Page 8 of Bronson

“Where are you taking me?” I stammer, my mouth finally working. It feels as if it’s stuffed with cotton.

“To the back. To talk.” His grip tightens. The pain makes a tiny yelp escape my lips.

My mind races. What are my options?

I can scream.

I can take my chances on talking.

I can kick him in the shin and try to make a run for it. Judging by the strength in his grip I don’t stand a chance in a battle of physical wills. I sneak a glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s tall. Built. And furious. His chiseled features are set in a stony state. Jaw clenched, he catches me looking at him and gives me a sneer.

Okay, so I won’t try to make a break for it.

We reach what I assume is his office door. Leaving me with my last and most humiliating defense.

I can cry.

Willing the tears to come to my dry eyes, I sob the song of the poor, pitiful street wench. “I’m so sorry—I don’t make much money and the necklace was just… so… pretty.” I can feel the beginnings of a tear forming. I tell my lower lip to quiver—just a touch, don’t want to overdo. “And I just wanted… One. Nice. Thing.” I open my eyes wider, creating what I hope is a doe-eye effect. Damn, I’m good. I prepare to look up at him from underneath my mascara-coated lashes. My gaze slowly rises to meet his—first traveling over an endless stretch of muscled torso. When I see his face, I gulp.

If looks could kill, I’d be lying on the floor. Dead as a corpse.

He releases my arm.

His dark eyes flash. Challenging.

“You don’t have any nice things?” The question was innocent enough but the razor-sharp edge in his voice reawakens my fight or flight response. I’m glistening, my heart beating so loud I can hear the blood as it rushes past my ears.

“Ah… no…”

His eyes fall to my purse. “And what of that Casa Blanca canary yellow leather purse on your shoulder? I believe that runs, what, five hundred?” His dark brow rises.

My fear dissipates, instantly replaced with my very quick temper.

I had scrimped, saved, and even gone without gel in my manicures for weeks just to get ahold of that bag. A friend who worked in the department store had come in and hid it for me, every morning, behind a row of black bags. It had taken months for me to save up enough to shell out for it.

But it was a classic.

And I had paid every penny. The words burst from my lips, pitiful girl act shoved aside. “Hey! I actually bought this with my own money. It’s the one thing I didn’t…” My words trail off as I realize what I’m about to reveal.

“Steal?” he asks. A satisfied smirk crosses his face, somehow making him even more handsome than before. He crosses his arms over his chest again, the material of his suit stretching and pulling to form around his muscles. He studies me for a moment.

My stomach flips, then dives into my clodhopper shoes. Heat rises in my cheeks. “What I meant to say was… that… I didn’t…”

He almost smiles, shooting me a look of mild curiosity. “Didn’t what?”

Didn’t what? Didn’t what?

I rack my brain. It comes to me and I cry out in a burst of enthusiasm, “Didn’t even get it on sale! Can you believe that? A little old medical assistant like me managed to buy a Casa Blanca, full price?”

“They never go on sale.” Uncrossing his arms, he grabs the doorknob and turns it. The door swings open. Grabbing my upper arm again, he pulls me into a small office. “But I’m guessing you already know that.”

Time to steer the conversation away from me. “How do you know so much about women’s fashion, anyway?”

Closing the door behind him, he stands before it, blocking my exit. “I dabble in what you could call import exports. But that is neither here nor there. The only thing that matters is what’s in the bag?”

As if turning itself in, the strap slips, the purse sliding from my shoulder. I grab at it, clutching the soft leather to my chest. “I don’t think you want to look in there. It’s that time of the month if you know what I mean. Might make you a tad uncomfortable. Just handfuls of tampons. Super plus, super plus plus…”

His hand shoots toward me, snatching the bag and whipping it from me. My mouth drops open, forming the unsaid word that I’m shouting in my head.