Page 28 of Wanted

Something warm—no not warm—fiery hot pulses through me. It settles in the pit of my stomach. Like I’m being burned from the inside out. But instead of wanting these flames to be put out, I want to fan them.

That’s when I look down at where he still has my hand trapped against the table. Chance’s thumb languidly moves backand forth against the skin of my wrist. He’s stroking the vein that’s visibly pulsing.

Is that from his touch?

I quickly snatch my hand away and wrap my wrist with my free hand, holding it as if it’s been burned.

Because it has. My skin continues to pulse and tingle from his touch.

“D-did you say you have business here?” My voice comes out shaky.

I casually tuck a nonexistent strand of hair behind my ear before smoothing down the sides of my bun. I drop my gaze away from him when his eyes linger on me for too long without him saying anything.

Suddenly, I recall that I haven’t applied any makeup since before running out of my motel last night. I can only imagine how terrible I must look.

A woman must always look her best.

My mother’s mantra sounds off in my head.

“Yes.” Chance’s deep voice brings me back to the topic at hand.

For the first time, I notice how, almost rusty, his voice sounds. As if the muscles of his throat have to remember how to be used in order for him to speak.

“What kind of business?” I ask for two reasons. One, because I need to know if it has anything to do with helping me find my sister. Second, because I want him to continue talking.

When he shakes his head, a few strands of his long dark hair fall from the loose ponytail holding the rest of his hair back. I fight the urge to push the hair away from his gorgeous face.

What’s happening to me?

Handsome men are a dime a dozen. In the upper-crust world that my parents raised Ashley and me in, it’s not uncommon for men to spend almost as much money on gym memberships,spa treatments, hair appointments, and even plastic surgery as women.

I’ve seen good-looking men from the time we came to be adopted. Chance, however, isn’t anything like those men. His rough hands tell me he does some kind of manual labor for work or recreation. He keeps his hair long and while not untidy it certainly isn’t cut in the latest runway style.

I would bet all of the money in my wallet that he’s never even seen the inside of a day spa.

Yet, he doesn’t need any of that. No facial that I’ve experienced would give such perfect skin as his bronze sun-kissed glow. He doesn’t need expensive shampoos and conditioners for his long locks to shine.

And his hands?

Well, they’re not smooth like my ex’s but no other touch has ever set me on fire the way his brief embrace just did.

“It’s personal,” he suddenly answers in that gruff, slightly hard voice of his.

I take a minute to remember what he’s even responding to.

Then I shake myself back into reality.

“Personal?” I sit up straight. “First it was business. Now it’s personal?” I scoot out of the booth and rise to my feet.

Chance swiftly slides out of the booth and stands, as well. His movements are like water. So fluid and seamless that he seems to float.

I take a step back while maintaining eye contact. “You’re wasting my time. I don’t know what game you’re trying to play but I don’t want any part of it.”

I lift my chin.

“Thank you for saving me last night from…whatever that was,” I say, using the manners both sets of my parents taught me. “But I will take care of myself from here.”

I turn and head for the door. I haven’t the slightest idea where I am or where I’m going from here, but I can figure it out.