Page 7 of Vicious Temptation

At this point, I’m going to have to call a fucking tow truck. I reach for my back pocket and find nothing.

“No...”

I check my other pocket, then hurry around to the driver’s side and yank the door open, hoping my phone slipped onto the seat or landed in the center console instead of ending up in AJ’s bag.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

I slam the door shut and brace my hands on the roof, letting the rain soak me to the bone as I try to get my frustration under control.

“Okay, Remi...get it together. Suck it up. You got this.”

Pushing off the chassis, I tear open my toolkit. What’s a little rain? Everything’s still exactly where it’s supposed to be, just…wetter. I lean over the engine again and reach for another wrench.

Maybe I’m off my game, or maybe the storm is so loud that it swallows every other sound, because I never hear a car pull up or boots crossing the pavement. I only realize I’m not alone when a presence beside me makes itself known.

Every possibility runs through my head at once. Who walks up on someone in the middle of a downpour, in the dark, without saying a goddamn word? One thing my family made sure I learned early on is that hesitation gets people killed. If someone means to hurt you, they only need one chance.

In the next heartbeat, I draw my Glock, chamber a round, and aim center mass...at the biggest fucking chest I’ve seen in a long while.

“Whoa, whoa! I’m just here to see if you needed any help,” he says, his voice edged with the slightest Texan drawl.

I don’t lower the gun.

Two

Remi

Rain pours between us, soaking him just as much as me, but he doesn’t even flinch. He slowly raises both hands, careful with every movement, like he understands exactly why I’m pointing a gun at him and has no intention of giving me a reason to pull the trigger.

My grip tightens as I take him in properly. He’s tall as hell, with shoulders broad enough to block the rain and a build that looks more suited to carrying trucks than driving them. His once-white athletic shirt clings to his body, outlining enough muscle to make me wonder if he has a gym membership or a second mortgage paying for protein powder.

“Funny,” I say. “You don’t look like roadside assistance.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as he brushes curls back from his forehead.

“Didn’t think I did. But you look like you’re having a rough night.”

“No, I look like someone you should’ve announced yourself to before walking up behind.”

His eyes move between me and the barrel of my Glock, but he still doesn’t seem particularly concerned about the possibility of catching a bullet. I’ve met plenty of men whose sense of right and wrong shifts whenever it suits them, and I haven’t figured out where his lines are yet.

Either he’s exactly who he claims to be, or he has one hell of a poker face.

“Fair. But I promise I’m not here to hurt you. I was just passing by and saw you stranded with your hood up.”

“Yeah?” I tilt my head without lowering the gun. “That’s exactly what a serial killer would say.”

He laughs. “I walked right into that one.”

I don’t budge, even as the cold sinks deeper with every gust of wind. At this point, he can probably see the outline of the diamonds piercing my nipples, which is just fucking great.

“Let me use your phone,” I say.

He shakes his head, sending water from the ends of his curls.

“I was at the gym and left it in my locker. That’s why I’m out here in this weather. I was heading back to grab it.”

I narrow my eyes.