Читать книгу Provocative Passion - AlTonya Washington - Страница 9

Prologue

“Walk out that door and I’m done.”

Sophia Hail’s bow-shaped mouth opened in disbelief...and heartbreak. “You can’t mean that.” Her voice was less than a whisper.

The gold flecks in Santigo Rodriguez’s uncommon ebony gaze sparkled; then his stare faltered and he was taking a seat in the armchair next to the bed, where he began slipping into a pair of black hiking boots.

“You mean that?” Sophia hated the lost and still-heartbroken tone of her voice. She was made of stronger stuff than that, but her disbelief had stunned her.

Santigo continued coolly putting on his shoes until the weight of Sophia’s extraordinary gray eyes commanded a response. “How I feel shouldn’t be a surprise, Soap,” he said.

She shook her head. “All that time I’ve been at the academy—”

“And all that time you knew how I felt.”

“Tig, it’s my first day at work—”

“If it is, then I’m done.”

Something flickered in her eyes, and she came to stand before him, arms folded over her chest. “You didn’t think I’d go through with it, did you? Didn’t think I’d finish.” She saw the muscle skip along the angle of his strong jaw, and she knew she’d correctly guessed. “You jackass.”

Santigo finished tying the boots and reclined in the chair. “You proved you have the stones to see this through. Let it go and move on.”

Sophia placed the dry-cleaned uniform across her bed and pinned her lover of six years with a furious glare. “Move on? Why? To make it easier for you to handle?”

Tigo shot up from the chair, towering over Sophia and fixing her with a gaze darker than anything she could have conjured.

“Are you that ready to get yourself shot to hell to prove what a badass you are, Sophia?”

She took a step back...crushed. “That’s what you think?” She took in the tall, seductively crafted length of his six-foot-plus frame. “When I told you this was who I am, who I wanted to be...did you think I was playing around, Tig?”

He spread his arms. “You wanna break me down, Soap? All right then, I admit it, I can’t handle it.” He shook his head; the generous curve of his mouth was a grim line. “I can’t handle it.”

“But you can handle me walking away from something I love?”

“Love? Jesus, Soap, you haven’t even started!”

“Well, that’s about to change.” She went to reclaim her uniform.

“Then we’re about to change.” He turned his back and pulled a wrinkled denim shirt across his chiseled chestnut-brown torso.

Sophia bit her lip and willed herself not to cry. She watched the uniform turn to a blur before her eyes and knew that she had failed.

“Leave my key on the counter when you go,” she said and left without another look back.

Santigo maintained his rigid stance a mere second after the front door slammed shut. Then he crumpled, returning to the armchair, where he held his head in his hands and let emotion have its way.