At least that sounded right. ‘Because it’s too small.’
‘It’s not too small for me, and it’s my place. It’s just right.’
He made a face. ‘How did I get in here?’
‘Sam, Clay and Paige.’ Gwyn smiled. ‘Stevie directed the effort. I videotaped the whole thing so we can laugh about it later.’
‘You didn’t.’
She rubbed her thumb over his lip. ‘No. I didn’t. Lucy did.’
Thorne rolled his eyes. ‘Ha ha. Just keep your stand-up routine off the stage or they’ll throw rotten fruit at you.’
‘So noted. But the others are ready to talk to you about next steps. While you’ve been sleeping, we’ve been planning.’
Others? Next steps? He frowned, and then it all came back. ‘Fuck,’ he whispered, now fully awake. ‘This is bad, Gwyn. Really bad.’
‘I know. But we’ve been through other bad shit. We’ll get through this.’
He lifted his hand to her hair, which fell in dark ringlets around her pretty pixie face. It had gotten long in the last four years, now halfway down her back. But her face was exactly the same as it had been that morning twelve years ago when she’d shown up to interview for lead singer of the band he’d played with back then. ‘You don’t ever age.’
She leaned into his caress and his heart did a slow roll in his chest. ‘Oh, I age all right. I just moisturize.’
He pressed a fingertip to her mouth. ‘Just say thank you.’
Her swallow was audible, her cheeks going rosy. Thorne stared. Gwyn Weaver did not blush. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered against his finger.
It was his turn to swallow. ‘Why were you at my house this morning?’
Her eyes narrowed, the soft moment abruptly over. ‘Because you canceled my date. He said you insinuated that I was unbalanced.’
Shit. Busted. He hadn’t thought she’d actually ask her dates why they kept canceling. ‘I never said that.’
Her eyes narrowed further. ‘Then what exactly did you say?’
‘Um . . .’ He tried to sit up. ‘You said the others were ready to talk to me?’
She shoved him back to the mattress. ‘They can wait another few minutes. They have pizza and beer, so they’re occupied.’
He blinked up at her, stunned that she’d been able to push him back so easily. ‘You are either surprisingly strong or I’m more out of it than I thought.’
‘A bit of both. Fess up, Thorne.’ She winced, her eyes vulnerable. Not a look she ever let anyone see. ‘You . . . you had no right to do whatever it was you did.’
He closed his eyes, not wanting her to know what he was thinking, what he was feeling. Not wanting her to guess that he’d do it again in a heartbeat. ‘I didn’t say you were unbalanced. I just said they would be very unhappy if they went out with you.’
‘Because I’m toxic or something?’
His eyes flew open to stare up at her, horrified to see hurt in her gaze.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He should have known that this was where her mind would go. Unwittingly harboring a killer in her bed had decimated her belief in herself. It shouldn’t have, because the bastard had been a slippery liar. He’d fooled them all. ‘No. God, no.’ But her lip was quivering now, and the truth came barreling out. ‘It was because I’d go ballistic on them. I couldn’t stand the thought of any of them touching you.’
She looked away, swiping a hand over her eyes. When her gaze returned to his, it was wary. ‘Why?’ she asked simply.
He felt his own cheeks heat. ‘Isn’t it clear by now?’
‘No. You’re the genius lawyer. I just manage a nightclub.’
She said it lightly, but he could see that she was serious, and it pissed him off. ‘You don’t “just” do anything, Gwyn. You work harder than I do and your job is every bit as challenging.’
She shook her head. ‘Okay. We’re done.’ She started to stand up and he grabbed her wrist, making sure his grip was loose enough that he didn’t hurt her and that she could pull away if she really wanted to.
‘What?’ he asked. ‘Where are you going?’
‘You’re blowing bullshit out your ass, Thorne. There is no planet where my job is anywhere near as important as yours. You give me lies like that, and nothing else that comes out of your mouth will be believable.’
He scowled at her. ‘Did you always think that? Or is this more bullshit from that asshole Evan?’
The asshole who’d lied to her, made her feel special, touched her body, all while he was using her as a cover for a string of murders that was intended to end both her life and Lucy’s. I want to kill him. Too bad the fucker was already dead.
She looked away. ‘Don’t go there, Thorne. I’m not talking about him.’
‘Fine. We’ll talk about you. How many people does Sheidalin employ, Gwyn?’
‘Currently thirty-one,’ she answered promptly. ‘Twenty are part-time. Why?’
‘How many of them have families? Someone they are responsible for supporting?’
‘All but ten,’ she said. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’
‘How many of those twenty-one employees have children?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘How many are dependent on Sheidalin for their rent, food, health insurance?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘All of them. That’s . . . a ludicrous argument, Thorne, and we both know it. You are protecting people’s rights. Sometimes protecting their lives.’
‘You’re protecting people’s lives too, Gwyn. And, I might add, people who are generally more deserving than my clients, because we know for sure that none of our club employees have committed any crimes.’
Her lips twitched. ‘That’s a fair point. But come on. Really?’
‘Really. You manage our club effectively and efficiently, without drama. People who work for us love their jobs. They have security. They know they can provide for their kids. You do that, Gwyn. So don’t be telling me that I’m any smarter than you or better than you. It’s not true.’
‘Fine,’ she agreed, far too easily. Then her eyes narrowed to slits, her pretty mouth falling open. ‘You fucker. You totally changed the subject. I asked you why you didn’t want my dates touching me.’
He laughed. ‘See? You’re smart. I can’t get anything by you.’
She socked his arm softly this time, and in the only place he didn’t seem to be bruised. ‘Tell me.’
His stomach tightened, any hope of avoiding the topic evaporating like mist. He drew a breath. Closed his eyes. ‘Dammit, Gwyn. I don’t want to have this conversation today. I’m . . . not myself. When we have this conversation, I want to be in control of my thoughts. I want to say it right.’
She leaned into his space, and he could feel her frowning even though his eyes remained tightly closed. The scent of lavender tickled his nose and a strand of her hair brushed against his neck. ‘Say what, Thorne? Why would you tell perfectly nice men, vetted by people I trust, to stay away from me?’
Her questions were flatly uttered, like she was daring him to speak. Or not to speak. Either way he was fucked, and most likely not in a good way. He needed to get this out on the table so it was plain and visible and she’d know it had nothing to do with her.
And everything to do with her.
He blew out the breath he’d been holding. ‘Because I want you for myself,’ he blurted, then groaned. ‘I had at least twenty ways to say that better.’
The scent of lavender faded as she slowly straightened. Dead silence filled the room, silence that went on so long, he opened his eyes to see her staring at him.
He rolled his eyes, choosing to be embarrassed by the whole ordeal. Because the alternative was the gut-wrenching disappointment that was already rising in his chest, threatening to stomp his heart. Because he’d hoped. He’d really hoped.
After the way she’d looked at him in the living room, the way she’d held his gaze in that damn mirror of hers . . . he’d hoped. He’d been wrong.
‘Really, Gwyn? You really didn’t know?’
‘No,’ she murmured. ‘I didn’t. Lucy suspected, but . . . I didn’t know.’
He rubbed his forehead. He was getting another headache, the pain a welcome distraction from the pain in his chest. ‘Just forget I ever said anything.’