Like the jogger, the driver of the SUV just keeps going as I stand on the curb, staring after him, my mouth hanging open in disbelief.
I get lots of pitying looks, but nobody stops their cars. Some of them try not to drive over anything intentionally, but I’m going to have to wait until the light changes again to try and salvage what I can.
A hand on my elbow startles me out of my dumbfounded thoughts, and I jerk away reflexively, only afterward turning to look into the most gorgeous set of blue eyes I have ever seen in my entire life.
The sight of them sends a shiver down my spine and at once I find it hard to breathe.
I forget all about the suitcase.
Chapter Four
Christian
At first, I don’t see anything but how fucking hot the woman is, how shapely her body is beneath her black tank top and yoga pants, how slick she looks in the rain, how her toned muscles flex as she tugs at the…
Is that a suitcase?
Damn. A woman who’s going to pull a suitcase like that anywhere in this city instead of hailing a cab has to be a badass.
She looks over her shoulder at something and her eyes widen in panic. I can see the whites even in the dusky light of this cloudy evening, and something inside me shifts.
What the fuck are you thinking? Get off your ass and help her!
What the fuck have I been thinking? Am I really that much of a douche? I scramble to the side of the car and push the door open, tuxedo be damned.
“Where are you—?” calls my driver, Louis, over his shoulder, but I just slam the door shut behind me and start running.
I’m too late.
Some asshole driving an SUV that’s obviously too much for him to handle makes a left turn with the light, but he doesn’t look long enough to see that there’s a gorgeous woman standing in the middle of the street. At the last second—holy shit, the last second—she jumps out of the way, but the suitcase gets nailed. Things go flying all over the intersection.
In typical New York City fashion, life moves on as soon as people realize that it was just a suitcase that got hit and not a human being. Its owner stands on the street corner, her mouth parted slightly, watching as people drive over the contents of the bag.
I don’t want to shout to get her attention, but by the time I’m close enough to speak to her, I can see she’s still in shock.
I’d be pretty out of sorts if my suitcase had just exploded all over a big city intersection. Then again, I can’t see that happening—I have people to take care of that kind of thing. I don’t handle my own luggage.
I reach out my hand and touch her arm, and she jerks away from me, surprised. Then, just as quickly, she turns to face me.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
It doesn’t matter that her hair is a mess, strands escaping from the bun on top of her head to stick against her face. It doesn’t matter that she’s not wearing any makeup, as far as I can tell. It doesn’t matter that it’s a fucking dark and stormy night—her eyes are jade green, luminous, and the depth I see there takes the breath right out of my lungs.
My first instinct is to kiss her wet, full lips, but the feeling that comes right on its heels is that she’s dangerous. Fucking dangerous.
A woman with those lips, those eyes—she could do serious damage.
But I’m here to help, and so it only takes me a moment to decide what to say. Men like me are never caught off-guard, never threatened, we’re only confident and charming as hell.
I point down the street to where her suitcase is resting on the yellow lines. “Is that yours?” I grin at her like we’re conspirators, and pink color rises to her cheeks.
“Yeah,” she says with a small smile and a shake of her head. “That asshole destroyed it.”
“He did,” I say, surveying the intersection. “But you can salvage some of it. I’ll help you collect it when the light changes.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she says, but when I look back, I see she hasn’t taken her eyes off my face.
“I’m already out in the rain.” I pitch my voice a little lower, and damn if she doesn’t respond, her breasts rising underneath the tank top with her deep inhale.
“So is my stuff,” she says matter-of-factly. “It’s probably ruined. But I’m not going to leave it out here like a bunch of garbage.”
“If you wanted to leave it, I could send someone to pick it up later.”
Now her expression turns quizzical. “Send someone? Why would you do that? And—how?” She scans my clothes, and then her eyes lock back on mine. “Are you one of those ultra-wealthy men who has people for everything?”
I don’t bother lying. Most of the city knows me by reputation, if not by sight. “As a matter of fact, I am.”