“Holden,” she began, lifting her shaky hands up to placate him. “I’m fine. Really.”
But Holden had eyes only for Morris, and by the looks in them, oh dear, was Morris really in for it. Morris had barely straightened, just recovering from her Oscar-winning groin shot, when Holden growled a low, deep sound of battle only a second before he lunged at him.
He shoved Morris back against the desk, toppling a jar of pencils and scattering papers as he smashed his knuckles into the older man’s face. Whimpering in pain, his head rolling sideways from the impact, Morris futilely attempted to land a hit of his own but he didn’t stand a chance—he looked small and helpless compared to Holden. The little man couldn’t compare to Holden’s sheer size and strength. And Holden was crazy now, sinking his fists into Morris’ stomach as if he were a punching bag, snarling and cursing at him the whole time.
Lucy yelled, she screamed, she begged—but Holden seemed deaf to everything but his rage. She ran to him and frantically placed her hand over his knuckles to stop him, her eyes pleading with his profile.
“Holden please, please stop this!”
He paused, his chest heaving as he stared down at a bloody, bruised Simon Morris, a man who had worked with him since the founding of Holden’s investment firm, a man he had trusted. “You’re fired!” Holden spat. “Take your shit and leave here now before I kill you! Am I clear?”
“Yes, very clear,” Lucy said soothingly, certain that Simon Morris couldn’t even speak through his swollen, bloody lips.
She wrapped an arm around Holden and guided him toward the elevators, wanting to flee the scene as soon as poss
ible. Her pulse was dangerously near stroke zone and her knees were practically knocking against each other, barely allowing her to walk. She longed for a few minutes of peace in order to pull herself together. She was extremely close to losing it.
Once in the elevator, Holden punched the lobby button and turned to her, gently cupping her cheeks with his hands. He was shaking with rage and though his brow was creased with worry, he knew his eyes still blazed with red-hot anger. “He hurt you.” He studied the faint red marks on her beautiful cheeks and brushed his thumbs over them in an effort to erase Simon’s touch. “Son of a bitch,” he gritted emotionally.
“I’m fine, really Holden. Besides, I had it all under control.” Her assurance was meant for both of them, and wasn’t very convincing.
“Under control my ass! And what the devil were you doing there in the first place, Lucy?”
“Don’t yell at me Holden! You nearly killed that man, on my account no less—I feel awful!” she said, still too flustered to think straight.
“No, I nearly killed him on his account, for being such a hot-blooded, horny little prick! How dare he force himself on a woman—on my woman—in my own friggin’ building!”
Lucy wasn’t certain if she wanted to point out that she was no one’s “woman” because a part of her felt completely, utterly, devastatingly excited that he’d called her that. Did that make her old-fashioned? Would feminists around the globe yell at her for her stupidity, for wanting to be someone’s “woman”?
No, not someone’s—Patrick Holden’s.
She really outdid herself with this one.
Oh, but to think how he’d just battered Simon Morris—it made her feel extremely guilty. And what if Morris pressed charges? What if Holden went to jail because of her? But then, it had been in her defense, so maybe he wouldn’t need to go to jail at all. Would he? Although she knew full well that what happened hadn’t been her fault, she couldn’t help but think that maybe she shouldn’t have played hardball. “I might have wounded his male pride a little bit,” she admitted in remorse. “I insulted his ego and I guess he felt inclined to show me who was boss.”
“What boss? I’m the fucking boss!”
If she weren’t so utterly mortified she might have found the image of Patrick Holden losing all control laughable. But it wasn’t. Instead she discovered it was…heartwarming. He looked like a wounded, bloody bull, so angered that he would charge at anything—anything to save her.
There was a hushed ting when the elevator reached the lobby.
Holden wrapped a possessive arm around her shoulder and briskly guided her across the marble floor. He had never, ever felt like this. Impotent and worthless and just plain scared shitless.
Patrick had been calling Morris’ office and had found it strange that he hadn’t answered. He usually answered Holden’s direct line on the first ring. It had been the only reason Holden decided to pay him a personal visit. He’d never expected to find him overpowering Lucy, his filthy hand on her beautiful, sexy face, his tongue ravaging her mouth.
Holden thought he would die, like some poor sniffling ninny.
Merely remembering made the bile rise to his throat and his gut twist inside him. Yes, Lucy had not been totally defenseless. Holden had barely thrust the door open and taken in the scene before she’d jerked her knee up and rendered Morris motionless for a few precious seconds. But what if Holden hadn’t walked in there at that precise moment? What horrible thing would Morris have done to her after she’d kicked his stinking cock into its socket?
He could have seriously hurt her. It made Holden feel unaccountably furious and wildly protective of her. It made him realize he didn’t want anyone laying so much as a finger on Lucy Divine except him—and that would be tenderly. Lovingly.
God, he ached to hold her, he ached to bury himself inside her and promise her no one would ever hurt her again.
“Where to, Mr. Holden?” Carlos asked, standing tall as he held the door of the Lincoln, parked just at the curb, open for them.
“I need to take care of some things. Take Miss Divine to my place,” he said, ushering Lucy into the car.
“But Holden—” Instantly correcting herself, she cleared her throat, aware of Carlos still on standby and within earshot. “I mean, Mr. Holden…your costume?”