Текст книги "A Little Too Hot"

Автор книги: Lisa Desrochers

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter Twenty

I SPEND THE next week sleeping late, swimming, and focusing on staying mad at Blake. My dragonfly keeps me company a lot of the time, just sitting on the same spot on the pool edge, watching me. I’ve even started consulting it on all my plans to get back at Blake.

As much time as I’m spending at the pool, I’m starting to get some of my color back. Under my tan, my bruises have faded to a pale yellow, and my arm only hurts when I tweak it.

Blake and I have eaten most dinners together, though I rarely come up from the pool for lunch. He’s started stocking the fridge behind the bar in the bathhouse with fruit and cheese and yogurt for me to nibble on. I refuse to thank him.

When I come out of my room, he is filling a travel mug with coffee from the pot.

“Going somewhere?” I ask when I see his messenger bag on the sofa.

He presses the top onto his mug and turns. “I’ve got to head into the office for a few hours. Cooper is on his way.”

“Is it something with Ben?”

He just looks at me for a heartbeat. “We’re not coming up with the evidence we’d hoped.”

“Meaning?”

“His office is clean. No blood or any trace that would indicate Weber died there.”

“Meaning . . . ?” But I know what it means and my stomach knots.

“Meaning, at the moment, all we have to tie Arroyo to the murder is your testimony.”

I wrap my arms around my middle at the sudden cold that sends a shiver through me.

“We’re going to get him, Sam,” he says. “But this is why it’s so important that we keep you out of harm’s way.”

The elevator door slides open and Cooper is standing there, his usual scowl fixed to his face. “Get a move on, Montgomery. You’re going to miss the meeting.”

Blake gives me a look, then steps into the elevator. As soon as he’s gone, Cooper drops into the armchair and starts channel surfing. He stops on a rerun of Myth Busters.

I get myself a cup of coffee and sink into the sofa.

He points the clicker in his hand at the TV and looks at me for the first time since walking in. “You know they’re from here, right? Adam and Jamie? I saw them film the one where they tried to blow up a bathtub.”

“They didn’t try to blow up a bathtub,” I say. “They were trying to bust that movie myth that you can survive an explosion in a bathtub.”

“Whatever. They do most of their stuff over in Alameda.” He settles deeper into his seat, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table.

There’s a long, awkward silence, and finally I stand. “I’m going to head down to the pool and work my shoulder. Blake usually watches from up here,” I say with a wave of my hand at the balcony, because I really, really don’t want Cooper to come to the pool with me. But then I realize how that sounded. “I mean . . . he stays up here when I’m down there . . . and . . . watches.”

Cooper’s scowl deepens.

I spin for my room before I dig the hole any deeper and change into my suit. When I come out, Cooper is in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

I tiptoe across the hall and down the stairs before he sees me. When I dive into the pool, I find I can actually take a full stroke overhand without my shoulder hurting. After ten laps I’m tired, but not sore. I climb out of the pool and sprawl across a lounge chair, talking to my dragonfly and waiting for my shoulder to start aching. When it doesn’t, I dive back in and swim some more.

When I finally make my way back to the house hours later, the sun is hanging low over the bay and I’m medium rare. But I feel really good. The best I have in a while.

It’s quiet upstairs, so I move to the stereo in the wall and turn on the music so Cooper will know I’m here, but some twangy female voice floods my ears—one of Blake’s country favorites, no doubt. I turn it off fast and move to the big open area between the stairs and the pool table.

I take a cleansing breath, then bow. I gave up karate classes when I went to college, but even when I was partying hard, I kept up my kata, my solo routine. I’ve been dying to get back into it. I tentatively throw my first punch and a rush skitters through me when there’s no pain. I settle into the comfort of the familiar kata, but about halfway in, when I get to the first reverse punch, a searing pain shoots through my shoulder. I grab it, bending at the waist, and suck in a sharp breath.

“Do you need ice?”

At the sound of Blake’s voice, I jerk upright and find him standing at the base of the stairs, two white shopping bags dangling from one hand.

“No. I’m fine,” I say, rolling my shoulder.

“Karate or tae kwon do?” he asks, stepping off the bottom stair into the room.

“What?”

He moves closer and looks me over, sizing me up. I hate that my insides warm under his scrutiny. “Both use Kankû-shô,” he says with a nod of his head toward me. “That is what that was, right?”

