Hazel eyes narrowed, he studied her over the raised hem of his blood-soaked T-shirt.
It bared the lean muscles carved into his abs, revealed one flat nipple.
Nausea warred with heat.
Won.
Parker clenched her teeth. “Why aren’t you at the infirmary?” More importantly, why did he keep showing up to bleed in her office?
His teeth flashed in a grin, as lazy as she’d ever seen him despite the blood saturating the fabric of his T-shirt. He lowered the hem. “Stopped bleeding. You said you wanted to talk. Is now a bad time, Director Adams?”
The way he stressed her title made her teeth ache.
The way he seemed to think he could bleed all over her things was worse.
She reached for the doorknob, mouth tight with the effort not to throw up the bile clinging to the back of her throat. She was an executive missionary, not a fighter. She didn’t do blood.
Hadn’t ever.
As they went, it was a hell of a phobia.
“I can leave, of course,” Simon added, his tone wickedly knowing. Mocking. He straightened, dropping his feet to the floor. It only served to pull him upright, to send every muscle in his torso flexing. Moving.
Like a well-oiled machine.
He had a body most women drooled over. Parker was trying very hard not to be one.
Lust and nausea, these things shouldn’t cohabitate.
Parker glanced at the doorknob, an inch from her outstretched fingers. Her skin crawled.
And tingled.
Oh, God, this was bad.
“You owe me an explanation, Mr. Wells,” she said quietly, appalled at herself for even forcing herself to endure that much. She turned, drawing her professional demeanor around her like a shroud. Cool, collected. “I’m eager to hear what you have to say.”
“Yeah. I’ll just bet.” Simon stood, a powerful surge of his lean body, and stripped his T-shirt off.
Parker tried not to swallow her own tongue. “What are you doing?”
He pitched the bloody shirt into the small trash can behind him, every move flexing the muscles stacked under his swarthy skin. The man was shirtless in her office. Shirtless, and no sign of any fresh wounds. The puckered scar decorating the front of his left side shone healthy and pink, starkly pale against his tanned skin tone.
She frowned. “What happened to you?”
“Nosebleed.” He rubbed at his nose, which showed no trace of any lingering blood. “Sucker punch in the training room. It happens.”
She swallowed as his gaze settled on her.
Less than four hours ago, she’d met that gaze wearing nothing but thin silk pajamas and the cloak of darkness. Now, in her suit and severely pinned hair, dismay filled her as her body responded in the same, pulse-knocking way.
“You often wear your street clothes in the training room?” she asked pointedly. Part of her knew he lied. The rest of her remained torn between visceral memory and the reality. Which was that he broke into her home. Bled on her desk.
Disobeyed every order.
His smile flashed.
Parker’s shoulders straightened as she strode across her office. “Get out from behind my desk.”
He stepped into her path.
She stopped just shy of running into him, jerking her gaze to his, mouth set in a cold line. Enough games. Enough flex of social muscle, physical muscle.
Enough with the sudden awareness of his body heat, of the warmth emanating from his bare chest. Flashing in his eyes.
“You’re walking a thin line.” She ignored his quirked smile. “Make no mistake, Wells, you’re here on my tolerance. Regardless of who put you here,” she added as he raised one condescending eyebrow, “all of my agents answer to me . That includes you.”
He raised a hand, fingers reaching for the side of her face.
She seized his thick wrist in a tight grip, held it away from her. “Don’t,” she said tightly. “Don’t touch me. Don’t test me, or I’m going to screw the consequences and move heaven and earth to see you thrown in the cells.”
“I have no doubt you could.” A beat. “Parker.”
The way he
It bared the lean muscles carved into his abs, revealed one flat nipple.
Nausea warred with heat.
Won.
Parker clenched her teeth. “Why aren’t you at the infirmary?” More importantly, why did he keep showing up to bleed in her office?
His teeth flashed in a grin, as lazy as she’d ever seen him despite the blood saturating the fabric of his T-shirt. He lowered the hem. “Stopped bleeding. You said you wanted to talk. Is now a bad time, Director Adams?”
The way he stressed her title made her teeth ache.
The way he seemed to think he could bleed all over her things was worse.
She reached for the doorknob, mouth tight with the effort not to throw up the bile clinging to the back of her throat. She was an executive missionary, not a fighter. She didn’t do blood.
Hadn’t ever.
As they went, it was a hell of a phobia.
“I can leave, of course,” Simon added, his tone wickedly knowing. Mocking. He straightened, dropping his feet to the floor. It only served to pull him upright, to send every muscle in his torso flexing. Moving.
Like a well-oiled machine.
He had a body most women drooled over. Parker was trying very hard not to be one.
Lust and nausea, these things shouldn’t cohabitate.
Parker glanced at the doorknob, an inch from her outstretched fingers. Her skin crawled.
And tingled.
Oh, God, this was bad.
“You owe me an explanation, Mr. Wells,” she said quietly, appalled at herself for even forcing herself to endure that much. She turned, drawing her professional demeanor around her like a shroud. Cool, collected. “I’m eager to hear what you have to say.”
“Yeah. I’ll just bet.” Simon stood, a powerful surge of his lean body, and stripped his T-shirt off.
Parker tried not to swallow her own tongue. “What are you doing?”
He pitched the bloody shirt into the small trash can behind him, every move flexing the muscles stacked under his swarthy skin. The man was shirtless in her office. Shirtless, and no sign of any fresh wounds. The puckered scar decorating the front of his left side shone healthy and pink, starkly pale against his tanned skin tone.
She frowned. “What happened to you?”
“Nosebleed.” He rubbed at his nose, which showed no trace of any lingering blood. “Sucker punch in the training room. It happens.”
She swallowed as his gaze settled on her.
Less than four hours ago, she’d met that gaze wearing nothing but thin silk pajamas and the cloak of darkness. Now, in her suit and severely pinned hair, dismay filled her as her body responded in the same, pulse-knocking way.
“You often wear your street clothes in the training room?” she asked pointedly. Part of her knew he lied. The rest of her remained torn between visceral memory and the reality. Which was that he broke into her home. Bled on her desk.
Disobeyed every order.
His smile flashed.
Parker’s shoulders straightened as she strode across her office. “Get out from behind my desk.”
He stepped into her path.
She stopped just shy of running into him, jerking her gaze to his, mouth set in a cold line. Enough games. Enough flex of social muscle, physical muscle.
Enough with the sudden awareness of his body heat, of the warmth emanating from his bare chest. Flashing in his eyes.
“You’re walking a thin line.” She ignored his quirked smile. “Make no mistake, Wells, you’re here on my tolerance. Regardless of who put you here,” she added as he raised one condescending eyebrow, “all of my agents answer to me . That includes you.”
He raised a hand, fingers reaching for the side of her face.
She seized his thick wrist in a tight grip, held it away from her. “Don’t,” she said tightly. “Don’t touch me. Don’t test me, or I’m going to screw the consequences and move heaven and earth to see you thrown in the cells.”
“I have no doubt you could.” A beat. “Parker.”
The way he
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