Page 74 of Desperate Measures

Clint was basically telling me my husband was cheating on me just like he’d pass on the traffic news or weather report. Like it didn’t matter.

“What? No, that’s not right,” I said, the pounding in my head growing more and more by the second.

“Come on, Michaela. You’re an adult, I’m an adult. We can have a little fun together. All these late nights, working together, I know you’re asking for it,” he said, his expression growing darker as he stalked me across the room.

The lab was filled with the latest and greatest computer systems and temperature controls. Even the lighting was special. They all gave off this soft electronic hum that should have been soothing, but all I heard was this man telling me my husband was a cheater and I’d been asking for his attention by working late.

What the actual fuck?

Chapter 27-Michaela

“Stop it,” I said, slapping Clint right across the face when the asshole made a grab for me.

Shocked and appalled were words I’d only ever heard used in association with little old ladies, but that was exactly how I felt.

How dare he! How fucking dare he!

“You like it rough? Me too,” he replied, and grabbed my wrist, pulling me harder into his soft body.

My chest was heaving with fear and revulsion, recalling a similar situation and hating how powerless I felt.

A door slammed loudly.

I barely had time to register what was happening when my husband pulled Clint off me and punched him right in the face.

“You sonovabitch!” Liam snarled.

Time seemed to slow. I registered there was someone else with him, but I was too upset and stunned to put it together.

Besides, I couldn’t see anything but him. Liam. My husband.

His mouth was set in a hard line, and his entire body was tensed and poised for battle.

Holy fuck.

He looked angry.

Like really angry.

Also, hot as fuck.

Liam’s jaw was clenched tight, eyes smoldering with a fire that seemed to burn from within.

There was something almost primal about the intensity of his actions. Like he was holding back a storm.

But it wasn’t just the fury that made him captivating. It was the way the tension in his face sharpened his features, traveling throughout his entire body as he wreaked havoc on Clint, that miserable bastard.

I couldn’t help but watch, even as strong hands pulled me back from the brawling men. I turned my head and recognized Margaret O’Doyle and her two bodyguards.

“Are you going to help him?” I asked, my eyes wide.

“Does it look like he needs help?” she countered, and nodded at where her brother stood up over Clint’s prone body.

His chest was barely heaving as he looked down at the mess he left of the computer tech before spitting on him and turning towards me.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” he asked, and came right for me, running his hands over my body.

I was stunned. In shock, maybe. Or just head over fucking heels in love. Whatever the reason, I could not speak.