Page 6 of The Wrong Monster

I’m into it.

My pulse pounds hard enough to feel in my throat. It should be fear. Adrenaline. The perfectly reasonable reaction to realizing I’ve walked into what has to be the most spectacular case of mistaken identity in my career.

Instead, my body has apparently become an accomplice.

The stranger glances up at me to catch my reaction, and my heart races. I want to drag my tongue across the five-o’clock shadow on his sharp jaw. His eyes are angular, dangerous, definitely Eastern European, and he smells divine.

The expensive dress shirt stretched over his broad shoulders somehow makes him look more treacherous instead of less. There’s an effortless confidence about him that makes me want to throw a punch—as if he’s never once questioned whether a room belongs to him.

I hate that some primitive part of my brain seems to find all of that incredibly attractive.

Professional embarrassment should not have chemistry.

I glance toward the hallway. My purse sits where it landed somewhere between the open kitchen and the hallway leading to this bedroom.

My phone, keys, and pepper spray are in there, along with the case file that would make it clear that this is a misunderstanding. Who does he think I am?

I pull lightly against the cuff. It’s solid. Wonderful.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The question comes out weaker than I meant it to, making my cheeks heat in frustration. A smirk curves on one side of his mouth as he looks down at me. His thumb and pointer finger still circling my wrist after snapping shut the trap.

He leans forward, ghosting his lips over my jaw. The very same motion I’d wanted to enact just moments ago.

“Tell me you aren’t tempted.”

It’s whispered, husky, and my brain short-circuits.

“You must know…” I trail off, distracted by the heat of his body as he takes a half-step closer. Closing the distance between us.

A sharp glance of those eyes and my lawyer brain is back. He does know. He likely figured it out when I did and knows that I’m not whoever he’s been waiting for. But still he’s pushing this forward, waiting for me to follow.

Why?

I study him more carefully. Everything about him screams criminal. Not in the way of leather jackets and tattoos, but the more dangerous kind of criminal. The kind that slips out of courtrooms unharmed.

An expensive watch on the nightstand. The Varvatos in the foyer. The subtle cologne, and the fact that the front desk concierge seemed unfazed by whatever kind of setup this is.

He has sway, whoever he is.

Power has a look, and this man wears it better than most judges I’ve met. He’s definitely not my informant, and he is far from harmless.

And somehow...I’m not afraid of him.

Am I annoyed with myself? Absolutely. Confused? Without question.

But underneath all of that is another realization, one I try very hard not to examine too closely. Less than fifteen minutes ago, I was in an elevator. I was so tense I could probably pull a muscle, thinking that I needed to blow off some steam.

A week of nonstop work, four hours in the car, and no sleep. No Anderson to organize my life for a few more days.

I’d actually considered finding someone anonymous after the meeting. But what if…

One night. No names. No expectations.

If this misunderstanding is cleared up in the next five minutes, we’ll likely never see each other again.

“What?”