A man had walked away from this room a few moments before. A man who, under different circumstances, might have presented a challenge because he was clever, experienced, and dangerous. But the fool had been in a rush.
He saw an opportunity.
A rare one. A delicious one.
His laughter was low and full-bodied, the kind that came from deep in the belly of amusement. This might prove to be his trickiest move yet.
His gaze dropped once more to the unconscious girl.
Leila Crawford.
Like father, like daughter.
When she walked in with such defiance in her eyes, he thought she would pull out a gun and take him out. He had expected a leather-wearing bimbo with long blonde hair and thick fake lashes. Instead, he got this.
A red-haired bombshell in a Barbie-pink suit, her lips designed to drive a man insane.
He laughed, straightening up to his full height. Oh, this was going to be fun.
The ride back to his temporary apartment was uneventful.
Leila stirred once or twice, but she was too far gone to do much else. By the time they reached the house, night had fallen, settling on Florida like a damp cloak.
Makros didn't like it here.
Two weeks on American soil was already too much. Their laws were suffocating, their people arrogant. Everything about this place grated against his nature.
As Leila regained consciousness, the first thing she noticed was the smell of blood.
It clung to her skin, her hair, and lungs. It was thick and smothering. The sheets beneath her were unfamiliar and smooth silk against her bare arms.
The second thing she'd noticed was him.
Makros Crete stood with his back to her, a towel slung low on his hips. The glow of the bedside lamp threw his shadow against the wall, outlining the heavy cut of his shoulders. The sharp grooves of muscle trailed down his spine. A long, jagged scar marred his back, a brutal reminder that he was not like other men.
A sudden gasp escaped her lips.
Makros turned at the sound, ice-blue eyes locking onto hers. A slow smirk curled his mouth.
“You Americans,” he drawled, slipping into his pants with ease. “Did no one ever teach you that it's rude to stare at naked men?”
Leila blinked rapidly, forcing herself to look away. Not that it helped.
The image had seared itself into her brain. The taut muscles, the scarred skin, the rawness of him. Generally speaking, it took a well-executed wink and an offer to buy a man wine before she saw this much of one.
This time, it had all been laid bare. And damn, what an ass.
She swallowed hard.
Focus.
Her thoughts snapped back into place as reality set in.
This was not her bedroom.
This was not her home.
This was a prison wrapped in luxury.
