Thunderous applause erupted. Being the center of attention made Giselle a little shy, so she hugged the trophy to her chest and hurried off the stage. Moving a bit too fast, she missed a step on the stairs and pitched forward.
Her eyes widened in horror, a scream catching in her throat, but before she could hit the ground, a strong arm wrapped securely around her. She crashed hard against a solid, broad chest.
The intoxicating scent of rich, woody cologne instantly flooded her senses. Giselle stared wide-eyed at the man holding her.
A true heir to the Lonsdale Group—he looked like a man sculpted out of pure money and power.
His striking features bore a distinct resemblance to Loyce, though his carried an edge of rugged, dangerous charm. The casual, lazy smirk playing on his lips was enough to steal the breath from anyone's lungs.
Seeing the girl dazed, Hank Lonsdale wasn't surprised. Practically every woman he crossed paths with eventually fell under his spell.
"Speechless?" he murmured, helping her stand upright while keeping a firm hand on her waist.
Giselle snapped out of it. Her face flushed violently as she shoved him away, clutching her trophy and stumbling backward until there was at least ten feet of space between them.
Seeing her bolt like a frightened rabbit—such a sharp contrast to her starstruck gaze a second ago—Hank let out a soft chuckle. "Do I have the plague? What's with the marathon sprint?"
"No, no! Thank you for saving my life, Mr. Lonsdale. I know you only did it for Loyce," Giselle babbled, clearly wanting nothing to do with him. She spun on her heel and practically sprinted toward Loyce.
She had absolutely zero interest in tangling with Hank Lonsdale. She'd heard the rumors: he was a notorious playboy, the king of heartbreakers, with a legendary temper and alleged ties to the mafia. Just thinking about him gave her the creeps.
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