Page 2 of Redemption (Favorite Malady Duet #2)

DANE

Three Months Ago

T he stunning woman at the bar has a quirky purple streak in her hair and a striking freckle on her right cheekbone.

It’s large enough that it’s visible even at a distance.

In my line of work, patients have asked me to remove smaller blemishes, but the longer I look at her, the more I think that it suits her.

The mark makes her unique, and I admire the fact that she wears it with pride.

She hasn’t made effort to conceal it with makeup.

Her posture is perfect, but her eyes stray to the floor even when she’s speaking to her friends. The dichotomy intrigues me. She’s shy, but her bearing indicates confidence.

A man approaches her where she’s swaying her hips near the bar. She can’t seem to fully stop dancing even while she’s waiting in the queue to order her drink.

The man steps into her personal space without invitation and leans in close to speak in her ear, presumably under the guise of being heard over the Latin music.

She stops swaying in her gentle dance, and her willowy body goes stiff.

The bastard doesn’t seem to notice her obvious discomfort.

I’m prowling toward him before I realize what I’m doing.

“Dane?” I hear my associate, Meadows, call after me, but I wave him off.

He’s known me long enough that he won’t be offended by the dismissal; he’s never gotten in the way of a conquest before.

I’m with her in seconds, and the creep is still far too close to her.

My hand closes around his shoulder, and I drag him away from her.

My grip is firm enough that the threat of violence is clear, but I don’t toss him to the ground like I want to.

I’m not sure how she would react to that, and I don’t want to scare the woman who’s captured my full attention.

And I don’t want to get into a bar fight on my first night in Charleston. That wouldn’t reflect well on my new practice with Meadows. He has social connections in the area, and I can’t afford for word to get out that I’m dangerous.

The man who was harassing her tenses in my grip and whirls to face me. His fists clench, but before he can raise them, his eyes meet mine.

I don’t bother to hide the monster within. I let him see exactly how cold and unfeeling I am—hurting him means absolutely nothing to me. I could destroy him without a second thought.

One of the advantages of lacking the impulse for empathy.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” I say smoothly, looming over the smaller man. “You should go.”

It’s not a suggestion; it’s a threat.

He’s in between me and my pretty prey, and I won’t tolerate his presence for another second.

He’s smart enough to get the hell out of my way before I force him to move. He swallows hard, and his shoulders dip in submission as he slinks off onto the crowded dancefloor.

“Thanks,” she says, her voice so shy and soft that I barely hear her over the music. Her eyes drop to the sticky floor. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“He was harassing you,” I reply smoothly. “I absolutely did have to do that.”

I decide not to tell her that I simply wanted to do it. Because he was a nuisance, and I want to talk to her. And he was making her uncomfortable.

Over the years, I’ve found that women like to feel protected.

Her cautious eyes lift to meet mine, and I’m momentarily stunned at their clear, aquamarine hue.

“Thank you,” she says again, and this time, she doesn’t glance away.

It takes all of my willpower to stop myself from closing the short distance between us so that she’ll tip her head back and offer those rosebud lips to me.

I’m not a single-minded fool like the idiot who invaded her personal space.

I’m a careful monster, the perfect predator.

And I always capture my prey.

Judging by the way her lovely eyes are studying my face, I already have her interest. Women have always found me attractive, so this part is easy enough.

“You don’t have to thank me,” I say smoothly. “But you can let me buy you a drink.”

Her delicately arched brows draw together. “You want to buy me a drink?”

I allow an indulgent smile to tilt my lips, even though I’m slightly irked that she seems the tiniest bit hesitant to accept. “I do.”

She presses those pretty lips together, considering me for a second. Her clear-eyed gaze pins me with discomfiting intensity, and I find myself looking to the bartender to catch his attention.

I choose to ignore the odd moment.

When the bartender meets my eye, I place our order. “Another whiskey and a cosmopolitan.”

The whiskey here is cheap, but I can’t stomach the thought of masking the acrid flavor with a soft drink. My lovely companion, on the other hand, has sipped two pink cocktails in the last hour. It’s not difficult to guess that she wants something sugary.

“Oh,” she says. “I was drinking the slushies.” She gestures at the machine filled with an icy pink drink at the back of the bar. There’s a sign advertising two for ten dollars. “I can pay for mine.”

I suppress a frown at her resistance. Instead, I arrange my features into my most charming smile.

