Page 12 of Protected By the Sinner

I glance around and realize it’s just the two of us here. And strangely, despite everything Beau is making me feel, I’m not scared.

Maybe trusting a man who radiates danger is incredibly stupid, but even though I know—deep down—that Beau is no fairytale prince, I have a gut feeling he’s different from the people who sent me.

He sits, totally at ease, but there’s a sense of false calm about him—like a predator biding his time.

I shouldn’t be looking at him. Eye contact is a risk. But who says I can look away?

He’s too close for my heartbeat to handle—I can smell him.

I cross my legs, remembering the instructions I was given, but he doesn’t seem focused on my body. He’s looking at my face, which throws me off.

“What color are your eyes?” he asks.

“What?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with eyes that color.”

“Can you even see them?”

He leans forward, getting way too close, and I immediately regret the question. It must’ve sounded like an invitation.

“Maybe not that clearly,” he says, touching my face. “Ah, there we go.”

His fingers are on my chin, and if they slide down to my neck, he’ll feel my heart going crazy.

“I think they’re yellow,” I say automatically.

He lifts his phone and shines the flashlight in my face. “Yeah, they are yellow,” he says, sounding pleased—but his tone shifts with the next question. “Who are you?”

I go lightheaded with fear and scan the room for an exit—in case I need to run. There isn’t one. I’m trapped here with him, and I’ve just been found out. I count to ten in my head, trying to calm down.

Doing my best to stay in character, I say, “Amber Martin.”

“I wasn’t asking your name; I meant what you’re doing here. Do you know who I am?”

“Everyone knows who you are, Mr. LeBlanc.”

No, I had no idea how dangerous coming here would be.

“Mr. LeBlanc?”

“We haven’t been formally introduced yet.” I give him a seductive smile.

“Where are you from, Amber Martin? You’re not from Texas.”

“Actually, I grew up in Texas. These days, I’m from a lot of places.”

Because we can never stay in one city too long.

But that part stays in my head.

A waitress comes over, and I swear to God, she’s practically shoving her tits in his face. I have no right or reason to feel this way, but I want to grab her by the hair and make her back off.

“Tell me about what you said about being from a lot of places.”

“I’m not sure I should spill my life story to a stranger.”

Trust me when I say you don’t want to hear my story.