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I draw in a breath and force my muscles to relax. When I nod, he releases me. At which point, I turn and stalk toward where she’s dancing with someone else. I know she has to circulate among the guests. It’s her job. It comes with the territory of being a fixer. Of keeping an ear to the ground and staying abreast of events. I get that. But this… This is where I draw the line. She came to the event with me and now she’s dancing with another. How dare she dance with another man?
There’s something familiar about his stance, his features, but I’m positive I’ve never met this man before. He’s much taller than her—as tall as me—and in comparison, she looks tiny, fragile. His swarthy looks complement her delicate ones. With his head of full dark hair, and Zara’s dark locks that flow behind her, they make a striking couple.
My chest seizes. My heart pumps so hard, the beats reverberate through my cells. The bastard has his hand around her tiny waist, the other holding her hand. As I watch, he releases her waist, only to twirl her out then back toward him. She laughs, that full-bodied, hearty laugh that arrows straight to my cock. He leans forward, until his face is close to hers, until his mouth is close to her ear, until it feels like his entire body is a hair’s breadth from enveloping hers. That’s when something inside me snaps.
I weave through the people standing around the edge, then past the other dancing couples, to stand beside them.
For a second, they don’t notice me, so engrossed are they in each other, and that only fuels this burning sensation that’s flared in my chest.
"Let her go." I hear my words, and only then, do I realize I’ve spoken.
Both of them turn to face me.
Her features pale. "Hunter, we were just dancing."
I glare at her, then back at the motherfucker who still has his hands on her.
"Let her the fuck go."
He looks between us. "Are you with him?"
"I’m not," she snaps at the same time that I growl, "She is."
He frowns. "Maybe it’s best I step back."
"That would be best for all of us, motherfucker," I growl.
"No need to swear." The man’s lips firm. "I’ll leave once I make sure Zara’s okay." He turns to her. "You all right, Z?"
"The fuck?" He called her by a nickname? How dare he call her by a nickname. No one gets to do that, except me.
I glare down at where the bastard still has his hand on her hip. "Let her the fuck go."
"And if I don’t?"
I raise my fist and bury it in his face.
* * *
"Really? Really?" She paces back-forth-back in the small room up the corridor from the ballroom where the gala was being held. "What were you thinking, Hunter?" she snaps.
I wasn’t thinking.
I saw his hands on her and I swung and connected with his face. The stranger took the hit, staggered back, only to recover and swing at me. I ducked, of course, and growled at Zara to step aside, which she did. When I was sure she was at a safe enough distance I swung at him again, and we both went tumbling to the ground.
"You were lucky that Michael Sovrano happened to be there and caused a diversion by pulling the fire alarm," she rages at me.
Which also opened up the sprinklers in the ceiling of the ball room, and water rained down on us. It hit me with the impact of a cold shower. Literally. I pulled back; so did the stranger. We stared at each other, chests heaving, breath coming in pants. Logic dictates that’s when I should have apologized to him for starting the fight. Which I hadn’t.
"’Stay away from what’s mine’? You growled at him to 'Stay away from what’s mine'?" She turns on me, eyes spitting golden sparks, her hair clinging in long damp tendrils to her shoulders, and that gorgeous dress showing off the curves of her spectacular hips. "Who says something so Neanderthalish?"
"Is that a word in the English language?" I ask in a mild tone.
Her already pink cheeks now flush red. "That’s what you take away from what I said?"
"Not only."
"Oh?" She plants her palms on her hips.
