"Do you want me to call security?" the receptionist asked.

He turned his predator's eyes on her, leaving Annabelle at the receiving end of another of those knockout punches. Despite the effort he'd taken to polish all those rough edges, the bar brawler still showed. "I think I can handle her."

A jolt of sexual awareness shot through her-so inappropriate, so unwelcome, so totally out of place that she bumped into one of the side chairs. She was never at her best around excessively confident men, and the absolute necessity of impressing this particular specimen made her silently curse her clumsiness right along with her rumpled suit and Medusa hair.

Molly had told her to be aggressive. He's fought his way to the top, one client at a time. Brutal aggression is the only emotion Heath Champion understands. But Annabelle wasn't a naturally aggressive person. Everyone from bank clerks to taxi drivers took advantage of her. Just last week she'd lost a confrontation with the nine-year-old she'd caught egging Sherman. Even her own family-especially her own family-walked all over her.

And she was sick of it. Sick of being condescended to, sick of too many people getting the best of her, sick of feeling like a failure. If she backed down now, where would it end? She met those money green eyes and knew the time had come to tap deep into her Granger gene pool and play hardball.

"There was a dead body under my car." It was almost true. Mouse had been dead weight.

Unfortunately, the Python didn't look impressed, but then he'd probably been responsible for so many dead bodies that he'd grown bored with the whole concept of corpses. She took a deep breath. "All that red tape. It made me late. Otherwise, I would have been punctual. More than punctual. I'm very responsible. And professional." Just like that, she ran out of air. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

"Yes."