The cosmopolitan appears on the bar before me. “I’m not going to drink this. It’d be a shame for it to go to waste.”

Proving my point, I take a sip of my whiskey, refusing to touch the sickly-sweet concoction.

She eyes me warily, and I choose to wait her out, quirking an expectant eyebrow.

“Okay.” She sighs and reaches for the drink. “Thank you.”

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Abigail. But everyone calls me Abby.”

I don’t want to be everyone to this woman. I want her to feel special. Desired.

She’s strangely hesitant to succumb to my charms. My smile sharpens slightly. It’s been a long time since I’ve been presented with a proper challenge.

“I’m Dane. Enjoy your drink, Abigail,” I reply, savoring the flavor of her name on my tongue.

She lifts the frosted glass and takes a sip, as though she’s complying without fully thinking through her actions.

Submissive.

Perfect.

As soon as she tastes the cocktail, her remarkable eyes practically roll back in bliss. They remain closed for a second, as though she’s experiencing ecstasy at the sugar hit.

Hunger tightens my gut. She’s definitely shy, but she’s completely guileless. Her rapturous expression holds nothing back.

Her broad grin hits me square in the chest.

“This is so good. ”

Fuck, the way she lingers over the words makes it sound like she could orgasm from her sensory response to nothing more than a sweet drink.

She’ll sound beautiful when she screams my name in bed.

“I’m glad you like it,” I say, half a heartbeat later than I should.

Something about this woman challenges my usual composure. I can’t predict her actions, and she doesn’t easily fall into my seductive games.

She almost refused my offer to buy her a drink, but then she submitted when I used a firmer tone with her.

I’m intrigued.

She’s beautiful, but that’s not what attracts me to her. As a plastic surgeon, I see beautiful women every day, and they come to me to make them even more physically perfect.

With her enchanting freckle and understated but lovely lips, Abigail isn’t perfect.

But she might just be the most enticing woman I’ve ever met, and I’ve only spoken to her for a few minutes.

“Where are you from?” she asks. “I like your accent.”

My chest warms at the first admission of her attraction to me, and my smile tilts into a smirk. Her gaze fixes on my mouth.

She’s just as intrigued as I am.

“England,” I reply. “But I’ve lived in the States for a while now. Are you from Charleston? I’m new here.”

I like her accent too. There’s a soft Southern drawl that makes her words almost breathy, but it’s subtle enough to not be a distraction. I want to hear her panting and begging in my bed in that sultry voice.

She takes another sip of her drink, as though she can’t resist sampling the sweetness on her tongue.

“I grew up around here,” she says. “And I’ve lived in Charleston since college. It’s such a beautiful city. I’m sure you’ll love it here.”

“Yes,” I agree, allowing my gaze to flick over her face in obvious appreciation. “Beautiful.”

A pretty shade of pink flushes her cheeks, and she takes a bigger gulp of her drink.

I’m starting to find her shyness charming. Will she blush when I lean in close and whisper all the filthy things I want to do to her?

Resolutely, I maintain a respectful distance between us.

My prey isn’t ready to be cornered. She strikes me as a soft-spoken, sweet Southern belle.

Judging by her perfect posture, she’s probably a good girl, well behaved.

She’ll be scandalized by my perverted plans for her, but I’m confident that I can bend her to my will.

I’ve never failed to seduce a conquest before. She’ll accept my darker games by the end of the night, and I’ll show her greater ecstasy than she ever thought possible. I just have to handle her carefully.

“Have you been to Battery Park yet?” Her voice is a touch higher now as she struggles to make small talk when I’m practically burning her with my intense gaze.

I should probably soften that intensity, but I’m enjoying the edgy energy crackling between us too much to rein myself in. She sways toward me ever so slightly, drawn in by the threat lurking behind my cocky smirk.

“I haven’t been to the park yet. I only arrived in town a few days ago. You can show me around.”

I let my mask slip a bit further, and my smile sharpens. I keep her pinned in my steady, unwavering stare, and her lips part slightly on a panting intake of breath.

She drops her gaze and drains the last inch of her drink, as though she needs the cool liquid to soothe her flushed skin.

“What brought you to Charleston?” she counters instead of immediately agreeing to be my tour guide.

I smother a small frown at her renewed resistance. The chemistry we share is undeniable, electric. But perhaps it’s potent enough to make her uncomfortable. I must be right about her: she’s a good girl.