Page 17 of Rebel Protector
He flashed her a grin, and for the first time, his eyes softened in the sunlight. She blinked. Was this Dominguez, the dangerous mercenary who looked like he could snap someone’s neck with a flick of his wrist? How was it possible for him to have this... softer side?
Sitting across from him, it was hard to reconcile the two. She was so confused. This was the same man who had barreled into her like a human shield, protected her, held her hand all the way here... Where had the cold, calculating gun-for-hire gone?
Oh boy.
There she was again, making excuses for her attraction to a thoroughly unsuitable man. She’d sworn off bad boys—years ago, after a toxic relationship that had nearly broken her. Yet here she was, sitting across from one of the most dangerous men she’d ever met, feeling things she shouldn’t be feeling.
She watched him as he lounged in his chair, deceptively relaxed. His sharp eyes, however, were still scanning their surroundings, taking everything in. He might look calm, but his body was coiled tight, ready for action at any moment. Thecontrast between his easy slouch and the tension in his muscles was captivating.
He caught her staring and smiled again, this time a little more knowingly.
Her stomach flipped, but she steeled herself.
No. Do not let your guard down.
Dominguez fit into this dangerous world. He belonged in it. If you stripped away the muscles and the dark, brooding eyes, he was still a guy with a gun, lethal as hell.
And nothing good ever came from getting involved with men like that.
She reached for her drink the moment it arrived and knocked it back in one gulp.
Dominguez’s eyebrows lifted, amused. “It’s not a soft drink, you know.”
“I needed it,” she shot back, setting down the empty glass. But not for the reason he thought.
“Want another?” he asked, though she noticed he hadn’t touched his own drink yet.
She shook her head. “Just a bottle of water, please.”
He flagged down the waitress again and ordered, all the while keeping his attention on her.
“Where did you learn to speak Spanish?” she asked. His command of the language was too good to be anything but native.
“I was born in Cuba,” he replied, though his voice had a slight edge to it. Clearly, he didn’t like talking about himself.
She frowned, confused. “I thought you were American. Your accent?—”
“We moved to America when I was ten,” he explained, eyes shadowed. “But we spoke Spanish at home.”
Ah, that made sense.
The waitress brought her water, and Becca reached to twist off the cap but couldn’t budge it. Her hands felt weak, the adrenaline crash hitting her hard.
Without a word, Dominguez took the bottle from her and opened it with a single twist of his wrist, handing it back.
“Thanks,” she said, more softly than she intended. He’d done it again—this simple act of kindness, completely out of sync with the hard, violent image she’d built of him.
“You know,” she said before she could stop herself, “I can’t figure you out.”
“How’s that?” He took a sip of his saco, watching her carefully.
“Well, you’re obviously good with a gun, or Mr. Markov wouldn’t have hired you, which means you’re dangerous. Carlos and Ramirez both respect you, and knowing them, that probably means you must have a reputation. Yet with me, you’re... different. You protect me from explosions, carry my bag, open my water bottle.” She shook her head. “You seem to be two people, Mr. Dominguez. Which one is the real you?”
He didn’t answer right away, letting the sun beat down between them as he stared off into the distance. Then finally, his voice came low. “I’d like you to call me Dom.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Is that what your friends call you?”
“I don’t have friends,” he replied. “Not wise in my business.”