Page 6 of Duke

I felt his hand clasp around mine, and I couldn’t suppress a shiver. His hand washuge, and I could feel his calluses against my skin. “Come on, Fancy. Up you go.” He tugged me upright with surprising gentleness, and then his hand was at the small of my back, guiding me forward, nudging me to one side, then the other. “Uh…big step here, got a puddle of—um, just take a big step.”

I kept my hand over my eyes and took a big step. My other foot followed, and as I put my heel down, it hit something slippery, so my foot shot out from underneath me. I’d have gone down, but Duke’s hand on mine kept me upright. As soon as I slipped, I felt his other hand catch my waist, and I was airborne.

“Let’s just do this, huh?” he said, more to himself than to me.

I was in his arms. I could feel the bulge of his biceps, the hardness of his chest, his masculine scent. Nice. This was…very nice.

Only, underneath his scent, I could smell other, less pleasant smells. My puke, and something sharply tangy and queasy-making. Blood, gore. That took the nice right out of the moment, because that scent pushed into my head the all too vivid visual of the bar smashing into the skull.

I groaned, my stomach revolting again.

“Shit, you gonna hork again?”

“Trying not to.”

“Shallow breaths through your mouth. Stop thinking about it.”

“Can’t.” I turned my face into his black V-neck T-shirt, the image flashing through me again and again. “Keep seeing it.”

We were ascending then, his feet quiet on the stairs. He stopped after maybe ten or eleven steps. “Need you to hang out here a second, okay?” His voice buzzed quietly in my ear. “Gotta be sure that was all of ‘em before I take you up there.”

He set me on a stair, and I had to open my eyes, then. My gaze, of course, was drawn with morbid curiosity downward. But his hand caught my jaw and he turned my head to look up at him.

“Nope.” He didn’t smile, but his expression was…understanding, I guess you might call it. “No looking down there, Fancy. Keep your eyes up this way. Sit tight, keep breathing, and try not to think about it.”

I got a good look at his ass as he stood up and left the stairwell. And, god, what an ass. Even in those stupid cargo shorts, it was obvious his ass was as hard and round as a pair of cannonballs. I didn’t tell myself to focus, then, because thinking about Duke Silver’s ass was better than thinking about what was at the bottom of the stairs.

A good minute of silence passed, and then Duke appeared in the doorway at the top of the stairs, an automatic pistol in both hands, held as naturally as if it were an extension of his arms, probably liberated from the now-dead guys back downstairs.

“Come on, Fancy. Time to bust a move.”

“My name is Temple, goddammit,” I snarled.

“I know.” He shot me that grin, the one I just knew he probably used on a regular basis for the melting of female undergarments. “But I like you better all riled up.”

I glared at him. “Wipe that stupid grin off your face,” I snapped. “You’re not going to melt my underwear with it.”

He reached down, took my hand, helped me stand up, and drew me up the stairs and out into the main level of the house. And just like that, I was flush against him, staring up at his idiotically beautiful blue eyes and stupidly perfect face.

And then he murmured something truly obnoxious: “Can’t exactly melt panties you ain’t wearin’, can I, Princess?”

“You’re a pig.” I slapped him across the face as hard as I could and then stepped backward angrily.

Of course, my slap and angry retort were ruined by the fact that I had stepped backward toward the stairs and would have gone down them had Duke’s ninja reflexes not sent his hand shooting out to snag me around the waist and pull me back up against him.

“Careful,” he murmured, his breath on my lips. “Don’t wanna fall down those stairs.”

I let out a very unladylike growl and yanked myself out of his arms, this time away from the stairs. “Thank you.” I shot him a middle finger. “But you’re still a pig.”

“I’m a pig for noticing that you’re not wearing any panties?” He didn’t sound insulted or offended. More…amused, again.

“Yes. And even more so for saying so.”

He grinned again. “So I am right? You’re not wearing any panties?”

“No! I mean—I’m not telling you!” I went to slap him again, and he just let me, not even flinching when my hand cracked across his cheek. “And stop calling them panties! That’s a horrible word.”

“You already did tell me, sweetheart.” He wiggled one eyebrow suggestively. “But then, that skirt is tight enough I’d have noticed panty lines.”