|
“I’d really appreciate you not
assaulting my staff, Mykelti. It’s hard enough to do my work
without you injuring them or running them off.”
The voice wove and punched
through the air Tate gasped for then wound around his soul.
Shit, he was in trouble if her voice affected him in such a
way.
“You didn’t ask for
permission to bring in someone else. This is a white
American.”
Tate stood and looked beyond
the green swathed shoulders of his assailant, Mykelti, only
to find himself staring at a woman who had all the blood in
his body rushing south.
Holy Christ. Pigtails have
never looked so hot. He ran his gaze over her then did
it, again, just because he had to make sure he wasn’t
imagining this woman. He wasn’t entirely sure how an Albany
Schovanec was supposed to look, but this wasn’t anything his
mind had created. Her heart-shaped face was covered by
smooth brown skin, as was the rest of her. No polish on her
nails and this nearly hidden sultry look on her face. Her
full lips taunted him. Did pin-up models work in small
clinics in the middle of Africa?
Her black cargo pants clung
to her curves and gave him this insane urge to draw them
down and explore the limbs beneath. He smiled as he read her
off-white shirt. Try not. Do, or do not. There is no try.
A woman who quoted Yoda couldn’t be all bad.
She crossed her arms and
glared at the man who looked like he wouldn’t have an issue
killing his own mother. “I don’t answer to you. None of us
here do. We’re here because we want to help people in the
region. Take you and your damn guns and get out. You’re
scaring my patients. |
