Mediterranean Mavericks: Greeks. Кейт Хьюит

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      Jasmine was startled awake from a fitful sleep by the soft creaking of the door. Adrenaline deluged her and she choked down on the scream building in her chest. Slowly, she reached for the knife and sat up toward the edge of the bed. She wasn’t going to leave her safety to chance.

      Thankfully, the bed was in the darkest part of the room.

      Noah, for all the ruthless chill in his eyes, wouldn’t lay a finger on her. But John, his younger brother… She had seen that lust in his eyes every time she had run into him at the club.

      She would have only one chance at striking out and she intended to take it without fail. She didn’t wonder if there was a chance to escape or if Noah would rip into her for attacking his brother.

      All she cared in that moment was that no one pinned her on that bed, that no one touched her.

      Footsteps that were as light as her own treaded the cheap linoleum floor and she waited, crouching.

      The moment the faint shadow moved, she attacked soundlessly. Her knife sliced through the air and scratched at something before she was plucked off the bed as if she was a feather.

      She lashed out with her fists and legs, her screams choked by a rough hand that found her mouth effortlessly.

      Her struggle lasted all of two seconds. She was grabbed and hauled against a hard body, knocking the breath out of her while a viselike arm clamped around her middle.

      “Stop struggling or I will walk out and not look back.”

      Mindless with fear, Jasmine dug her teeth into the hard palm, squeezing and pushing against the steel cage that clamped her.

      The hold against her waist tightened, long fingers pressing into her belly and almost grazing the underside of her breasts.

      But John’s body wasn’t honed to steel like the one holding her was, the thought pulsed through the fear. John was fleshy, round. John was… The body that held her tight was all hard muscles and sharp angles, the scent that filled her nostrils not of sweat and other body fluids but clean with a touch of water to it.

      Like the ocean breeze. And only one man she knew had that intoxicating scent that had muddled her senses the last time, too.

      She had been drowning in grief at Andrew’s funeral, and the sight of him, all stunning and sophisticated and so different, that crisp scent of him as he had neared her had sent her on a tailspin.

      “Dmitri?” she whispered, every hope, every breath hinged in that name, her pulse fluttering so fast that it whooshed in her ears.

      The tightness of his hold relented, a sudden shift in the hardness that encased her. His breath landed on the rim of her ear, tickling her. “At your service, Jasmine.”

      Relief came at her in shuddering waves, her lungs expanding, her throat thick with pent-up fear.

      Long fingers moved up and down her arms, stroking her. “Breathe, pethi mou.”

      A streak of longing rent through her at the endearment, tearing at the hardened chunk of self-imposed loneliness that was her core. God, she hadn’t been held like that in forever.

      “You came,” she whispered, feeling light-headed and shivery.

      “Your faith in me will bloat my ego.” Silky smooth and dripping with sarcasm, his words were a whiplash against her fading willpower.

      Anchoring her fingers on his forearms, she forced her spine to straighten. “From everything I hear about you,” she said, her relief fading with a welcome burn of anger and grief she had nursed for the past few years, “your ego, among other things, is apparently already big enough.”

      Waves of his laughter enveloped her. His mouth opened in a smile against her jaw, sending a burst of such shocking heat through her nerves. She didn’t dare turn and glance at him, for fear of combusting alive on the spot.

      Why was she reacting like this to him? Was it shock?

      “John’s lying outside—”

      She tried to jerk away from him. “God, you killed him?”

      Another lethal smile flashed at her. “I promised my godfather I wouldn’t waste the life he gave me.”

      “Nice to know you keep some of your promises.”

      “And then there is Stavros,” he continued smoothly, ignoring her ungrateful little remark, “whose wedding is in a week, and he would not appreciate being dragged into my mess.” He sighed. “So tempted as I was, I didn’t kill him. I don’t even use my fists anymore except to hit Stavros,” he added. “And believe me, if that isn’t exercising self-control, I don’t know what is.”

      Jasmine had no idea if he was serious or joking. The fact that he had answered her request for help, even though it was what she had fervently prayed for, hit her hard now.

      Was it because she hadn’t expected the infamous playboy to come himself? Because she had relentlessly, and a little obsessively, hoped that the soft lifestyle had softened him?

      Had somehow made him less?

      Instead, the body that encased her felt as if it was made of steel. Realizing that she was leaning into him, she threw her elbow out.

      His breath hissed out of him. “Now that we have finished our introductions, are you ready to leave this dump?”

      “Dmitri…why did you attack John? Why’re you here in the middle of the night?”

      Darkness shadowed his face, the fluorescent light caressing his face here and there. The light gray of his eyes was the only thing she could see. And in one glimpse, they burned with such ferocity that Jasmine dropped her gaze. “I hit him because I remembered how much of a bully John was and because he was sniffing around outside your door. And I’m here at midnight because I don’t trust Noah not to up the ante by morning—”

      One question burned on her lips. “Did you…pay off the debt, Dmitri?”

      “I didn’t just pay off the debt, Jasmine. I won the—” he slipped into Greek and Jasmine had no interest in learning what the pithy word was “—auction. Now stop acting the damsel in distress and move, thee mou.”

      The endearment, echoing with mockery, lanced at her. “I’m not a damsel, neither am I naive enough to assume that you’re a white knight.”

      The second her words left her, she wanted to snatch them back.

      His teeth gleamed in the dark. “It heartens me to know that you know the score. I’m no white knight, neither will I risk loss of limb to save your hide.”

      “No?”

      “No. But you already know that. What did you call me at Andrew’s funeral—a self-serving bastard who doesn’t know the meaning of honor СКАЧАТЬ