Rogue - Michele Mannon Page 0,6

you want?”

My eyes skim upward and I’m greeted by smug, self-assured tilt of his lips. You, his smile seems to say. I want you.

I’m tall at five feet nine, lithe and long-legged. This man’s chin can rest on my head. A perfectly shaped chin, accompanied by high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and as my gaze flickers across his face, deliciously full, kissable lips. He’s fair, like me. Except he’s sporting a fine line of five-o’clock shadow.

His jaw-dropping good looks snag my attention. But it’s the energy between us that knocks the wind out of me. Sexual magnetism. It’s like the air’s supercharged, undergoing some kind of chemical reaction, hot and bubbly and ready to explode. And, as that lazy smile of his broadens, I feel my body physically responding . . . what the hell?

“What do you want?” I repeat, in a hoarse tone. Far too affected by him than I care to admit. He makes a sound deep within his throat and I swear the crotch of my shorts are instantly wet.

“To see if what your T-shirt says is true.”

can’t catch me. Oh shit.

He whistles. Off tune. In the exact same manner as that hallucinogenic bird call from earlier. Holy sweet Mary . . .

“Over here,” someone shouts. I’m furious, at myself for being distracted like a teenager with her first crush. And, with him—for leading me on, tempting me, bending me to his will with one lazy come-hither smile.

Before I can ram my fist into his perfectly shaped nose and ruin his perfect, symmetrically shaped but far too smug face, I’m flanked in by the two other riffraff.

“Sneaky bitch,” the man with the busted nose growls. “Move out of the way, Jaxson. I’m going to teach her a lesson.”

“Move aside, Jaxson,” I mock, growling right back at him. “This sneaky bitch is going to give Broken-Nose a taste of what Ball-Busted got.”

“Broken-Nose—”

“—Ball-Busted? You’re dead, bitch.”

God, it’s like a scene right out of a Laurel and Hardy rerun on the Looney Tune Network. Except for the threat of bodily harm. And death. The two men charge forward.

Jaxson steps up from behind me. I feel his hands on my shoulder, his body against my back. Protecting me? Or doing what my T-shirt boasts?

“A bit of advice. When dealing with Hayden, control your temper,” he informs me. “Remember it well, Kylie.”

Oh, shit. They know my name?

A sharp pain mars my head just above my right eyebrow.

My world spins, and then it’s lights out.

Dangerous.

No other word comes to mind when describing the intense stranger sitting across from me. A large oak desk separates us. Not that it’d do much to stop him if his intention is to harm me. Given the circumstances of how I arrived here, I’d say the probability of escaping him isn’t in my favor.

Hayden—this is the man my lazy-smiled assailant warned me about.

“Sit,” he’d said in the way of a greeting, pointing the eraser end of a pencil at the leather chair before his desk.

I blinked, once.

His eyes narrowed.

I quickly relocated from the leather couch I’d abruptly woken on and now sit before him. With as much discretion as I can muster considering my throbbing headache, I survey the room.

It’s richly appointed, like something out of Dallas Digest, with two floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining two of the four walls. My unexpected sleeping quarters takes up a third wall. The fourth, a door—the one that’d been slammed and that had likely snapped me out of an unexpected slumber. I’ll have to thank my sly, pony-shirted assailant the next time I see him. For a second, I regret how it’s not him here with me instead.

Hayden taps his pencil on the thick manila file in front of him, impatient and intense and, as my attention turns to him, boldly taking me in.

“You’ve been spying on the compound outside of Shelby,” he states. It’s not a question. Like my Tuesday morning Prick Patrol is common knowledge.

“Don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” I smoothly reply. He’s dressed in a suit, which adds to my nervousness. After all, the Pricks I’ve been spying on favored suits. What could a man like him want from me?

Leaning back in my chair, I do my damnedest to act like I’m unfazed by him and what’s happening to me.

I try to focus on the obvious; the stranger is sexy as hell, in a scary, domineering way. His crisp, white collared shirt is unbuttoned, allowing for enough exposed skin to give a sense of the firm muscles