“You know martial arts?”

He gives me a slow nod. “Kankû-dai is my preferred kata.”

“Karate,” I answer.

“Shotokan?” he asks, stalking closer.

I nod.

“How long?”

He stops right in front of me. Really close. And with the pool table behind me, I’ve got nowhere to go. I force my eyes to stay on his face and try to concentrate on answering his question. “Seven years.”

A smile tugs at his mouth as he hands me one of the bags. “I knew you were a force to be reckoned with.”

“What’s this?” I ask, taking it from his hand.

He backs off a step. “The things you asked for.”

I peek inside and find things from my list—makeup and various toiletries, mostly, plus a big bag of Skittles. “Thanks.”

“And . . . here are a few other things I thought you might want,” he says, handing me the other bag. When I start to pull open the drawstring, he grasps my arm. “When you get to your room.”

“Okay,” I say, tucking it under my arm. I move to scoot past him, up the stairs, but he doesn’t let go.

“Cooper’s on is way back with the doctor. He wants to check you over.”

My fingers go automatically to my cheek. The tenderness is gone and the Steri-Strips are starting to peel up at the edges. “I’m fine.”

“I know. We just need to be sure,” he says, stepping back to let me pass. “Liability. Wouldn’t want you suing us.”

I give him my best smirk. “There plenty of other things I can sue you for.”

I scamper up the stairs to my room, and when I open the bag Blake gave me, I find a black silk sleep shirt and matching robe, some loose workout shorts, and a handful of very sexy thongs—all the things in my closet that I’d complained about. Butterflies alight in my chest at the thought of him picking this stuff out for me.

I think about showering and changing but then remember that the doctor is going to want to see my shoulder. When I head back out to the living room, Blake’s in the kitchen and something smells amazing.

“What’s for dinner?” I ask.

He looks over his shoulder at me. “Chicken Provençal over rice.”

“Smells good.”

He nods, his gaze flickering over me again, then turns back to the stove, and I wonder if there’s ever going to be a time this won’t be so awkward. I think about how easy everything was between us when he was Harrison Yates, and even though it was only for a few days and nothing about it was real, I want that back.

I go to the fridge and pull out a Diet Coke, popping the top and downing most of it. “How long?”

“I figured we’d eat when you were done with the doctor.”

“Need help?” I ask, stepping up to the counter next to him.

He holds up the knife he’s using to trim the chicken breasts and his eyes spark. “When I’m wielding a weapon of mass destruction, it’s probably wise to stand back.”

“You just don’t trust me not to stab you with it.”

He gives me a slow nod, fighting a smile. “There’s also that.” He sets the knife down, out of my reach, I notice, and tosses the chicken into a pot with some kind of sauce in it. “I guess I haven’t asked if there’s anything you don’t eat.”

I shrug. “Not really a big fan of sweet potatoes or pork products other than bacon, but almost anything else goes.”

“So I guess that means no Spam?” he says, peeking out from under his long lashes.

How can anyone make Spam sound sexy? Why can’t he just be a jerk? It would make it so much easier to stay mad.

“So, chicken?” he asks, pulling a rice steamer out of the cupboard.

“Better than beef.”

“Fish?”

“It’s okay as long as it’s not super fishy. Some of it smells really bad,” I say, holding my nose.

“What about other seafood—shellfish and whatever?”

“Love scallops and shrimp. Not a huge fan of clams.”

“Abalone?”

“What’s abalone?”

“It’s a shellfish.”

“Never had it.”

“It’s my favorite, but you don’t see it around much. Sometimes in restaurants.” His eyes seem to lose focus for a second. “My sister and I used to dive for them with our dad when we were kids.”

“In Texas?” I ask, confused. “That sounds like something that would require an ocean.”

He focuses back on my face. “No. Here . . . or up north really, near Mendocino.” He clears his throat and turns to the sink, pouring himself a glass of ice water. “You want a beer with dinner? Or wine?”

There’s obviously more to that story, but from the way he not-so-smoothly changed the subject, it’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it. I jiggle my Coke can. “I’m good.”

“Holy macaroni,” a voice says from near the elevator. I turn and find Cooper standing there with Dr. Martin, his eyes wide. They shift to Blake. “You couldn’t have picked a whole bathing suit?”

Blake shakes his head, then stands and moves to the doctor, holding out his hand. “Thanks for coming, Doc. She seems to be doing pretty well, but see what you think.”

