hair caught on top of her head with a John Deere cap, a sheer push-up bra and a pair of rubber waders the only clothes she wore.
He engaged the safety and holstered the semiautomatic, chuckling under his breath with as much humor as disbelief. If only the guys from “Page Six” could see their favorite pair of tits and ass now.
Billboard or not, he couldn’t help a smirk. “If it isn’t Michelina Ferrer, heiress to the Ferrer Fragrances empire, in almost nothing but flesh.”
Her lips trembled in response, the pallor of her face nearly the same shade as the shocked whites of her eyes.
He sobered, taking a closer look at the bruise on her right cheekbone, the scrape on the same shoulder, the duct tape on her arm that looked to be a makeshift bandage. Then he remembered the accident he’d passed.
And he swore.
“It wasn’t an accident, was it?” he asked, and she crumpled to the floor , shaking her head as a sob fil ed with fear shook her body.
Eight
M icky didn’t care if she ever got up off this floor. She didn’t care that it was sticky with things she couldn’t name and smelled like ones even worse. She didn’t care about the photos of her bare ass all of Manhattan had talked about with their morning bagels and coffee. All she cared about was not having a chance to tell Papi good-bye. This man…When he’d burst through the door, she’d been certain he’d come to finish what his buddies had started. She hadn’t been at all surprised that he’d found her. After being run off the road and bounced like a red rubber bal l , she hadn’t had strength to walk far.
It had been dark. She’d been more than a bit disoriented. Stumbling onto this place had been pure dumb luck. For a local, especially one wanting to know if she’d made it out alive, it would’ve been an obvious place to look.
It took another minute for her to realize this one wasn’t a local. He had a Cajun flavor to his voice, but his presence and his attitude were more New York and the world. And then there were his clothes.
His boots were Mark Nason, his jeans designer chic, his black T-shirt silk instead of faded cotton stretched to accommodate a belly fond of fried catfish and beer. He didn’t have a belly at all.
Whoever he was, she’d bet half her inheritance he knew the difference between Central Park East and West. The other half of the money she was going to need to get herself out of whatever this was she’d stumbled into.
Then she remembered he knew her name, knew who she was, and had been surprised to see her. Maybe her life was flashing before her eyes for no reason. He knelt in front of her, his hand going to her cheek, the cheek that she was certain was the color of dead fish. She tried not to flinch, but he saw it, the fear that came with not knowing who he was or what he wanted.
She tilted her head to the side, away from his touch. “Who are you?”
“This is my house,” was all he said, moving his gaze to the shoulder that hurt like the worst Brazilian wax.
“You don’t live here.” It was an obvious statement, but she didn’t know what else to say.
She was the one who had no rights here, the one who had broken into a house she’d thought abandoned, looking for safety and shelter while she figured out what to do. She didn’t have a lot of experience with people wanting to kill her. She’d been skewered in the press, flayed on gossip TV, skinned raw by paparazzi who had no qualms about making her bleed.
But to be chased down a dark road while in an unfamiliar car with no clue as to where she was going…Dear God, when that truck had rammed her…when she’d seen the reflection of her headlights on the bayou below…the water rushing up at her…
Her skin grew clammy, and her heart rate, which had finally begun to slow, started up again, hammering harder than before. And now, again, here came her life flashing.
“No, I don’t live here,” he said, his voice distracting her, though she could
He engaged the safety and holstered the semiautomatic, chuckling under his breath with as much humor as disbelief. If only the guys from “Page Six” could see their favorite pair of tits and ass now.
Billboard or not, he couldn’t help a smirk. “If it isn’t Michelina Ferrer, heiress to the Ferrer Fragrances empire, in almost nothing but flesh.”
Her lips trembled in response, the pallor of her face nearly the same shade as the shocked whites of her eyes.
He sobered, taking a closer look at the bruise on her right cheekbone, the scrape on the same shoulder, the duct tape on her arm that looked to be a makeshift bandage. Then he remembered the accident he’d passed.
And he swore.
“It wasn’t an accident, was it?” he asked, and she crumpled to the floor , shaking her head as a sob fil ed with fear shook her body.
Eight
M icky didn’t care if she ever got up off this floor. She didn’t care that it was sticky with things she couldn’t name and smelled like ones even worse. She didn’t care about the photos of her bare ass all of Manhattan had talked about with their morning bagels and coffee. All she cared about was not having a chance to tell Papi good-bye. This man…When he’d burst through the door, she’d been certain he’d come to finish what his buddies had started. She hadn’t been at all surprised that he’d found her. After being run off the road and bounced like a red rubber bal l , she hadn’t had strength to walk far.
It had been dark. She’d been more than a bit disoriented. Stumbling onto this place had been pure dumb luck. For a local, especially one wanting to know if she’d made it out alive, it would’ve been an obvious place to look.
It took another minute for her to realize this one wasn’t a local. He had a Cajun flavor to his voice, but his presence and his attitude were more New York and the world. And then there were his clothes.
His boots were Mark Nason, his jeans designer chic, his black T-shirt silk instead of faded cotton stretched to accommodate a belly fond of fried catfish and beer. He didn’t have a belly at all.
Whoever he was, she’d bet half her inheritance he knew the difference between Central Park East and West. The other half of the money she was going to need to get herself out of whatever this was she’d stumbled into.
Then she remembered he knew her name, knew who she was, and had been surprised to see her. Maybe her life was flashing before her eyes for no reason. He knelt in front of her, his hand going to her cheek, the cheek that she was certain was the color of dead fish. She tried not to flinch, but he saw it, the fear that came with not knowing who he was or what he wanted.
She tilted her head to the side, away from his touch. “Who are you?”
“This is my house,” was all he said, moving his gaze to the shoulder that hurt like the worst Brazilian wax.
“You don’t live here.” It was an obvious statement, but she didn’t know what else to say.
She was the one who had no rights here, the one who had broken into a house she’d thought abandoned, looking for safety and shelter while she figured out what to do. She didn’t have a lot of experience with people wanting to kill her. She’d been skewered in the press, flayed on gossip TV, skinned raw by paparazzi who had no qualms about making her bleed.
But to be chased down a dark road while in an unfamiliar car with no clue as to where she was going…Dear God, when that truck had rammed her…when she’d seen the reflection of her headlights on the bayou below…the water rushing up at her…
Her skin grew clammy, and her heart rate, which had finally begun to slow, started up again, hammering harder than before. And now, again, here came her life flashing.
“No, I don’t live here,” he said, his voice distracting her, though she could
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