Page 2 of Taking His Diva

“All fair questions.” The guy gets up from the leather club chair he’s been sitting in and crosses to the side of the bed. “Scott Flores.” He pauses, searching my face with these intense hazel eyes. If he had less hair on his face and got a haircut that didn’t look like he did it himself with a cheap pair of clippers, he might even be good-looking. He doesn’t find whatever reaction he’d been expecting from me and sits back down.

“You’re at my place in Brooklyn. As for what happened, well, you were attacked. I beat the shit out of the guy and left him for the cops. You were passed out cold, so I took you to the hospital where you were in and out of it all night. Slight concussion. The hospital wouldn’t admit you since you weren’t in bad enough shape. I couldn’t find a purse or anything around you and couldn’t figure out where you lived, so I brought you back here.”

“What section of Brooklyn?”

“Williamsburg.”

Eh. “And I’m naked because?”

“You threw up all over your dress, it got on your bra, and apparently you weren’t wearing panties. They gave you scrubs at the hospital, but you said something about not allowing that cheap fabric to touch your skin and took them off as soon as we got back here.” The guy’s, Scott’s, lips twitch, like he’s trying to hold back a smile.

I must admit the guy has dark and broody down pat. If I were one of those arty chicks who love their men deep and unkempt, I’d be all over him. But only in a slumming it kind of way, not a respectable relationship way.

“I put you in bed, and I’ve been watching you all night for signs the concussion might be getting worse.” His eyes travel up and down my body, and despite knowing I’m covered, it still feels as if he can see everything.

Unable to meet his eyes when they return to my face, I take in the apartment where I’ve found myself unintentionally crashing. It’s big, by New York standards. It appears we’re in a loft, and there’s spiral stairs down to a large living room with huge windows. Given all the exposed brick and ductwork, if I had to guess, I’d say this is some converted warehouse or something. I never got the whole industrial chic thing. What’s so attractive about showing off how old a building is? Give me sleek, mid-century-modern any day.

Though, I’m itching to have a look around, poke my nose where it doesn’t belong, and try to expose my rescuer as much as I suddenly feel laid out before his feet.

“Well, thanks for stopping that guy last night. And, you know, the hospital and watching me and everything. You didn’t have to do all that.” The shake in my voice gives away emotions I’d rather not reveal. Or, you know, have. But the truth is, I can still smell my attacker’s breath. Still feel the press of him against my back. My heart won’t stop pounding or stomach stop churning. I want it all gone.

Making sure he can’t see anything, I slide to the edge of the bed and stand, wrapping the sheet around me as I go. “I should get home.”

I weave around on my feet a little. The blood rushes to my head too fast, and the throbbing behind my eyes intensifies. Closing them, I bend over, pressing my palm into the mattressto keep myself steady. Warm fingers wrap around my bicep, and I start a little at Scott’s touch. Even through the pain and exhaustion, a spark of electricity and awareness zaps through me, right to the very core of my belly. Fear and arousal mix in a confusing cocktail.

Oh hell no.

I amnotgoing to have an attraction to this rocker wanna-be, even if he did save me last night. His apartment might be big, but it’s in entirely the wrong neighborhood for my needs. Not to mention it seems to be in some half-state of dilapidation and renovation. Everything about him is entirely wrong for all my needs.

To put it bluntly, which is the only way I put things, I need a man with money.

Someone who can keep me in the life I am accustomed, should I decide I no longer want to work. Someone who will be just as impressive as I am walking into a premier or gallery opening. The only thing this guy is suited for is scaring the shit out of would-be attackers.

“Take it easy, sleeping beauty. You’ve been in and out for the past twelve hours. You need something to drink and eat, and then I’ll make sure you get home okay.” His voice washes over me, and it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before. Like his vocal cords got tossed around in a cement mixer, and now he’s all gravel and grit. It does nothing to help blood running away from my brain.

“You need to take it easy on the cancer sticks if your voice is any indication.” I straighten up, pulling my arm from his grip. The slide of his fingers against my skin triggers something in my head. A flash of him pulling the blankets over me, keeping his eyes on my face, brushing my hair back from the scrap on my forehead. My heart hitches. I ignore it. “Does this place have indoor plumbing? I need a shower, the bathroom, and clothes.”

As much as possible, I slip on the cloak of semi-annoyed indifference I’ve perfected over a lifetime spent in high society. This dude has seen me in a way no one has before. Vulnerable. My skin feels raw, as if just knowing someone took care of me has peeled back a layer of skin. Like an emotional chemical peel.

“Bathroom is through there.” Scott nods at a door across the loft. “As for the clothes, I’m afraid they were tossed at the hospital. I’m pretty sure I can find something for you to wear around here though.”

My hands fly to my mouth trying to keep the sickness down. As a result, the sheet slips, but I catch it just before it exposes my nipples. Scott doesn’t miss a second of it. “That was a vintage Diane von Fürstenberg wrap dress. Do you have any idea how much that dress was worth? Or the shoes? Oh God, please tell me you saved the shoes at least.”

“Sorry, I didn’t think to go looking for shoes while I was beating up your potential rapist and then carrying you to the hospital. Figured making sure you didn’t slip into a coma was more important.”

“You obviously know nothing about fashion.” I eye up his faded, torn jeans and the tight, black T-shirt clinging to his muscles for dear life. Despite a distinct lack in anything remotely resembling fashion, I have to admit, he wears the clothes well. Although I think the jeans are actual old Wranglers, and I have to suppress an eye roll.

“You’re something else, you know that?” Amusement and something like admiration present themselves in his expression. His eyes take a lazy tour of my body again. Figures, the guy who rescues me is some brooding rocker wannabe, and he’s probably in the process of developing an unhealthy obsession with me right at this moment. Only I could be rescued from a rapist by a new stalker.

“Listen, I appreciate what you did and everything, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to sleep with you.” I tighten the sheet around my chest and pull my spine up another inch. I hate that I’m so short without my trademark sky-high heels. It means I have to look up to this nobody. “I don’t spread my knees for anyone with less than a high six-figure annual income and an apartment in a much better neighborhood.”

Scott’s eyes widen, and for a moment, I can’t tell if he’s going to get pissed or offended or what. I brace for the sting of whatever is about to come. But then he does the exact opposite of everything I’m anticipating and laughs his ass off. Like full out, hands on his knees, turning red, can’t catch his breath, laughing.

My mouth falls open as the gruff man turns almost beautiful with the joy and humor overtaking his face. When he isn’t scowling, Scott is a sight to behold. The realization rocks me on my already unsteady legs, and I stumble back a step. Thankfully, he’s so busy laughing, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Go clean up, Beauty. I’ll get you something to wear.” Still laughing, Scott turns and heads down the spiral staircase.

I slam my jaw shut as he exits. What the actual fuck was that?

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