Dr. Martin shakes Blake’s hand then smiles at me. “Is this true, Samantha? How’s that arm?”

“It’s fine. Just a little sore here and there if I twist it or move too fast.”

He motions for me to sit on the sofa and I do, then he takes my arm and moves it. “That hurt?”

I shake my head.

“How about this?” he asks, lifting it over my head.

“No. It’s good.”

He sits on the coffee table in front of me and pulls out a penlight. He flashes it in my eyes. “Your head’s been okay? No blurred vision?”

“Nope.”

“Headaches?”

My eyes flick to Blake, who’s pulled himself up onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “Only the ones he gives me.”

Dr. Martin huffs a laugh through his nose, and fingers the Steri-Strips on my face. “Usually we just wait for these to fall off, but I can remove them if you’d like.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He moves to the kitchen and washes his hands, then sits again and gently pulls the tape off my face. “This is barely going to leave a scar. You’re lucky.”

“Not according to Jonathan,” I say.

He smiles. “Jonathan went home yesterday, in case you’re wondering. He’s doing fine.”

Thank God. “I want to see him.”

Blake tips his head in a warning. “We’ll talk about this later.”

I glare at him. “I want to talk about it now. My best friend got shot at because you put me in danger. I think the least you can do is let me see him to be sure he’s okay.”

“This isn’t forever, Jezebel,” Cooper says, giving me a pointed look, and I know he doesn’t want to say too much in front of the doctor.

“Well, it sure as hell feels like it,” I grumble.

The doctor finishes up with me, and Cooper sees him out. He’s back a few minutes later with his iPad and a folder. “We need to go back over what happened after you saw Weber in Arroyo’s office,” he says.

I cross my arms and settle back into the cushions. “After you let me see Jonathan.”

“So, you’re harboring a death wish,” Cooper says, his frown deepening.

“I just want to know he’s okay.”

“He’s fine, Sam,” Blake says, sliding off his stool.

I drop my face into my hands and feel them shake. I’ve never felt so trapped. “I’m going insane in this cage,” I mutter into my palms.

For a long time the room is silent except for the gentle clank of the lid on the simmering pot on the stove. When I lift my face, Blake and Cooper are staring each other down, as if having some silent argument.

Cooper settles onto the coffee table. “We’re not coming up with the physical evidence we need in Arroyo’s office,” he says, fixing me in his serious gaze. “Without that, all we have is your testimony, and it might not be enough. Any little thing you can think of might be important.”

I toss up my hands. “So, because you guys suck at your jobs, you’re hoping I can remember Ben pulling out a gun and shooting that guy?”

“This will all be for nothing if Arroyo walks,” Blake pushes.

Something inside me snaps at his irritated tone. “Hmm . . . let me think. What do I remember from that night . . . ?” I say, tapping my temple. “Oh yeah! I remember seeing Ben kill that guy while Special Agent Montgomery, here, was copping a feel inside my vest and grinding his hard-on against my ass.” I smile sweetly at Cooper. “Is that what you were looking for?”

Cooper hangs his head in defeat.

I hate feeling so helpless. I hate that I have no control over my life. And more than anything, I hate Blake for putting me in this position.

There’s a shallow sense of satisfaction when he blows out an agitated sigh and rolls his eyes.

It seems the only thing I can control is Blake’s frustration level, so from this moment forward, I pledge to channel all of my energy into finding creative ways to make his life miserable.

So far it’s going pretty well.

Chapter Twenty-One

“I WANT TO go home,” I say for the thousandth time, swirling my glass of wine and staring into the vortex. I’ve been trapped here for two weeks, and I don’t know how much more I can take.

Blake turns from the stove, where he’s sautéing shrimp in butter, and gives me a sharp look. He’s been more irritable the last few days, and I hope I’m finally starting to get under his skin as bad as he’s under mine. “You know that can’t happen.”

“If you keep me here much longer, you are the one whose life will be in danger,” I say with a tip of my head at the knife block.

His jaw clenches the way it does when he’s getting frustrated. “My job is to—”

“Keep me safe,” I cut in. “I know. But I swear to God, I’m going to stab you in your sleep if I have to stay in this cage for the next six months.”

He takes the two steps across the floor to the other side of the island and leans heavily against it, his gaze fixed on me. “Jonathan is missing, Sam.”

