Pozza took a step toward her.
“Stop.” She tightened her grip on the gun. “Don’t come any closer.”
He didn’t listen. She didn’t lower the gun, but she didn’t shoot. And now, tremors of lust were running through her at the most inopportune time—as she watched death slowly approach until it was just an arm’s length away.
His eyes were so dark, they made the unlit space around them look gray. His hair fell about his face, hanging in thick strands just below his chin, gracing the tops of his shoulders. A slit in his brow was perfectly aligned with a scar on his eyelid and the top of his cheekbone.
“Please.” Her pleas, to her ears, sounded as ferocious as a kitten’s. “Don’t.”
He lifted his hands. She closed her eyes. Her index finger graced the trigger. Then, she heard something tearing.
When she reopened her eyes, Pozza’s dark shirt was gone. Before her stood a beautiful mural disguised as a hard, male body.