In the years that followed, Danice found herself wondering (when her mind was not preoccupied with work) how she had ended up in a hotel room with one of the underworld's most elite bodyguards, Erik Hunter.
Light cut in through smoky, dingy windows, illuminating the drab, poorly decorated room in shards. Outside, the sounds of life were being drowned away by a near cacophony of road noise and the clanking air conditioner. The bed was lumpy, and the sheets had the unmistakable feeling of having been washed too many times by careless workers in cheap, industrial machines.
Though this was not Danice's first (okay, it wasn't in the top 100) choice of places in which to be seduced, she had to admit that Erik was, if possible, even more charming because of (if not in spite of) the atrocious circumstances. He was a broad man, with wide shoulders, and an odd ability to fill space with a mixture of both attitude and form. He had chocolate hair that fell in an unconsciously cool, unkempt, shaggy hairstyle over his ice blue eyes. When he smiled, it was always in a smirk, but when he laughed, it was an honest, fully encompassing sound in which he usually threw his head back and roared. His style was simple; sweaters or shirts, and jeans, nothing too fitted (to allow him to hide his gun if needed) but not so loose as to hide his well toned muscles.
