Grievous (Wanted Men #5) - Nancy Haviland Page 0,2

three cards from three different men who’d voiced their interest in abstract work, contemporary sculptures, and art nouveau, respectively?

Yasmeen’s street rat came out of hiding and had her stepping into the man. She reached down and took his hand off her hip. “Funny,” she said, holding her smile and remaining quiet out of respect for the Fane’s even though she wanted to call this asshole out in front of everyone. “I never expected to find such a nervy piece of shit in attendance. To be clear, I’m not working this room, looking to make a buck from this family who is grieving the sudden and tragic loss of a loved one. But even if I were so disgusting, you think I’d spread these legs for a guy trying to pretend he didn’t grow up playing grounders in a schoolyard in the heart of Brooklyn? FYI; your Hampton’s accent is as fake as those veneers.”

His jaw made a clacking sound as it snapped shut, his bullshit teeth clenching tighter and tighter because she was sinking her long nails right into the bones and tendons on the back of his hand.

“Do yourself a favor and dig deep. Maybe you’ll find some goddamn respect for the man who just lost his life.” She shoved his hand away. “And be proud because your behavior just shamed your mother.”

Rather than head straight over to Sorin, she swept by a boulder of a man with long black hair and a nasty scowl twisting his goatee. He’d obviously heard the exchange and found it as deplorable as she did because he was blatantly shaking his head at the blond.

She pushed through the doors into the restroom that was only feet away and went straight over to the sinks. Her hands were shaking, and her face felt as if it was on fire. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she looked as calm and unaffected as she always strived to be. Good. Her mask was firmly in place.

“I think we should leave soon. Call me a bitch, but I agree with hubby; your color isn’t good.”

“You always agree with him.”

“Because when he rides your ass, it’s usually legit. No one will judge you if you want to leave, hun. This must be bringing back horrible memories.”

Yasmeen accepted some paper towel from the attendant. As she patted the water she’d just splash on her face, she surreptitiously looked over at two tall women washing their hands. The one who’d spoken had a gorgeous head of red hair and a face usually found in a cosmetics add. The black haired one had a baby bump and eyes so red-rimmed it was clear she’d been a personal friend of Markus’s. Even grief-stricken, she was stunning. “I still can’t believe this happened,” she murmured with a catch in her voice.

Feeling bad for her, Yasmeen finished up and left. When she reached her intended target, she put a light hand on a bicep that felt as if it was made of stone. “Excuse me, Sorin?”

Lucian’s bodyguard turned his head and looked down at her. She was a sleek five-nine, but he had to be somewhere closer to six-three or four. With his brown hair slicked back, and the full beard, she couldn’t help but think hipster lumberjack. A distant, unfriendly, living-in-a-cabin-one-wouldn’t-dare-approach lumberjack.

“Ms. Michaels.”

“Um, I have to get going.”

He motioned to someone for her coat, though how they would know which was hers she’d never know.

“Would you mind telling your—”

“Yasmeen.”

Her eyes fluttered, and she couldn’t stop the swift breath that pulled into her lungs when she heard that deep, accented voice. Trying to hide the reaction by clearing her throat, she turned to find Lucian behind her. Jeeesus, the man was beautiful. And that air of authority he wore that let all those he came into contact with know they were dealing with someone they should fear? Orgasmic. To a girl like her, who’d grown up in a place where strength reigned, the power this man so effortlessly wielded was an aphrodisiac.

But not even his king-of-the-jungle aura could hide his suffering today.

“Lucian,” she murmured as his presence wrapped around her, demanding a response she was helpless to deny. Standing around six-two-ish, and broad in the shoulders, he had hair the color of black coffee and amber eyes that made her think of warm whiskey. His skin had a smooth olive tone that reflected his Romanian heritage, and she’d yet to look at him without seeing a gothic castle in the back of