It was a shoe. A shoe with a heel as long and sharp as a stiletto.
“Hey!” Karim danced back. “Listen to me. I’m trying to tell you some—”
She slammed the shoe against him, aiming for his face, but he moved fast; the blow caught him in the shoulder. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her hand to her side.
“Will you wait a minute? Just one damned minute—”
“Wait?” Rachel Donnelly said. “Wait?” The perv from the lounge wanted her to wait? Wait so he could rape her? “The hell I will,” she snarled, and she wrenched her hand free of his, swung hard …
This time, the heel of the shoe flashed by his face.
That was the good news.
The bad was that he muttered something and now he wasn’t defending himself; he was coming straight for her.
Panting, she reacted with all her strength, but he was too big, too strong, too determined. A second later he had both her wrists in his hands and she was pinned against the wall.
“Dammit, woman! Will you listen to me?”
“There’s nothing to listen to. I know what you want. You were in the lounge tonight. I brought you drink after drink and I knew you were going to be trouble and I was right, here you are, and—and—”
Her breath caught.
Wrong.
This wasn’t the guy who’d undressed her with his eyes.
That perv had been bald with squinty eyes behind Coke-bottle lenses.
This guy had a full head of dark hair and eyes the cool gray of winter ice.
Not that it mattered. He’d broken into her apartment. He was male. She was female. After three years in Vegas she knew what that—
“You’re wrong.”
She blinked. Either she’d spoken aloud or he was a mind-reader.
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Then turn around and go away. Right now. I won’t scream, I won’t call the cops—”
“Will you listen? One of us is in the wrong apartment.”
Despite everything, she choked out a laugh. The man scowled and tightened his hold on her wrists.
“What I’m trying to tell you is that I didn’t expect anyone to be here. I thought this was my brother’s apartment.”
“Well, it isn’t. This apartment is—is—” She stared at him. “What brother?”