Spots flash in my eyes as all the blood drains out of my head. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to tell you. But you need to understand. This is serious. As long as there’s any chance he’ll be cleared, Arroyo in jail barely slows down his network. But he knows they’ll desert like rats on a sinking ship if he’s convicted. He’ll do whatever it takes, and right now his focus seems to be on keeping you quiet. Until he’s neutralized, we have no choice but to keep you here.”

I can’t breathe. “Where is Jonathan?”

“We don’t know.”

My mind spins, trying to find a rational answer. “He plays down in L.A. a lot. He’s probably down there on a gig.”

“I’m sure it’s something like that.” He says it, but I can tell by the way his brow furrows that he doesn’t believe it.

“Have you talked to Ginger?”

His lips press into a line. “She doesn’t know where he is.”

Something kicks hard in my stomach. “I want to talk to her.”

“I’m sorry, Sam. I can’t let you do that.”

I jump off my stool and level him with a glare. “I want to talk to her.”

He just looks at me.

I spin in a circle, tugging on fistfuls of my hair as a black haze of panic settles over me and pounds in my throat like a second heart. “I have to help my friend,” I choke out on the edge of a sob.

When I look back at him, I see sympathy in his eyes, but the rest of his face is set in determined stone. He’s not budging.

I turn for my room as tears start to track down my face.

The sun is setting over the bay, crimson and purple streaks in the sky, as the lights of San Francisco begin to shimmer on the water. I sink into the armchair near my door and draw my knees to my chest, pressing my face into them. Did Ben do something to Jonathan? Is he okay?

God, please let him be okay.

There’s a knock on the door. “Sam?”

I ignore Blake. If something happened to Jonathan, it’s his fault. I wouldn’t be here in this hell if it wasn’t for him. This is all his fault.

“Sam, open the door. You need to eat.”

I grab my book and hurl it at the door. It hits with a solid thunk and flutters to the floor.

“Sam,” he tries again, and I know he has a plate, because the smell of shrimp is seeping through the door.

My stomach growls, but I ignore him.

Finally, I hear him move down the hall.

I sit and stare out the window as the sky goes dark, and little by little the city across the bay becomes brighter as it comes to life.

I follow the lights of the Bay Bridge and my eyes trace the lines of streetlights in the city to the area where I think Benny’s should be. Why did I ever let Jonathan talk me into working there? If I’d never taken that job, we’d be at his apartment right now, curled on the sofa watching Doctor Who.

I have no clue what time it is when I finally change and get ready for bed. I brush my teeth and slip into my black silk nightshirt, buttoning the middle three buttons, then crawl into bed and close my eyes, determined to sleep. But between my worry for Jonathan and my growling stomach, I can’t.

After I’ve stared at the ceiling for the better part of forever, I get up and go to my door, cracking it open and poking my head out. The living room and kitchen are dark, the only light from the full moon, shining through the picture windows. I move silently to the kitchen and flick on the stovetop light. The clock on the microwave says it’s 2:00 A.M. I blow out a sigh and pull open the fridge. There’s a plate of shrimp scampi over pasta covered with cling wrap on the shelf. It looks amazing, but I’m not going to give Blake the satisfaction of eating it. I grab a bag of baby carrots and squirt some ranch dressing into a bowl, then slide onto a bar stool at the counter.

“You set off the motion detector,” Blake drawls from the stairs. He’s in gym shorts and a T-shirt that’s bunched around the shoulders, as if he hastily threw it on . . . which makes me wonder what he sleeps in. He moves to the box for the alarm system on the wall near the elevator and punches in a code, then leans against the door frame, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and watches me eat. Finally, I can’t stand the weight of his gaze. I glare up at him and catch him mid-ogle, his eyes slipping down the front of my thin nightshirt. I realize I didn’t button it all the way up, and one or both of the girls very well may be in full view, but I don’t move to fix it.

He catches his lower lip between his teeth and pushes away from the door, moving to the window and looking out over the bay.

“I know this is hard for you, Sam. If there was any choice, I’d let you go,” he tells the window, “but we just can’t risk it. We can’t risk you.” He turns to face me, leaning his hands on the back of a kitchen chair, and his eyes lock on mine, pleading with me to understand.

I don’t. All I feel is blind rage, and all I want is revenge.

