“My '65 Mustang might be dated, too, but it's bad-ass.
He savored the little nuances of her floundering expression. The skin tightening over arches of her cheekbones. The vertical lines between her eyebrows. The bounce in her gaze, ping-ponging everywhere but in his direction. And finally, her wavering sigh.
Got her. Earlier, when his arms were locked around her, she might've sensed his cruelty. But now that she'd let him in, she would be fighting that intuition, convincing herself he wouldn't bother with conversation if he intended to harm her. Lucky for him, she didn't know how he operated.
He held up his gloved fingers, wiggling them. “You should thank me. You don't know where my hands have been.”
Her nose twitched again, her eyes fixed on the packages beneath his arm. “Um...thanks?” She squared her shoulders and dragged her gaze to his, the display of courage ten times more forced than her voice. “My mail?”
As he crossed the room, she rose like an animated mannequin, a vision of posed glamour, an artist's illusion. He stopped a few feet away, mesmerized by the unnatural yet graceful way she held herself, until she raised a stiff arm and gestured for the packages.
He handed them over and nodded at the sheaths behind her. “Should I worry about where the knives are?”
“Probably.” She turned toward the bench and removed the bottles of dye, arranging them in a neat little line with the labels facing her.
“Your vagueness isn't very friendly.”
She sighed. “I don't forge blades. I make things from leather and sell them online.”
Her only source of income? That would explain her financial problems and her urgency to ship this project.
She unscrewed the first bottle, and the plasticky smell of chemicals singed the air. “You can sit on the stool while I finish and tell me the real reason you were on my porch.”
Perceptive little thing. Bossy, too. He let it go and sat, facing her backside as she worked. “When was the last time you left the house?”
Her shoulders bunched. “Thirty minutes ago.”
“Before that.”
“None—”
“Of my business?” He stretched his legs out in front of him and angled his head to watch the glorious flex of her ass. “Do you know your neighbors?”
Her hands paused; then she blotted a rag with brown stain. “No, so I won't be able to answer questions about your old friends.”
The six months he'd spent watching her house, he hadn't seen a twitch in the shades. “Gonna go out on a limb here and say you've never even seen your neighbors.”
Her hip cocked out as if she'd lost her balance, but her hands continued to work the dye into the carved designs.
The flourish of knotted swirls in the leather appeared impressively intricate, even if the details weren't clear from where he sat. “You always work in a dress and heels?”
“You always chatter like a fourth grade girl?”
He snapped his molars together. Fuck, she was frustrating. “If you'd answer my questions—”
“You didn't answer mine.” She bent over to inspect her work, and sweet Jesus, the short dress rose a good two inches up her thighs. Much more of that and those hard cheeks would be gripping his dick.
He swiped a gloved hand over his face. What was her question? Oh. “Why was I on your porch?” He smirked at her back. “Your bench has a great view of your kinky neighbors. Did you know they fuck on their kitchen table?”
She spun, her wide bright eyes colliding with his.
His smile stretched, giving her a good show of teeth.
She studied him, nibbling the corner of her lip, and her face relaxed. “You're fucking with me.”
He hadn't even begun. “If that's what you think.”
Her eyebrows pulled together as she returned to her dye. “I'm almost done,” she mumbled. “Then it'll need a few hours to dry.”
And he needed to poke around, unsupervised. “Got anything to drink?”
“Juice and beer in the fridge. Tequila under the sink.”
He moved toward the door. “Want anything?”
She glanced over her shoulder, eyes on his gloved hands. “No, thanks.”
Smart girl, but not smart enough.
In the kitchen, he opened every cabinet and drawer and found the same diabolical order as the rest of the house. Condiments and plastic containers grouped in fours, organized by size, labels facing out. Same thing in the fridge.
He poured two fingers of gold tequila. Cheap stuff, but even a watered-down mixto pretending to be tequila was better than domestic beer.