Marked as His by Em Petrova Page B

guys tried their best to get into her small office—and her pants.
    One guy walked by the window and gave her the devil horns with his fingers, sticking out his long, pierced tongue.
    Shaking her head, she turned her back on him and took down an address.
    When she ended the call, she issued the growl she’d kept pent up. As the receptionist and bookkeeper at the small, privately owned , and male-staffed welding shop, she was harassed more than she’d care to be. Guys saw her as easy prey.
    At least until they learned who they were messing with.
    Another big body obscured the whole window. With a grunt, she got up and took two steps before she realized this tower of muscle didn’t belong to the new welder. In fact, she didn’t recognize those hard buns and the back like a wooden plank with black leather stretched over it.
    Before she could blink, the body turned and the man pushed open the door. She gaped at the black T-shirt molded to a chest only a man who worked hard could earn. His biceps and forearms were roped with muscle—and covered in tattoos.
    “Santana?” His deep voice made her jerk her gaze up to his face.
    Hell, she wished she hadn’t. His eyes were deep brown and heavy eyebrows were drawn downward, giving him a dangerous air.
    She stepped back.
    “Santana Powers?” His gaze didn’t stray from hers—a first around here.
    She inched away until she came up against the metal side of her desk. Then she reached around and gripped the drawer pull. She didn’t like the way this man was looking at her—like she was a big lollipop and he was hungry little boy. Except he hadn’t looked away from her face.
    Odd.
    “I’m Santana. Can I help you?” Dammit, her voice didn’t even sound normal. She tore her gaze from his and looked at his wide, sculpted chest again.
    The Hell’s Sons patch blackened his good looks.
    Setting a hand on her hip, she gave him a long perusal. It took about five minutes. There was a lot of him.
    “My father sent you, didn’t he?” she asked at last.
    Amusement toyed with the corner of his hard lips. He looked as if he were planning to pick her up, throw her over his shoulder, and carry her out against her will. She wouldn’t put it past a Hell’s Son.
    He gave a slow nod. “Your father would like you to come back to the club with me and talk to him.”
    Her mind racing, she sank to her desk chair. So Tommy had once again gone above the law. Adhere to the restraining order by not contacting her in any way, even through a third party? Nope. He’d sent one of his minions. Damn the man to hell. Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? Fifteen years of no contact, and now he was elbowing his way into her life?
    She wasn’t a ten-year-old girl sobbing every night because she missed her daddy’s cuddles. She didn’t need a Hell’s Son father and sure as fuck wasn’t going with a biker to the club.
    No, she wouldn’t go to the club with him. But she prided herself on being resourceful.
    Easing open the drawer, she started to reach inside. The man closed the gap between door and desk in one giant step. He braced a hand on her desktop and leaned over her. “Why don’t you get your purse and come with me?”
    Did he think she was intimidated by him? “O-okay. That sounds fine.”
    Her mind worked over her options.
    Call the cops and have him removed.
    Yell for the welders in the shop and they could bodily remove him.
    Deal with him herself.
    She drew a deep breath and instantly regretted it. Her head flooded with leather and man with an underlying hint of auto grease she associated with hot, rough men. Those types were her guilty pleasures, but she’d never hook up with one long term. She scoffed off her obsession as a daddy issue.
    Giving the biker her brightest smile, she retrieved her purse from under her desk and slung it over her shoulder. Then she pushed a few buttons on the phone.
    He tracked her every movement.
    She stood and at last he gave her that once-over she’d been