only reason I haven’t sent that bastard to the emergency room. I gather he’s a friend?”

She nodded once.

“Goddammit.” He appeared to focus on his breathing. In. Out. “This is why your knees are scraped? Have you never heard of knee pads?”

“I left them in the trunk of my cab. My uncle’s friend borrowed it while his is in the shop.” She couldn’t resist a peek at his mouth. Arrogant and full. Close. “I forget them in places pretty frequently.”

One strong arm banded around the small of her back, plastering her closer. God, his sheer size and power affected her like nothing else. “Did you actually think kissing me would serve as sufficient distraction? When I’ve just seen you manhandled by some bollocks carrying a weapon?”

“It’s a hockey stick. And yeah.” She gasped as he tightened his hold. “Would it have worked?”

“Yes.”

Mad. You’re mad. Oh, but she really had to dig deep to find the outrage. It had been a smart move on his end, leaving her alone for a few days. She’d had no choice but to confront the fact that, while his methods were infinitely wrong, she’d felt something unexpected in that room, deeply seated inclinations she might never have discovered otherwise. With every encounter, every touch, he ruled her a little more. The femininity she’d kept locked away for so long brightened, strengthened. Her anger at him kept getting swept away in those undeniable feelings. But not entirely. Oh, hell no.

“If you think I’m going to kiss you now that you’ve calmed down, keep dreaming.”

“I’m anything but calm.” His thumb dug into the base of her spine, in just the right spot, shooting an arrow of pure longing to the flesh pressed against the seam of her jeans. She swallowed a whimper, somehow even more turned on by his cocky head tilt and sympathetic murmur. “I’m prepared to work very hard for the privilege of kissing you again, among other things. Very hard, indeed.”

“Oh, we’ve entered the innuendo phase?” she breathed.

“That wasn’t an innuendo. They would hear you screaming in New Jersey if I got you on hands and knees right now.” He hefted her onto her tiptoes. “You’re dressed like a boy, Francesca. Do you need help remembering you’re a woman? I can think of several, creative ways to show you.”

He hadn’t said it quietly. She heard a slight shift behind her and knew Greg hadn’t left yet. Was it wrong that she reveled in him overhearing Porter’s remarks? Every hormone in her body raced toward Porter’s touch, where their bodies pressed. Standing in her ripped, bloody jeans and a messy ponytail, she’d never felt more wanted. Not in her whole life. Damn him.

“So I should just forget everything that happened?” She released her hold on his coat. “I should just let you inside my house because you showed up?”

Misery flashed in his expression before he covered it. He loosened his hold from around her waist and inserted a hand between them. She watched in fascination as he unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt and pushed it wide.

Her blood was still there, smeared across his skin.

“I’m not sure whose it is anymore, Francesca. It’s all gone sixes and sevens. I feel like I’ve been bleeding for days.”

Oh…oh god. It took her a moment to formulate a response. Her anger was fast dissipating, far too soon. She tried to reel it back, but her blood on his chest hurt to look at. “I guess that earns you a cup of coffee at least.”