His to Defend - Em Petrova Page 0,15
him to a fight.
Lillian moved to the window.
“Come away from there, Lillian.”
Skin prickling with a trace of fear, she moved toward the bed. That almost scared her more.
In a few strides, he walked the perimeter of the room. She watched, halfway expecting him to test the walls for weak spots where people could break through. He checked the window locks and looked out at the darkening sky.
A knock sounded on the door, and he stalked over to it. With one hand riding along his spine, close to his waistband, he opened the door. He dropped his hand and stepped aside to allow the innkeeper to enter with a tray. After he set it down, Lars tipped him heftily again and saw him back out.
She couldn’t shake the vision of his hand poised to grab for the gun she couldn’t see though knew he carried. Knew he’d killed with.
Her stomach pitched, and ice filled her veins.
To cover her unease, she started to ramble. “You’re American but very fluent in French.”
He dropped to the chair and eyed her. The armchair seemed too dainty to support his bulk and weight. As he sighed and leaned forward, his thighs seemed to bow the arms outward. “What makes you think I’m American?” he asked in impeccable French.
“My mother’s American.”
He arched a brow and reached for the coffeepot. She watched him pour two cups and take a sip of his. “God, I needed that.” He slurped half the cup of black coffee.
Moving to the table, she scanned the tray of sandwiches, some delicate pastries with what appeared to be honey dollops and some grapes native to this region. She dumped a teaspoon of sugar into her coffee and moved back to the bed to sip and stare at the man in front of her.
He picked up a sandwich and bit off half in what seemed to be one big bite. Even while eating, he possessed a hard edge. She understood where it derived from, but she didn’t like it.
However, he did have nice eyes. Dark green like a pine. She knew from riding behind him on the motorbike that he smelled like it too.
When he caught her staring, she slid her gaze away and drank more coffee. “How long do you think we’ll stay here?”
“Not long.”
“Do you know the innkeeper?”
“No.”
She sipped and lowered her cup, cradling it between her cold fingers. “Who hired you to protect Pierre?”
“Some people who take offense to hitmen thinking they can collect for taking someone’s life.”
“You don’t work for the French government?”
“No.” He cracked open the sandwich and pulled off a pickle, which he set aside on the plate.
“You dislike pickles.”
His gaze landed on her, heavy and unmoving. “You talk a lot.”
“It’s what I do for a living. Plus, I’m nervous.”
“I make you nervous?”
“Who’s asking questions now?” She stood and grabbed her own sandwich. Sinking back to the mattress’s edge, she nibbled on the homemade bread that had been sliced for the sandwich.
“This is good.” She chewed and swallowed another bite. “And the pickles are homemade. I’m surprised you dislike them.”
He didn’t respond, only stared at her and stuffed the rest of his food into his mouth.
“Will we be safe here tonight?”
“If I thought otherwise, I wouldn’t have stopped.” The words projected on a growl.
She cocked her head to study him. “Why are you so grumpy?”
A laugh burst from him, catching her off guard. The crinkles around his eyes and the way his hard lips tipped upward added to his handsome appearance. His laugh sounded nice too.
“I’m an asshole,” he said.
“Assholes are grumpy? Did you study to be one or were you born that way?”
He chuckled again and settled against the back of his chair with more coffee. “I was adopted, so I’m not sure if it’s nurture or nature, Lillian.”
“Lil. People call me Lil.”
His pleasant expression remained, and that smile lingered around his lips.
While she finished her sandwich, she didn’t ask more questions. But when she took up her coffee once more, she felt the urge to tell him about her work.
“I’ve known Pierre for two years now. I met him at a party.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“I was there representing his competitor at the time, so business. Have you tried the grapes?”
“Yes, they’re sour.”
She wrinkled her nose and stood to reach for a pastry instead. After a bite or two, she set it back on the plate.
“Is it bad too?” he asked.
“No. I just try to avoid too many sweets.”
He shook his head. “How very French of you.”
He sounded as if