The girl their boss had been holding, pinned in his arms, suddenly attacked. And it was a sneak attack—aimed right at a man's most sensitive, most off-limits spot.
Phoebe Faulkner had launched a sneak attack. And it was a direct hit.
To top it all off, she'd done it with her own two small hands.
Jace Lennox's face went pale with fury.
"Phoebe Faulkner!" A sickening CRACK—the sound of a dislocated wrist—was followed by his cold, furious roar. "Is this what you did to those other men?! Are these the 'methods' you used to take them down?!"
Drunken reflexes are slow. Phoebe's wrist was already dislocated, but she hadn't even noticed. Thirty seconds passed before the pain registered, and she let out a piercing scream.
Jace Lennox stared at Phoebe's face. Not bothering to wait for Dr. Whitecoat to find something to sober her up, he dragged Phoebe into the bathroom, flicked on the shower, and aimed the spray directly at her head.
