Page 39 of Bastard

Ipause outside the gym door and watch the sweat pour off Hayden as he runs on a steeply inclined treadmill. So powerful. So beautiful.

So controlling.

The man’s had me watched for years. Madre mía, I mean, stalker much? I don’t know what to make of it or why he’d do such a thing. Like I believe his lame excuse about Diego being distracted by my choices. Diego acts first, never leaving time to become distracted.

Why did Hayden hire me?

Why have you agreed to work for him?

And combat lessons to prepare for a party? There’s being prepared and then there’s overkill.

But the package delivered to my bedroom early this morning confirms Hayden means business. Several rounds of bullets. Workout attire: socks, gym shorts, three moisture-wicking T-shirts, and two pairs of sneakers. And a knife the size of my forearm. I refuse to touch the deadly weapon. Self-defense training and guns are what I agreed to, not knives.

I arrive fifteen minutes early intending to warm up, only to find Hayden’s already there.

He’s running at a breakneck speed. A sweat-drenched shirt clings to his chest, showcasing his taut muscles and a rock-hard physique. He’s not boyfriend or husband material. Dios, he’s not even one-night stand material. He’s a badass. A machine. A man who could easily crush you if he so desired.

And I still find him absolutely, utterly fascinating.

“Ma’am, are you the person I’ll be training?” a voice says from behind me in the hallway.

Damn it. Hayden’s going to discover I’ve been spying on him.

A huge, bald, Vin Diesel-like tank of a man greets me. The kickboxer instructor that arrived with the other items I placed on my list?

I return his friendly smile.

“She’s been standing here, waiting for you.” Hayden stalks toward us in a less-than-friendly manner.

Mierda.He knows.

Vin looks at his watch. “It’s—”

I place a hand on Vin’s arm and squeeze his firm bicep rock-hard beneath my fingers. “That’s right. No time for idle talk. How about we check out the facilities?”

Like everywhere else on the yacht, the gym is state-of-the-art. Three treadmills, two elliptical trainers and a rowing machine are positioned directly ahead. Navy blue mats arranged in a perfect rectangle are on the floor to the left. A wall of mirrors, several weight benches, and a lifting station to the right. Wood flooring accents the space in between. Natural light seeps in from the windows and the entire place smells new.

Where to start? “What do you have in mind for me?”

Vin clears his throat, but my attention is drawn to the man next to him.

Hayden is wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt, his abs on full display. Suddenly, it becomes very hot in here. Hot enough where I want to lick my lips and pant like a sex-crazed conejita. Not a pinch of fat on him. Why couldn’t he age horribly?

Vin responds, unaware of my mental trauma. “Cardio, weights—”

“Self-defense training, kill points with a knife, practice at the firing range on the upper deck,” Hayden interrupts, tossing his towel over a shoulder. His shirt falls back in place—not that I noticed.

“I thought I’d do a preconditioning assessment before ...” His voice trails off as Hayden shakes his head.

“She’s fit enough. Instruct her in self-defense.”

“She’sstanding right here. Her brother has taught her several useful self-defense strategies, but she’ll gladly learn whatever skills you can show her. Absolutely no knives. But kickboxing—she’d love to learn that.”

Vin’s grin could light up the gym. “I have a black belt in kickboxing.” He turns to Hayden for approval.

Hayden’s arm brushes mine as he moves to stand next to me. A rush of excitement coils up inside me from the unexpected contact.

“Self-defense training and firearm practice. Understood?”