Blackhawk Desires

“Did I say I was worried?” he snapped, clenching his jaw when she disappeared into the bedroom.

He started after her, swore, then stopped, raked a hand through his hair. Swore again.

No woman had ever made him feel helpless like this before. Made him feel out of control or cut off at the knees. He didn’t like it.

Not one damn bit.

He wouldn’t chase after her. If she wanted to leave, he told himself, then fine. She could leave. If she wanted to be so damn secretive, then that was fine, too.

He couldn’t keep her here against her will—well, actually, he probably could—but he didn’t want her that way. He wanted her to trust him. He wanted her honesty. She wasn’t willing to give him either one.

So when she came back out of the bedroom, her head high and shoulders squared, he let her leave, made no attempt to stop her.

Long after she was gone, the taste of her, a sweet mix of chocolate and woman, lingered in his mouth. He drowned it with a bottle of scotch and cursed the day she’d walked into his hotel.

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