Undercover Husband. Cindi Myers

       Chapter Five

      “I don’t think—” Walt began, but Hannah interrupted him.

      “I don’t mind talking with him by myself.” She assumed what she hoped was an eager expression. “It would be a privilege to meet the Prophet.” Was that laying it on too thick? Probably not, for a man who had the nerve to refer to himself as the Prophet.

      Andi turned to Walt. “You can wait outside,” she said. “I’ll call you when it’s your turn.”

      Walt turned to Hannah. “If you’re sure?”

      “I’ll be fine.” After all, it wasn’t as if Metwater was going to do anything with Andi right here and a bunch of other people around. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t had experience fending off fresh men. Even if Metwater was the lecher Walt had made him out to be, Hannah could handle him.

      Walt left, then Andi put on a broad-brimmed hat and headed for the door also. “Where are you going?” Hannah asked.

      “The Prophet wants to speak with you alone,” she said, and left, the door clicking shut behind her.

      Hannah hugged her arms across her chest and walked to the window, but heavy shades blocked any view out—or in. She took a deep breath, fighting for calm. She shouldn’t be afraid of Metwater. Walt was close by if she needed anything. She needed to keep her head and use this opportunity to learn as much as possible about the Prophet, and about Emily and Joy.

      “Please, have a seat. I want you to be comfortable.”

      She turned and stared at the man who spoke. Metwater—and this had to be Metwater—was almost naked, wearing only a pair of low-slung, loose lounge pants in some sort of silky fabric. The kind of thing she’d seen Hugh Hefner wear in old photographs. At the thought, she had to stifle a laugh.

      “Please share what you find so amusing.” Barefoot, he moved into the room with the sensual grace of a panther, lamplight gleaming on the smooth muscles of his chest and arms and stomach. Curly dark hair framed a face like Michelangelo’s David, the shadow of beard adding a masculine roughness.

      All mirth deserted her as he moved closer still, stopping when he was almost touching her, so that she could feel the heat of his body, smell his musk and see the individual lashes that framed his dark eyes. He stared at her, crowding her personal space, stripping away her privacy. She found it impossible to look away from that gaze—the hypnotic stare of a predator.