Page 9 of Furry Equations
Marcus Vale stood in the doorway, managing to make even the act of leaning look commanding. His tailored suit should have been ridiculous in the chaos of a fight scene, but somehow he wore it like armor.
Those gray eyes sparked with something that might have been approval—or possibly amusement at finding his newest employee assaulting armed men with office safety equipment.
“Having fun, Dr. Grant?”
His voice did unfair things to her nervous system. Deep, rich, with just enough gravel to make her brain short-circuit like a badly wired experiment.
“I had it under control.” She gestured at the foam-covered chaos with her makeshift weapon. “Mostly.”
“I can see that.” His gaze swept the room, cataloging the groaning mercenaries. “Though perhaps we should discuss less destructive methods of home defense.”
“Hey, I work with what I’ve got.” She tried not to notice how his shirt stretched across his shoulders as he moved. How had she not realized during their brief hospital interaction just howbuilther new boss was? “Not all of us can be tall, dark, and threatening.”
His lips twitched. “You seemed to manage the threatening part quite well.”
Before she could reply, more footsteps thundered down the hall. Marcus moved with inhuman speed, placing himself between her and the door. The temperature in the room seemed to drop as his expression hardened from amused to lethal.
SIX
What happened next burned itself into Natalie’s memory like a scientific phenomenon she couldn’t explain.
Marcus Vale, CEO and apparent action hero, took down five armed men in the time it would have taken her to write a chemical equation. He moved like a force of nature—graceful, precise, and absolutely terrifying. Yet somehow still elegant, as if violence was just another language he spoke fluently.
Her brain helpfully supplied words likemagnificentandprimal, which she firmly blamed on lingering effects of her concussion. Though no concussion could explain away the heat pooling in her stomach as she watched him fight. This man ran a multi-billion dollar company. He shouldn’t be able to move like that, shouldn’t make combat look like a deadly dance.
It had to be illegal somewhere, being that attractive while committing acts of justified violence.
When the last attacker fell, Marcus turned to her, his eyes almost glowing in the fluorescent lights. A streak of blood marked his cheek—not his—and his carefully styled hair had fallen forward across his forehead. The disheveled look really worked for him, which was just cosmically unfair.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, I—“ Her knees chose that moment to give out.
Strong arms caught her before she hit the ground. She had a brief impression of solid muscle and expensive cologne before the world spun, faded to black, and...
She woke in what had to be the most ridiculously luxurious bedroom she’d ever seen. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a stunning view of Central Park. The sheets beneath her felt like clouds woven from pure comfort.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
She sat up, taking in the subtle wolf-themed art and masculine décor. Marcus’s penthouse. Because apparently passing out in your boss’s arms—your unfairly attractive, definitely-not-thinking-about-his-muscles boss—resulted in a five-star hotel experience.
Her mother would be thrilled. Eleanor Grant had probably sensed the presence of an eligible bachelor within fifty feet of her daughter and started planning the wedding already.
The thought spurred Natalie into action. She swung her legs out of bed, relieved to find herself still fully dressed, and made for the door.
It opened before she reached it.
Marcus filled the doorway like some sort of suit-wearing mountain. He’d changed into a fresh shirt, crisp white cotton that did nothing to hide his athletic build. The top button lay open, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of tanned throat that absolutely should not have captured her complete attention.
“Going somewhere?”
Even his voice sounded expensive. Rich and smooth like aged whiskey or dark chocolate or some other metaphor that wouldn’t make her sound like a romance novel reject.
“Back to my lab.” She tried to duck past him. He didn’t budge. The movement brought her close enough to catch his scent—sandalwood and something wild she couldn’t name.
Focus, Grant. He’s your boss. Your very off-limits, probably-could-bench-press-a-car boss.
“No.”