“I don’t think we were talking about children or marriage at all,” Max said coolly. “I was about to point out that I think you’re terrified your mother might actually be psychic.”
That did it. His blue eyes turned the most amazing shade of icy gray, and he leveled her with a look. “Did you say psychic or psychotic?”
“That’s why I’ve terrified you since the day you decided I wasn’t a murderer. You finally had to admit I’m psychic.”
“You? Terrify me?” He backed her once more against the car. “Don’t think so, sweetheart.”
Okay, so maybe that was the wrong challenge to use on him. There was a sharp edge to his voice, an angry scowl on his lips, but the rest of him was primed to go right up against the driver’s side door. In spite of his hostility. Or maybe because of it.
He turned her to jelly. Maybe that’s why she stuck her nose up in his face. “Yeah. You’re scared shitless your mother really does talk to your father.” She narrowed her eyes. “He tells her stuff, too. About the future. About stuff your mother has no business knowing. Stuff about you. You don’t want to believe she might be right on, do you?” It wasn’t such a shot in the dark. It wasn’t even psychic. Just an educated guess.
His nostrils flared. She’d hit bone with that one. “You’re the one that’s not gonna wanna hear, Max. Don’t push.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot. You don’t like to fight.”
Nose to nose, they started in on a doozy right there in front of his mother’s house. “Wanna hear?” he challenged.
Not. “Yeah.”
“He told her I’m gonna kill someone. For you, Max. Because of you.”
She shrank back, but she couldn’t get away. “That’s a lie.”
“You’re the one who says she’s psychic.”
“Who’re you going to kill?” Barely a whisper. Inside her mind, one name pounded. Bud Traynor. Her nemesis. The man who had chased her through two murder investigations and still haunted her dreams. The man she had sworn vengeance on for the vile acts he’d committed. The man who had yet to pay for anything he’d done. On the heels of that thought came guilt. And anger. Anger with herself for even wishing that Witt would take care of her problem for her.
“No names. Sorry. Not that easy.”
“In the line of duty?” she asked as if that would somehow make killing more palatable.
“Does it make a difference?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “I’ve drawn my gun, fired when necessary, even shot a suspect once. But it’s not all cops and robbers like on TV, Max. I’ve never killed anyone.”
“I’m glad for you.” She was glad for herself. Perhaps his big hands might feel different against her skin if she knew they’d killed.
“You’re glad? Do you even get what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I do.” No, she didn’t want to. Dammit, she should never have started this. Picking a fight didn’t work with Witt. She always seemed to wind up on the losing end.
“I’ll spell it out for you, ‘cause I have my doubts that you really do get what I’m saying. Try this on for size. If my mother talks to my father’s ghost, and he’s right about my killing someone for you, then how does that make you feel?”
It made her fingers numb. It made her brain shut down. It made her responsible for his moral deterioration. She knew without a doubt that killing another human being would change Witt forever.
“How’s it make you feel, Max?” His voice a mere whisper, a breath against her hair.
She took a deep breath, stared at his red tie against the black shirt, and told herself the words wouldn’t hurt her. “It means you and I really aren’t cut out for a relationship. It doesn’t mean I’m not psychic.” God, Cameron would be proud of her. She’d fought him on that very issue for so long.
“We don’t have a relationship.” Witt’s voice had softened. “Yet,” he added ominously.
“Look, I really don’t want to fight.”
“Liar.” His voice was dangerously soft now. Goose bumps skittered along her arms. “You love fighting. That’s your favorite defense mechanism.”
She didn’t realize she was so obvious.
“If you won’t tell me how it makes you feel, I’ll tell you how I’d feel about killing for you. I’d feel haunted. I’d feel desperate.” He shook his head slowly. “But it wouldn’t change a goddamn thing. I’d still want you anyway.” He grabbed her face with both hands, and planted a quick, closed-mouth kiss on her lips.
*
God, that kiss. Short and hard, and nothing like the kiss he’d made her give him the day he forced her to agree to meet his mother. Nothing like it, but equally as devastating. Max touched her lips. They still throbbed, and over an hour had passed. She was crazy to still be thinking about the touch of his lips, still tasting him and wishing he hadn’t stopped.
Crazy because he’d damn near admitted he didn’t care if he had to kill to have her. That he had no intention of walking away.
Destiny lay around the corner. She wondered exactly what fate would bring, yet was terrified to contemplate the possibilities.