Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes #3)(124)

Lily

I stare at him in horror. Oh! My! God! I have totally slipped out of character. My alter ego doesn’t even remember her grandparents. I can’t believe I have f*cked up so bad. What if he wants to know more about her? Or, worse, wants to meet her? I can’t tell him she is dead. I think of her, her head tipped back, roaring with laughter. My grandmother is very superstitious—Chinese believe all mention of death and dying is bad luck, and she would be so hurt if she knew I was telling anyone she was dead. I’ll have to tell Mills and the agency will have to come up with a fake grandmother. But that will be embarrassing, too. Admitting that I slipped up this early in the assignment.

I drop my eyes to my hand.

‘How long do you have to do that for?’ he asks.

I put my head up and see him looking at the flour I am holding against my burn.

‘Ten minutes.’ The flour has helped, but it is still painful.

He switches the fire off. ‘Come on,’ he says, and with his hand on the small of my back leads me toward the living room. ‘We’ll order in tonight.’

To my great relief he loses interest in my grandmother and does not ask anything else about her.



It will be our last night on the island. Some part of me doesn’t want to leave. I have been happy here. Happier than I have ever been in my life. We have watched the sunset over the water and had our takeaway pizza, and now Jake has gone in to have a shower.

I stand on the terrace for a little while longer soaking in the magic of the island. A lizard scampers up a tree. I know a faint tinge of envy. It lives in this paradise. I watch it until it disappears into some bushes. With a sigh I go indoors and pull out a book from my bag. Curling up on the sofa I start to read. Three pages later Jake is standing in the doorway.


‘Hey,’ he says.

I gaze at him. He is wearing a pair of faded jeans. They hug his strong thighs. Something about him always makes my mouth dry. ‘Hey, yourself,’ I reply.

‘What are you reading?’

‘The Billionaire Banker.’

‘Any good?’

‘Not bad.’

He comes forward, the muscles of his chest gleaming in the down-lights. Desire floods through me, so hot and fast that my clit aches.

I pat the sofa next to me.

He raises his eyebrows.

‘I want to try something.’

His eyebrows rise. ‘What?’

I turn my book to the appropriate page and hand it over to him. ‘I want to try that.’

He takes the book from me and reads. I watch him, the way the light caresses his cheekbones, the shadows his long eyelashes make, the straight mouth. A beautiful man, a truly beautiful man. When he looks up his eyes are dark and amused. ‘I’ve got whiskey.’

‘I know where I can get some ice,’ I say with a grin.

By the time I come back with a bucket of ice, he has stripped naked. His big thighs are bunched and ready and his decorated, satiny soft cock is erect and magnificent in the soft glow of the lights. He is so hot and so perfect my thighs quiver. In one hand he is holding a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

I lean weakly against a pillar. ‘Already so hard?’

He doesn’t answer. Instead he opens me with his practiced fingers and does to me what the billionaire banker did to his woman.





FOURTEEN


The first thing I do at work when I return from our little holiday is go on the Internet and find out about bare knuckle fighting, a sport where the opponents ram their unprotected fists into each other to decide who is the hardest of them. What I discover scares the shit out of me.

The activity is considered to be the ultimate tear-up, no f*cking around, no holds barred and with plenty of blood. It could be pouring from a fighter’s ears or even from his groin, bitten by his opponent.

I also learn that the impact of one man’s bare fist on another is equivalent to the force of a four pound lump hammer traveling at twenty miles an hour. The effect could be devastating, even after a bout lasting just a few minutes. There are no official rounds to this blood sport; instead it just goes on until one of them cannot take it anymore, or has sustained so many injuries that he can no longer stand.

It reminds me of the Chinese proverb my grandmother used to tell us grandchildren: When two tigers fight, one limps away horribly wounded, the other is dead.

That evening, profoundly disturbed and unable to wait, I run to the front door as soon as I hear Jake enter and confront him. ‘Is it true that in bare knuckle fighting you could be bitten so hard in the groin that you start bleeding?’ I demand.

He closes the door with a deliberate click. ‘It won’t be like that, Lil. Both Pilkington and I are too proud to bite like wild animals.’

I clasp my hands together nervously. ‘But you could end up with a broken eye socket or a smashed fist?’ The thought makes me tremble.

‘Unlikely. The fight will be marshaled by a referee.’

‘But the possibility exists that you could get hurt?’ I insist.

‘Yes, I could,’ he admits.

I take a deep breath. ‘And what happens when you do?’

‘There will be a paramedic on standby.’

‘It says on the Internet that you could be brain damaged. What could a paramedic do then?’ I cry.