Without warning, he moves.
His hand clamps around my arm, iron-strong. I jolt, panic crashing over me in a sick wave.
“What are you?—”
“Come quietly,” he murmurs, too calm, too certain. “Don’t make a scene.”
My heart jackknifes into my throat.No. No no no— I was supposed to die not be kidnapped, totally not the plan!
I thrash, but he tightens his grip like steel around bone. “Don’t fight,” he says lowly, dragging me off the porch toward a black car idling at the curb. “Trust me, it’s easier this way.”
“Let me go!” I scream, twisting hard, but my feet scrape uselessly against the concrete. I claw at his arm, desperation turning my veins to fire.
And then?—
A blur of motion.
A shadow peels out of the night, fast and vicious.
The man’s hold on me rips away as he’s slammed backward into the side of the car with a sickening crack.
I stumble, breathless, watching as my attacker crumples to the pavement, groaning.
My chest heaves. My vision spins.
I look up—and there he is.
A man stands between me and the stranger like a wall of fury. His broad shoulders block out the glare of the streetlamp, his fists clenched at his sides. His face is shadowed, as he hovers over the man.
“Touch her again,” the man growls, “and I’ll rip your fucking throat out.”
2
JASMINE
With his jawclenched and a pistol pressed under the chin of the Italian man who had been seconds away from kidnapping me on the worst day of my life, the most insanely attractive guy I’ve ever seen now stands between us. His lean, muscular frame moves with effortless confidence, and his head tilts slightly as he sizes the Italian up, an almost amused smirk tugging at his mouth.
The Italian man chuckles humorlessly, as he settles his chin comfortably on the barrel, “Stronzo idiota!”
“If anyone is a prick it’s you. Kidnapping an unsuspecting girl in the middle of suburbia.” The man clicks his tongue, his British accent rolling over me like honey and a warm summer sun, making my pulse spike for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
Get it together girl! You are in the middle of a standoff.
The British man shrugs, a hint of humor in his tone. “That just doesn’t sit well with me.”
The Italian man steps in closer, eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what you’re interfering with.”
“Oh, I do,” the Brit says with a low chuckle, cocking the gun, his free hand dropping casually onto the Italian’s shoulder. “ButIam Landon Hart. Ring a bell mate?”
The man’s eyes bulge slightly, and his hands shoot up in surrender, lips quaking into an apologetic smile. “Landon--”
“Yes?”
“I-I didn’t know.” The Italian stutters, knees shaking as he tries to bow to Landon as if he is his king, but the stiff barrel of the gun keeps him standing straight.
“No you didn’t, but I would hate to remind you who I am in front of this young lady,” he peaks over his shoulder, winking at me with the brightest ocean blue eyes I have ever seen in my life.
Jeez, how does anyone get anything done with him looking at them?I haven’t been attracted to a man ever again, since the night I learned just how easily a man can break me down — show me how small, how insignificant I can be.