I bite the tip off my carrot more forcefully than I need to. My eyes flick to him and find him watching me, his lips parted and his eyes ravenous as they fight to stay on my face. And that’s when I see my opening.

I dip my carrot again, then slide it deep into my mouth. As I pull it back, I roll my tongue over it and my eyes flutter closed. I suck it deep again and moan.

I smile at his obvious discomfort as his fingers curl hard into the wood of the chair back, and I swear he stops breathing for a second as I bite off the tip.

“I’m going for a swim,” I tell him, slipping off the stool and skipping down the stairs.

When I emerge onto the deck, it’s a bright night, a full moon hanging high in the sky. Maybe it’s the cool night air, or maybe it’s because it really dawns on me what I’m about to do, but as I flit down the path toward the pool, I shudder. I flip the switch to the underwater light near the door of the bathhouse and the whole pool suddenly glows, sending ripples of blue light over the surrounding shrubs, the bathhouse, and me.

When I get to the pool edge, I nearly lose my nerve. I stand here, my back to the house, working to control my breathing before reaching up with shaking hands and flicking open the buttons of my sleep shirt. I let it fall open and instantly the cool air pricks my bare nipples into hard nubs and pebbles my exposed flesh with goose bumps. The shirt slides off my shoulders and flutters into a silky puddle on the pool deck at my feet, and I’m standing in nothing but the black mesh thong Blake picked out for me.

In my head my hastily conceived plan involved taking that off too, then boldly strutting down the stairs of the pool. But I can’t make myself do it. Instead, I keep my underwear on and dive in with my back still to the house.

From under the water, I see Blake on the balcony, standing back in the shadows near the French doors. When I break the surface, I float up and swim slowly to the other end, where I turn and sidestroke back to the deep end.

And the whole time, Blake watches.

The underwater lights reflect off my body in the undulating waves and leave nowhere to hide. But that’s the point. I want to torture him with what he can’t have. Half an hour later, when he’s leaning heavily on the balcony rail, his eyes still glued to me, I know I have.

Braver now, I slink up the steps and out of the water, and move to the outside shower on the side the bathhouse, in full view of the balcony and Blake. I wait until the water’s throwing off a cloud of steam, then step in. As I lather my body, I feel the caress of Blake’s gaze. When I rinse and open my eyes, he’s still watching. I shudder despite the scorching water.

I finish and dry myself off, then reach for my sleep shirt, sliding it on and fastening only one button, just below my breasts. It flutters around me as saunter up the walk to the back door of the house, and when I step through into the poolroom, Blake is at the base of the stairs.

“Did you have a nice swim?” His eyes smolder and his drawl is thick and low, and I know Plan Drive-Special-Agent-Blake-Montgomery-out-of-his-right-mind was a raging success.

My shirt slips off my shoulder as I close the door behind me, nearly exposing my breast, and I do nothing to stop it. “I did, thank you.”

He doesn’t move aside as I stride toward the stairs, and there’s no missing the war that’s waging inside him. I slow, waiting for him to decide what he’s going to do. Finally, he reaches for my shoulder, hooking a finger under the edge of the silk of my shirt. A rush skitters through me as he pulls it slowly back, exposing more skin. He’s made his decision, and now I have a split second to make mine before my body makes it for me. My plan was to tease him until he was crazy with need, but right at this second what I know is, if he takes me across the room to his bed, I’m not going to stop him.

His knuckles slide over my bare skin, creeping my robe a fraction lower. I bite back the moan that tries to claw up my throat. But just before my breast slips free of the black silk, his jaw tenses and he lifts the edge back onto my shoulder, covering me. “We need to talk.”

Without another word, he spins and strides up the stairs, two at a time, as if, despite his words, he can’t get away from me fast enough.

I button a few more buttons as I follow, and when I crest the top stair, I find him on the other side of the kitchen island, his hands braced on the granite countertop. I step up across from him and he fixes me in his fierce gaze. “This isn’t a game, Sam. You are in real danger. You have been since you set foot into Ben Arroyo’s club.”

I nod, my expression all candor. “Those boots were an accident waiting to happen.”

He leans on his elbows. “Our tech team decrypted some of Arroyo’s computer files. Pictures.”

There’s sudden pressure in my chest, as if something hard and cold is caught in there. I slide onto a stool when I feel my legs shake. “Of . . . ?”

