Wild by Eve Langlais Page A

find herself in an unfamiliar place was bad enough, but to wake to a man yelling, making the pounding in her head worse? Yeah, she might have lost her cool for a minute.
    â€œWould whoever is shouting shut the hell up? I’ve got a bloody mariachi band drumming through my mind, and your lack of control over your temper isn’t helping it.”
    The haranguing stopped, and a velvety-smooth voice that sounded kind of familiar said, “Are you seriously telling me to be quiet in my own home?”
    Peering with one gritty eye, Lulu could have groaned as she noted the unsmiling countenance of one mob lord. “Not you again.” Probably not the most diplomatic thing to say to her boss. “How did I end up here?”
    â€œHe”—Garoux jerked a thumb behind him—“brought you. And he’s now going to leave with you.”
    From behind Garoux stepped Broderick. “You know we can’t leave. Where would she go?”
    â€œHome.”
    Broderick shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I get the impression those thugs from the club were targeting her.”
    â€œI happen to agree, but just because she’s gotten mixed up with unsavory elements doesn’t mean she can stay here.”
    â€œHold on. Back up a minute.” She went into a deep coughing fit as she tried to speak. What’s wrong with my throat?
    Last thing she remembered was getting conked on the head. No. Wait. There was more. She remembered fire. Smoke. A tiger?
    Her memories were hazy, and she wanted answers, but she could hardly ask questions while hacking up a lung.
    Someone thrust a cloth in her hand and said, “Spit.”
    She did, the awful taste of ash making her grimace, and yet it was seeing who held the cloth that made her cheeks burn bright. Nothing screamed sexy like hacking up something gross in front of a cute guy.
    â€œBetter?” Broderick asked, not seeming to mind her less-than-ladylike act as he smoothed the hair from her brow.
    Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.
    â€œThat might feel better, but I’ll bet your throat is super dry after that smoke.” Broderick craned his head and said, “Can I get a glass of water? Make that two. I could use something to soothe my throat, too.”
    â€œHere. Try this.”
    It was a glass of white wine, but parched, Lulu grabbed it. Thirsty, so thirsty. She gulped it, but the strong flavor hit her hard, and she choked, spewing out a large mouthful … right on Broderick.
    The wine dribbled in wet streams down his soot-covered face. He grimaced, but his expression held mirth. “I think we should have waited for the water.”
    â€œNo kidding. That was a Louis Jadot. Not a mouthwash meant for gargling and spitting.” Garoux took back the glass, affronted at the waste. “I’ll go get some water. Try not to spit on the carpet. It’s a lot more expensive than the wine.” Garoux left the room as Broderick continued to stroke the hair from her forehead.
    If she wasn’t feeling so weak, she might have slapped his hand away. It was a rather intimate gesture. However, she was feeling kind of benevolent toward him at the moment. And she liked his gentle touch.
    Voice still rough, but somewhat soothed by the wine, she rasped out, “What happened to me?”
    â€œI’m not sure what happened before I arrived. I got to the club, and you were collapsed in the hall. I carried you outside.”
    Something nagged. Something he’d said or not said. Whatever it was tickled the edge of her mind and took a backseat to a more pressing truth. “You came into a burning building and saved me?” Tough as nails or not, Lulu was girly enough to find pleasure in that. When she forced her brain—and ignored its pounding protest—she managed a vague recollection of seeing him before he lifted her to his shoulder. He had carried her out. But that vague