The Redemption of Roan (The Syndicate #2)(5)

By: Kathy Coopmans

Roan Immanuel Diamond is an impossibility. We would be like mixing Ammonia with Bleach. We would explode; if he didn’t kill me first. He has the same blood pumping through his veins as his brother.

Lifting my glass of wine in acknowledgement, I deprive my eyes from how ruggedly handsome he really is, reminding myself he is just like every other man.

Rumor has it he is the opposite of his brother. Everyone says he’s a protector of the ones he loves. I have a high regard for him and his loyalty to his family. Rumors are just that though, they’re rumors. Most of them are lies. Unless I see things with my own eyes or hear them with my own ears, I believe nothing. God, I sound like a bitch. All that aside, tonight for some reason, he has piqued my curiosity. We’ve spoken few words to each other. Right now though, the way he’s looking at me, it’s as if he’s reaching into my chest, tugging on my heartstrings, and pulling me towards him. What is it about him that has me wanting to gravitate to him right now?

He’s the enemy, Alina, even though he may appear to be kind. He has an agenda. I know he does. He wants revenge on his brother. The question is, what does he want with me? Am I part of the plan to lure Royal out or does Roan simply want in my panties like every other dick-fuck in this town? The way he watches me though, it’s as if he’s put me on some sort of a pedestal. And he doesn’t even know me. I’ve stared at him just like he has stared at me. I may not need a man, but I’m not blind when it comes to checking out a good-looking male. Roan has got to be the best looking man I have ever seen. He stands at least a foot taller than me. His legs are long and lean. His arms and shoulders are thick and muscular. His entire body speaks power. The man is definitely built like a boxer. His dark hair is cropped short. And the scruff he wears on his face would be a turn on for me if I didn’t hate men like I do. God, he’s as handsome as any one person can be.

I’ve had enough wine to make me daring enough to go talk to him, to let him know I know he stalks me like some crazy serial killer waiting for the right time to pounce and attack. This is the first time I’ve acknowledged him since the day I met him. He needs to know I’m not interested. That I want nothing to do with him.

I sit my glass on a nearby table and slowly make my way through the crowd. I can feel his eyes on me the entire time. They never once leave my face. There’s something in the way he looks at me. Roan, such a beautiful name for a man. Bracing my hands on the banister, I begin to climb the stairs that lead to the upper level. My legs start to wobble when I get close to him, my chest growing tighter, my brain struggling for the right thing to say. Better yet, the right words to get him to stop following me.

I pause momentarily, when one of my favorite songs begins to play. “How ironic.” I whisper. Don’t let them get you down by The Black Moods blares loudly in my ear. I continue my climb up the stairs, singing the chorus in my mind. A song I’ve listened to many times over the years. It’s helped give me the strength I needed to carry on. To move forward.

I could listen to Josh Kennedy, the lead singer all day long. There’s something about those words bellowing out from his deep voice that push me forward.

I stop just a few feet short of where he’s standing, and still his gaze never wavers. He isn’t looking at me like a piece of meat he wants to pound until it’s tender and abused. No, he’s picking my brain. Or trying to at least. Have at it, buddy. Pick away.

“We meet again.” His deep voice commands attention while at the same time speaks with authority.

“We do.” I try to make a conscious effort to pitch mine back just as strong. I don’t think it worked when his brow quirks up as he shifts his body to where his back is now leaning against the half wall. Damn, my deceiving little body goes up in flames. I tingle everywhere. My nipples harden underneath my little pasties. Sweat forms in between my breasts. What in the ever loving hell is wrong with me? Ignore your body, Alina. Say what needs to be said and leave.

“Although,” I say, taking the few steps to stand directly in front of him. Crap, wrong move. I should back away because, holy hell, he smells so good. Not from cologne. Not from alcohol. He smells like a man. A real man.

Also By Kathy Coopmans

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