Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Then, the man he’d referred to as Tragar noticed me hunched on the floor beside the desk and rattling in the aftermath of adrenaline. His focus flew back to Ethan with something like sympathy edging his expression.
A knife was pulled from a pocket, the blade springing free, and it sliced through the plastic binding Ethan’s wrists. Tragar was wise enough to ask it with a touch of restraint, probably still annoyed about being blindsided. “Everyone okay?”
“Does she look okay to you?” Ethan demanded.
That was the moment he must have remembered I was wearing only a bra and underwear. He peeled off his suit jacket carefully—
“So,” Tragar said, flatly, “you need medical, too.”
I gasped. The dress shirt that clung to his back was a bright crimson, soaked in his blood, but he barely seemed to notice. His gaze flicked to Vitale with a sneer before returning to Tragar. “Can you clear the room?”
“I need some hands in here,” Tragar announced to the men outside the office.
He stepped over Gio’s body like it was a minor inconvenience on his way to securing Vitale and began to pull him from the room. He didn’t hold my attention long. It returned to Ethan, who knelt in front of me and slung the bloody jacket gently around my shoulders, taking care not to bump my arm.
“You got a lock pick?” he asked one of the men who filed past, and the man handed over a skinny tool that looked like a screwdriver.
Ethan said nothing while the men hauled the Italians out the door, two men hefting Gio’s body. Instead, he focused on undoing my cuffs as delicately as possible, gauging my reaction for pain when he freed my shattered wrist.
When he dropped the metal cuffs to the floor, it was like everything around us didn’t exist anymore. He focused on me. And, holy shit, he had my attention, too.
Because he was shaking.
“What the hell is this?” I asked, my teasing voice quiet and soft. “Pull yourself together, Foster.”
He gave me a sad, lopsided grin. “I’ll try.”
Then he smoothed his hand over the back of my hair and leaned forward to press a kiss to my forehead.
“How are you still able to move?” I asked.
“Adrenaline.” He shifted so he was no longer kneeling, but sitting on the floor, and the face he made announced the move wasn’t without side effects. “I think it’s beginning to wear off.” He looked down at the arm I braced against my body, the hand hanging limp. “How bad does it hurt?”
“Not that bad.”
He exhaled slowly and gave me a look that made the pain fade away. “I appreciate the effort, but you’re aware I can tell when you’re lying.”
“Yeah, okay. How’s your back?” I asked, challenging him not to lie right back to me in an attempt to spare me the concern. The muscles along his jawline flexed, and the need to touch him propelled me forward. I was desperate to have a connection to him, and sighed in satisfaction when I pressed my uninjured hand to his chest. I could feel the drum of his heartbeat beneath my fingertips, the rhythm soothing.
I felt like we were alone again, even when two men approached, both carrying boxes with medical symbols on them and began snapping on latex gloves.
Finally, I pulled the hand back to give the medics space to work.
“They’re cutting off your shirt,” I said, my gaze following the scissors as they separated the already-ruined shirt from his body.
“Yes,” he said.
His hardened chest came into view as the fabric was pulled away, and the spike of chemicals my brain had released to help me survive this night had left me shaking and giddy.
“Can’t say I mind that,” I whispered.
The medic working on stabilizing my wrist shot me a sideways glance, but the comment worked, and I got the smile from Ethan that I loved. I tried to focus on that rather than the pain. I needed to think about something else. Anything else.
“I never asked. Which language is your favorite? Besides English.”
He didn’t hesitate. “My mother’s language, Croatian.”
“Okay, say something in Croatian.”
This time he did hesitate, searching for the right phrase, and his breathing picked up. I expected something long and beautiful, and he didn’t disappoint. It sounded heavenly rolling out of his mouth. Plus, the tone was hushed and sexy, like a lover’s whisper.
“You’re right, it’s pretty,” I said, trying to look unaffected. “And it means?”
His smile was diabolical. “My father is a ski instructor.”
“What?” He knocked me down ten thousand feet, and that was where I leveled off. “You’re lying.”
“You’re right. Randall Foster is not a ski instructor. He owns a construction company that builds custom homes in the Ohio River Valley.”
“Ethan,” I started, then gasped with pain as the man working on my arm pulled the strap tight on the temporary brace. “Tell me what you just said.”