So without hesitation, he shouldered past Mike and heaved the first hunk of granite from the pile. His muscles strained beneath the eighty-pound weight.
Sixteen days ago, he would’ve carried it with no trouble. Today, he felt it in his arms, his back, and his feet as he hauled the load across the warehouse.
Mike stepped away, joining the two guards in conversation. They were too far away for Cole to eavesdrop but close enough to shoot him if he decided to slam a rock into Lydia’s head.
She perched on a crate beside the full pallet, watching him drop off his burden and walk back. He took his time. No reason to hurry. The longer it took him to move the pile, the longer he was out of the head-banging cell.
Except that bottle of beer was waiting. An effective incentive.
“Your jeans are falling.” She crossed one leg over the other and propped an elbow on her knee.
He paused before her, fully aware that his waistband hung obscenely low, exposing the patch of hair above the root of his cock. Her eyes went there, lingering, before lifting to his.
“Such a shame.” She sniffed. “You had a beautiful physique when I met you.” Her gaze darted toward Mike and the guards and returned to him, her accent lowering. “Do what you’re told, and you’ll gain back those muscles.”
He glanced down at his torso, trying to see what she saw. Was he skinnier? Yeah. But he still had definition. He was still physically stronger than her and could overpower her tiny body if he got her alone.
Hell, if he got her alone, he would wrench that dress over her head and drive his fist between her legs. He would tear up her cunt and fuck her ass until both holes were permanently stretched open, gaping and waiting to receive his cock again.
He didn’t have to like her to imagine her wet pussy slurping around his thrusts. In fact, his hatred for her made the fantasy all the more filthy.
“You know what I want?” He lowered his voice, deliberately rumbling the words.
Her eyes dilated, her breaths quickening. “What?”
“Palimi with sour cream and caviar.”
She flinched, her brows knitting together.
“Russian pancakes.” He cocked his head. “Don’t you know what that is?”
“Of course, I know. My grandma made them for me.” She narrowed her eyes. “You only moved one stone. Are you tired already?”
“Tired of eating processed shit.” He leaned down, exhaling in her face. “I want a toothbrush and toothpaste, and right now, I imagine you want me to have those things.”
“Finish the job, and I’ll think about it.” She didn’t shift away, but the scrunch of her nose confessed the state of his breath.
Good.
While his whole body needed a thorough cleaning, the fur on his teeth bothered him the most.
He stepped back and dragged another rock off the pile. As he towed it across the warehouse, he felt her gaze on his ass, knowing the top half of his crack hung above the sagging jeans.
Didn’t matter how badly he reeked or how much muscle he’d lost. She liked looking at him as much as he liked looking at her. His was an unwanted attraction. Maybe hers was, too.
Or maybe she put on that dress and made up her hair because she wanted him to notice her.
Was she after information in his head? Or was this a ploy to use him and his skill set to acquire something for them?
They had no idea who they were dealing with.
If she intended to seduce him into cooperating, she should start by washing that shit off her face. But even then, she didn’t have a chance in hell.
He hoped she planned to use sex to get to him so that it could backfire on her with deadly consequences.
Lydia couldn’t ignore the thudding in her ears or the heat swimming in her belly. It produced a terrible glow inside her, giving rise to a complicated question.
What if?
Two simple words, known to spark monumental theories and discoveries. They could also lead to disastrous mistakes.
She wasn’t the only one asking the question. It took two to engage in eye contact, and when she and Cole stared at each other, both of them sizzling in the charged air, she saw her reaction on his face. She saw her shock, her curiosity, her what if?
Under no circumstances was she expecting his gaze to grab her and twist her up like it did. She wasn’t expecting the sheer intensity in his eyes as they imprisoned hers, seeing her as something other than an enemy.
Deep down, beneath the scars of loss and the vitriol that had led her here, she was a woman like any other, with longings and vulnerabilities and dreams that had nothing to do with violence and death.
She’d done well enough to bury that softer side over the past eleven years, and in one goddamn look, Cole Hartman brought it to life.
She blamed the dimples.
And his mysterious confidence.
Not to mention his alluring sex appeal, the rugged build of his powerful body, the sculpted flex of his ass, and the untamed beard that should smell disgusting in its unwashed state but instead only added to his masculine potency.
Damn him for being so devilishly, unfairly handsome.
And damn him for putting these foolish musings in her head.
Watching him heave stone after stone wasn’t helping her concentration. She shouldn’t be affected. This was a job. If she started warming to him, years of training and sacrifice would be forfeited.
She couldn’t afford to lose all the progress she’d made just because the job happened to be a sexy son of a bitch.
She. Could. Not. Fail.
No more what-ifs. No spontaneous explorations of possibilities. Any deviation from the plan was bad for her and this operation. Because one thing was certain. Cole was precisely the type of man who would use her and leave her for dead when he finished.
As he trudged between the pallets, his teeth clenched with exertion. He’d lost muscle mass, but he’d started out with so much. Far more than the average man.
He still had a decent amount of brawn flexing through his frame. And a golden complexion. Pillowy lips. A chiseled face. His expression, when at rest, wore a natural smile. Flirtatious without even trying. Dangerous to the core. He was a gorgeous, tattooed beast.
If she had a type, it was Cole Hartman. She imagined he was every woman’s type. Including the one he let go.
Danni Savoy.
The pretty dancer was inked on his forearm amid a collage of unrelated designs and symbols. She glimpsed a motorcycle, an inverted cross, several suns, a leaf, chains, a spider web, and dozens of other illustrations too small to make out at this distance.
The artwork sleeved both arms and half of his chest. And though she hadn’t stolen a glimpse of him naked, Mike had mentioned there was a large black snake coiled around his thigh.
This wasn’t a guy who put fortuitous ink on his skin. Every piece told a story, a secret, and she wanted to learn them all. Starting with the dancer.
She knew very little about Danni aside from his relationship with her. They’d dated for ten months. Got engaged. Then he took a job that separated them for three years. That job was the reason he lost her to his best friend.
It was also the reason he was here.
Danni was his greatest weakness. She was also untouchable. Married to an obscenely wealthy casino owner, she was surrounded by a team of bodyguards at all times and hadn’t left the security of the casino since Lydia’s team started watching her.