They were coming into town, thank God. She could drop him off at his coach house, park the car and get herself inside where she was safe. Safe from the killer. Safe from him. Not safe from herself, though. She’d just proved that.
“Maybe when I was young, before my parents died? We traveled all over the world. That way you wouldn’t remember, because I was eight when they were killed and you’re younger than me.”
She shook her head.
“According to your online bio, you grew up in Nepal. I don’t remember Nepal, but I do remember India.”
She shrugged.
He pressed her. “Your parents were missionaries?”
As she turned into the driveway, she gestured noncommittally. Damn it. He knew the story Nauplius had concocted to give her a personal history. Should she admit it was all a fabrication? No, if she did that, he’d want to know her real background. If she didn’t answer, he would research her, or think more deeply about where they could have met … He was suspicious already, of course. He was too intelligent not to be.
In a reflective voice, he said, “We have a lot in common.”
She wanted to snort. They had nothing in common. They never had.
He continued, “Our parents were killed and our young lives both altered beyond all recognition. Do you want to come into my cottage for a drink and more conversation?”
She shook her head. Most definitely not. Not if she wanted to keep her cover story. Not if she wanted to stay out of his bed—and stay alive.
“I’m not a rapist,” he said.
She shook her head again, quickly, in surprise.
“I thought that a woman who can’t scream for help might worry about that.”
He was the second man in twenty-four hours to worry that she couldn’t scream. Which wasn’t something she had worried about … before.
She pulled up beside the B and B carriage house.
He gestured toward her designated parking space. “If you won’t come in, fine, but I’m still going to walk you to your door.”
She glanced around at the Christmas lights Phoebe had strung in the trees, at the shadows lurking at the property’s borders. Right. Good plan. She drove forward and parked. She started to open her door.
Gently he caught her arm and when she faced him, he released her. “My poor male ego has been flattened enough by you driving and buying dinner. Don’t you think you should kiss it and make it better?”
He made her want to laugh out loud. She signed, “Your male ego? Is that what we’re calling it now? It’s deflated? Am I supposed to believe that?”
“At least take advantage of me for one kiss, on the lips if you must.”
She examined him in the dim light. He was not handsome, not with those mismatched features and those ears, but that crooked smile and those warm eyes made her want to kiss him. Worse than that, to trust him.
Silently she sighed. She was a fool, the worst kind of fool. She wouldn’t trust him. But it had been a very, very long time since she had kissed a man in passion—in fact, since the last time she’d kissed Benedict himself. A kiss filled the space where words could not explain or express. One kiss … Leaning across the console, she put her hands on his shoulders and pulled him toward her. She tilted her head and put her mouth to his. She closed her eyes and tried to remember how to do this right … Lips, brushing softly. A careful opening, breathing together, a tentative exploration, then the reward for patience, a taste of red wine and Benedict. A little more pressure, his intrusion, then hers, then his … Both of them breathing faster. Her heart hammering. Her fingers tangled in his soft hair … her arms around his shoulders, her breasts pressed to his chest. She strained toward …
She opened her eyes. She caught her breath. She pushed away, banged her elbow on the steering wheel, hit the horn for one sharp beep.
Scream? She didn’t need to scream.
She needed to swear.
He’d always been a good kisser, slow, tender, touching, breathing, loving every moment. He’d only improved with time, and what was worse—in this short span of time he had brought her almost to ecstasy. She looked for his hands. They were clasping the car seat.
She had been ready to fling herself across the console onto the tiny seat and ravage him—and he hadn’t touched her.
He was a show-off.
She had been trying to remember how to kiss and got caught up in the warmth, the softness … the long, slow slide into wetness and anticipation … the intimation of further pleasure … Her mistake.
Now she needed to remember that this man had tried to kill her. This man had been the cause of nine years of unhappiness and abuse.
Worse, he was a show-off. Show-off, show-off, show-off!
As she watched, he opened his eyes. He looked almost sleepy. Deceptively sleepy. She knew what that meant: he was ready.
The car was hot and steamy and this time, no matter what he said or did, she was leaving. She slammed out of the car and headed for the house, half expecting his hand to catch her arm. She readied her best self-defense move, one that would knock him into the dirt.
He caught up. Didn’t touch her. Walked beside her, opened the back door, followed her as she stalked through the kitchen and escorted her to the door that led into the dining room and her suite.
She could hear conversation and the clinking of glasses in the sitting room. She didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. See anyone right now. Not when she was flushed with arousal. Not when Benedict waited while she worked her way through the locks to get her door open. Too many conclusions—accurate conclusions—would be drawn.
Then he grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Thank you for a lovely evening. Perhaps we can meet tomorrow?”
Which reminded her—he might aggravate her, but she was supposed to be using him for safety. She signed, “Want to go for a run in the morning?”
Maybe her suggestion surprised him. Maybe her obvious irritation intrigued him. Something made his eyes narrow in suspicion. Still, he agreed right away. “Sure. Nine?”
“Seven.” Want to argue about that?
“See you then.” Hands in his pockets, he strolled away.
She shut the door behind her, set all the locks, checked the progress of her program and gave it a nudge—a little more aggressively than usual, but she was frustrated with the stately pace of her revenge. Nothing more.
Looking at her purse, she hesitated. She didn’t want to talk, but if she didn’t call, she wouldn’t sleep knowing he would call her … and be angry. Maybe if she texted … No. He’d never let her get away with that. Pulling out her tablet, she made the connection.
He answered immediately. “What do you think you’re doing, going out with Benedict Howard?”
He’d been watching her. Somehow, watching her, tracking her. Rage hit her like a freight train, the old rage, dark with dreams of vengeance and long years of bondage. She propped up the tablet, signed, “It is none of your business what I do, who I date.”
“It’s my business if I—”
“No. No!” She gestured emphatically. “I will not exist under surveillance ever again. If I die, I die. But I will live for the brief moments that are allowed me.”
“So you’re sleeping with him.”