Page 52 of Finally, His

Richard could grow angry all over again if he let himself think too long about what caused her emotional scars. Stories first shared by Marcos over beers at a seedy little Irish pub on Columbia and then later by Charlotte herself. Yet she hadn’t told him the whole story, had she?

From a distance, she looked as if she could break. But she never did, contrary to how her mind played tricks on her. He’d learned fast that Charlotte’s vulnerabilities were not weaknesses.

She was quite formidable in her own way. Only the strongest could still love after suffering wounds such as hers.

And, God, he loved her. So, there was no question she could be okay.

Charlotte was a mere ten feet away when she hesitated and broke his gaze to look at the table behind him. Her smile froze; her breath hitched. Then, she continued forward. Anyone else would think she’d lost her footing for one brief second. Richard glanced over his shoulder at whatever made her pause.

Son of a bitch.

Richard had never told Charlotte how thoroughly he’d investigated her past. She and Marcos may have filled in certain parts, but Richard’s gut told him he had more to learn. One very good private investigator later, he’d learned the truth. If he could, he’d have bleached his brain to get the disgusting images out of his head. He’d have done far more to rid Charlotte of them.

And the person responsible for the worst of it? He casually sat in an expensive gray suit, legs crossed, five feet behind him.

Wayne Trembill.

The man was the dead opposite of everything he—-and his circle-—stood for. The men and women in Richard’s community did not harm. They also didn’t rest until there was peace, love, and compassion in every corner of life for each other.

In that regard, Richard had come to the community fortunate. He’d learned to love women early. His mother, Italian, beautiful, and a “handful,” as his father called her, ruffled his hair and pulled him in for warm hugs. Aunts and cousins all showered him with nothing but love. He’d inhaled their unique scents of Arpege, flour, and fabric softener from their cotton dresses, and it never, ever occurred to him that anyone would raise their hands or voices to those women. In his family, they never did.

But Charlotte had a very different childhood.He’d never understand how a man could toy with a woman—and Charlotte had been a spinning top in a game she’d never agreed to play for far too many years.

But then her luck changed. Her late husband had rescued her in a way. And then he’d died, but not before sealing a promise with Marcos to care for her—though, his travel schedule made it difficult to be around all the time, so …

Now, Richard was dedicated to her never needingluckagain. Certainly not to hope or wish the arrogant bastard sitting behind him would ever show his face again.

The guy hadthe audacity to adjust his suit jacket and nod at Richard. Then he returned his smirk toward Charlotte, whose eyes now darted around the room. Wayne usually traveled in a pack; she thought more of them were there. Perhaps Marcos’ instincts weren’t so far off.

Richard’s jaw would shatter in his head if he allowed that bastard—or anyone he came with—to stay in the building. Hell, in the entire city.

Marcos rose. Ah, so he’d recognized the son of a bitch, too.

Choices ran through Richard’s head. Stay seated for Charlotte—let her see he was there for her. If he rose, it might throw her off, making her mind spin about what he would do to the smug interloper.

And truth? Every fiber of his being screamed to rise and take charge.

But he stayed seated. For her.

Marcos was behind Wayne in seconds. His hand descended on the fucker’s shoulder. With an offended air, Wayne rose and let Marcos lead him away.

As soon as Charlotte was out of eyesight, walking away from Richard to head back down the hall, he shot to standing. No way in hell would Marcos deal with it for him.

The men were easy to find, around the corner halfway down the East Hall. For one, Marcos was a large man with close-cropped hair and shoulders as wide as a mountain. Three more Club Accendos Dominants hovered nearby—as they would, given their bond went far beyond needing words like “I need backup.” A simple nod across a room would suffice. Seeing Marcos lay a hand on a man they didn’t know was all the signal they’d need to stand with him.

Wayne didn’t seem to notice he was surrounded. Or rather, didn’t seem to care. He should have.

Derek, whose wife Samantha was also in the show, lazily leaned against the wall with his permanent smirk that one could mistake for peacekeeping—which would be abigmistake. Richard had seen the guy box.

Carson, as tall and broad as Marcos, was the closest to Wayne after Marcos. Carson’s temper could ignite the walls if the guy made a wrong move. His wife, London, had her share of past abuse and was probably there. She’d likely handled the public relations for Laurent’s fashion debut.

Then, there was Alexander, who, of course, wouldn’t have missed Sarah or Laurent’s fashion show, even if his own two loves weren’t in attendance. He and Sarah had a special bond.

He was the farthest away, yet somehow, his energy filled the hall. It wasn’t because he was a full six-foot-five inches tall. His commanding air would make a head of state pause and notice.

All in all, the men were a pack and as dangerous as they needed to be, especially if the women—or men—who they protected were on the premises.

Richard marched forward. “Marcos.”

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