“There were cameras in the dressing room at the club, Sam,” he says, his eyes dropping from mine as his jaw tightens.

“The . . .” But then I get what he’s saying and I feel my eyes widen. “The dressing room?” I say, my breath catching. “Oh, God. Pictures of . . . us?”

He moves around the counter toward me, apparently no longer needing the barrier between us. “I’m sorry.”

“But I don’t . . .” I cringe at the thought of Blake seeing pictures of me naked in the dressing room after the little stunt I just pulled at the pool. I can’t even make myself ask if that’s what he saw. “Why would he . . . ?”

“We don’t know for sure, but there were some shots of a girl who danced there. She apparently went missing about two months ago, a few weeks after we pulled Nichols out, but she remembers her.” He pins me in his intense gaze. “This girl had loose family ties, just like you, and it was a while before any of her friends reported her missing. It’s starting to look like your boss might be involved in trafficking more than just drugs.”

The blood runs out of my head, and the lights seem to go suddenly dim as the room spins. “Oh, God.”

“We’re looking for anything that will tell us where that girl disappeared to. We’re going through the information we’re pulling off Arroyo’s computer as it’s decrypted, and we’re combing through the pictures of the other girls to see if any of them might be missing as well. But, Sam . . .” He cringes. “There were notes on his desk. They appear to have been about you. It looks like he might have been negotiating with a buyer.”

“For me? He was going to sell me?” I drop my face into my hands when spots form in my eyes and my whole head starts to buzz.

“I didn’t want you to know the full extent of what he’s done. I didn’t want you to know the danger you were in. But Arroyo is evil incarnate, Sam. And it’s not just the missing girl and Weber. He’s hurt thousands of people. He needs to be taken off the street, and you’re the person who can do that. All you have to do is tell the court what happened that night.”

“Will you be able to find that girl?” I ask, my face still in my hands. I can’t help thinking of Sabrina from the shelter. I can’t imagine she could ever be whole after what happened to her. If Ben did that to someone . . . or worse, I want to kill him.

“We’ll work with the FBI and try to put the pieces together.”

A wave of dread surges through me. “She’ll already be ruined by then.”

“We’re doing everything we can, Sam,” Blake says.

All I know is I have to do something. I can’t just sit here. I rip my face out of my hands. “Let me to talk to Ben.”

Blake fixes me in a narrow-eyed stare. “No. That’s absolutely not going to happen.”

“If he’s got Jonathan and he knows where this girl is, maybe he’ll tell me something that would help us find them.” Even as I say it, I know how stupid it is, but I feel so helpless.

He slides closer and his hard expression softens into something sympathetic. “Sam, he’s gone to great lengths to keep anything incriminating hidden. And I think you’re forgetting he tried to have you killed to keep you quiet. He’s not going to tell you what happened to Jonathan or that girl because you ask nicely.”

Everything inside me pulls into a hard knot. “I wasn’t planning on being nice.”

“No, Sam,” he says with a shake of his head and a little bit of a wild look in his eye. “You’re not talking to Arroyo.”

“I’ve got to do something!”

Blake grasps my shoulders gently. “Just help us put the bastard away.”

I close my eyes and breathe a slow breath to stop my shaking. After a minute, when I can speak, I open my eyes and look up at him. “Just tell me what to do. I’ll do anything you want.”

For a several beats of my racing heart, he doesn’t move. But finally, he lifts a hand and sweeps the hair off my face with a finger, tucking it behind my ear. His finger continues its gentle path along the line of my jaw. It’s only when his thumb brushes over the scar on my cheek that I realize it’s damp with tears. He slowly leans closer, so I can feel his breath on my forehead. “I won’t let him hurt you,” he says. “That’s my first priority. But I’ll find Jonathan. I promise. And we’ll do everything we can to find the girl.”

I’m shaking again, but this time it’s not from rage. I lay my hands on his chest, knowing I should push him away. But I feel the beat of his heart, almost as fast as mine, and it makes me want to pull him closer instead.

He steps back and his gaze locks on mine, those blue eyes pleading for something, but I’m not sure what. Before I can sort it out, he spins for the stairs and disappears.

It’s a long time before I can move, but finally I stagger to my room. And as I lay on the bed, trailing my fingers along the lines that Blake’s fingers took, there’s one thing that’s suddenly crystal clear. I still don’t trust him, but he’s not the enemy.

I’m just not sure what that makes him.