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The hair at the back of my neck stands on end, and the room is filled with a spine-tingling spark, threatening to electrocute me where I stand. Just as I’m about to spin around, a pair of muscular arms wrap around my waist and draw me into a warm, hard, heaven and hell.
“See anythin’ ya like, Babydoll?” His voice is hoarse, honeyed, and goddamn, goose bumps prickle every inch of my skin, especially when I hear him use the nickname he’s pegged for me.
But I’ll be damned if he knows that.
“No, not particularly,” I reply with bite as I struggle to free myself. “Let me go.”
“Ack, I think not. What ye doin’ in my home?”
“I got lost,” I quip, ignoring the heat of his bare chest pressed against my back. “But I’ll be on my way.”
Punky laughs in response, hinting I’m not going anywhere.
He towers over me, and God knows, I should be frightened being held prisoner in his arms, but I’m not afraid. I’m aroused.
He tightens his hold around me, making it near impossible to breathe. Turning over my shoulder, I get a glimpse of a silver barbell in his nipple and script writing, which looks Latin, inked across his chest. Both have me biting the inside of my cheek to stop my whimper of approval.
“Yer not going anywhere until ya answer my question.”
His deep, honeyed Northern Irish accent does things to me that heat my cheeks, but I can’t be distracted. I’ve established that I’m incredibly attracted to Punky, but that shouldn’t deter me from the fact he is a downright arsehole who I want to slap half the time.
I know he won’t let me go until I tell him the truth, so I open my palm and show him the brooch. “Here, sorry I took it. Who does it belong to, anyway?”
I don’t want to make a fuss, so I play nonchalant. His grip on me slackens when he sees the offering.
“Ya wee thief,” he says, clucking his tongue but not answering my question.
“Sticks and stones, now let me go.” I struggle once more, and this time, he loosens his hold so I can break free.
Spinning around, I’m ready to slap his cheek for having the gall to touch me, but stop dead in my tracks when I see his face. If possible, he has even more bruising, but these cuts are fresh. What happened after he left the Duffys’ last night?
“What happened to your face?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
“That’s none of yer concern,” he replies, gesturing with his hand that he wants the brooch back.
I give it to him, wishing he’d tell me what happened.
His hard, angry exterior is replaced with what I can only describe as genuine relief and a flash of happiness. It’s gone a second later.
“Why’d ya take it then?” he asks as if remembering I’m still here.
“You’re welcome,” I smartly reply, ignoring his naked, defined chest and abs inches away.
His hair is mussed, his long fringe flicked to the high heavens. I must have woken him even though I was quiet. He clearly sleeps with one eye open as nothing slips past him.
“I’ll not tell ya again,” he warns, not in the mood to play games.
“Why’d you think I took it?” I declare, hating how weak my admission makes me sound. “I’m the Duffys’ fucking servant, for Christ’s sake. Do the maths and spare me the fucking lecture.”
He seems caught off guard by my response, as I can imagine most wouldn’t dare speak to a Kelly this way. But I’m not most.
“How’d ya know where I live?”
“It’s not exactly a secret,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “I know how to use Google.”
Punky’s lips lift into an amused grin. “If that’s true, ya know all about the Kelly name then?”
I swallow subtly, my bravado soon fading. I know all about the Kellys. Some pieces of information I wish I didn’t know. But I play coy.
