My smile has, as it always does around him, completely evaporated.
Even in my head I can hear him slinging around the name I inherited from my maternal grandmother, knowing that it makes my mouth pinch and my hands clench. Welcome to the twenty-first century, Ermione.Įrmione. Pushes down and lingers, as though to taunt, see? This is how a contraption called an elevator works. And, as though he fears I’m completely incompetent, he angles my still-pointed finger at the button to close the doors. A shiver of something-revulsion, I hope-rolls down my spine, unwinding and unfurling until even my gold-painted toes curl in my heels.
Without sparing me another look, his big hand circles my wrist. “You didn’t really need that arm, did you?” When his dark brows rise, taunting me with their perfect arches, I follow his lead and glance down at the illuminated button.Īir puffs up my chest with indignancy as I inhale swiftly. Those slate-gray eyes, unlike any pair I’ve ever seen, drop to where I’m still pressing the KEEP OPEN button. It’s not my fault if technology doesn’t want to work for you.” “If by amputate you mean save,” I murmur with practiced flippancy, “then sure. His tongue rolls over the R in my given name, his Greek accent perfect and sultry despite the condescension dripping heavy and thick with every purred syllable. My smile slips, hackles twitching like a cat’s fur standing on end when stalked by a predator. Nick Stamos stares down at me, his pewter eyes hard and narrowed with suspicion.
She who asketh shall receive-or however the saying goes.įor possibly the first time in six years, I smile at the man standing just inches away. Has there ever been more appropriate timing? I don’t think so. Only that curly hair and a pair of full, pillow-soft lips-not that I’ve ever tasted them, of course-make him seem more human than rigid statue. Up to a face that’s as unforgiving in its aristocratic, angular bone structure as his hair is a wild, dark mop on his head. Up past the barrel chest and the bulging, I-swing-hammers-for-a-living arms.
Up past the lean waist not even a suit jacket can hide. The leather is so soft, so visibly supple, I wouldn’t doubt that they cost more than my mortgage.Īt the Greek curse for “fuck”, and the more than familiar gravel-pitched voice, my back snaps straight, and I yank my gaze up. That hand balls into a fist and then a suit-encased forearm appears, followed by a long leg and a brown, leather dress shoe. I smack it once with a heavy, don’t-fail-me-now finger, then again, my gaze flitting to the doors that are inching closed like the gates of Mordor. A masculine hand sticks through the closing elevator doors, cutting off my train of thought as I lurch forward to jab the KEEP OPEN button.
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