16
1039 Words
Sitting on the other side of the bed, he stares at me like he’s trying to will my head to explode.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”
“This is karma, isn’t it? I’m being punished for something I did in a former life.”
“You believe in reincarnation? That’s interesting. I’ve always thought—”
He thunders, “It was a figure of speech!”
“You know, I think your diet is having a negative effect on your mood. I’m betting you don’t get enough roughage.”
“Roughage?”
“Fiber.”
“I know what it means, I just can’t believe you said it!”
I purse my lips and consider him. “You could probably also use a good deep tissue massage. You’re very tense, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Glaring at me, he says flatly, “I wonder why.”
“No, I think this predates me. You have an unhealthy lifestyle. Poor diet. Too much stress. Too little sleep. Any of this sound familiar? You’re headed straight for that heart attack you were wishing for earlier.”
He stares at me for a beat, then leans over, props his elbows on his knees, drops his head into his hands, and groans.
I watch him, alarmed. What if he does have a heart attack? God. I’ll be locked in here with his big dead corpse until Kieran decides to do a status check on me, who knows how many days later.
I should go easy on him. Better yet…
I crawl across the mattress to where he’s sitting, rise up on my knees, and dig my thumbs into the rock-hard muscles of his shoulders.
He stiffens.
“Just take a breath, gangster. I know what I’m doing. You can thank me later.”
Rigid and silent, he sits perfectly still on the edge of the bed as I work my fingers across his trapezius and down to his scapula. When I get to the rhomboid muscle, he flinches, sucking in a sharp breath.
I murmur, “Sorry. Better?”
Gentling the pressure, I move around the knot in slow circles until I hear him exhale. When the muscle suddenly gives under my fingers, relaxing, he softly moans.
It’s a sound thick with pleasure. My pulse ticks up in response.
I move to his other shoulder and repeat the process, massaging the corded muscles, working my fingers into their stony hardness until I feel them soften. When I rub my thumbs lower down his middle back and spine, he releases a breath so full of pent-up tension, I almost feel sorry for him.
“Here,” I say softly. “What about this?”
I wrap both hands around the back of his thick neck and squeeze.
It earns me another soft moan.
I decide I like that sound, and rub slow circles with my thumbs around the base of his skull on either side of his spinal column, where his head meets his neck. This time, he doesn’t moan. He makes a sound like a drowsy bear, a low, masculine rumbling in his chest.
“Good?”
After a pause, he murmurs, “Good.”
Why that should make me so pleased, I’m not sure. I keep going, working my fingers up the back of his head through his thick hair, massaging his skull—it’s as big as the rest of him, this guy’s got a noggin—until I reach his temples.
Then he freezes, stiffening all over again.
That’s when I realize that I’ve leaned so far forward, I’m pressed up against his back.
This wouldn’t be a problem, except that I’m not wearing a bra.
And my n*****s are hard.
Which he has obviously noticed.
I pull away, my heart hammering. I sit back on my heels, my arms folded over my chest, waiting for him to do or say something. Waiting for him to tell me I’m annoying, or holler at me, or stalk out of the room and slam the door.
But he only sits there, silent.
Just as I’m about to scramble back across the bed and dive under the covers to hide in embarrassment, he says, “Thank you.”
It’s quiet. It’s also sincere. I’m relieved, but also confused, because I have zero idea what he’s thinking.
“You’re welcome.”
There’s another crackling silence. “I’m sending you home as soon as I work out the logistics.”
That surprises me. “But didn’t you want to ask me questions? Isn’t that why you went to all the trouble to get me here?”
“That was Diego’s idea.”
“Diego was your boss?”
“Aye.”
“And now Diego’s…” I hesitate to say dead, but he gets it anyway.
“Aye.”
“Right. I’m sorry for your loss.”
He turns his head. “Why? You didn’t know him.”
“No, but I know you.”
“What difference does that make?”
“I don’t like to see anyone suffering, even if they’re my kidnapper.”
He’s getting mad again. I can feel it. The atmosphere changes with his temper. It gets charged and ominous, the way it does with an approaching storm.
“Why does that make you angry? I’m not lying.”
He says gruffly, “I know you’re not. That’s why it makes me angry.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
He stands, puts on his shoes and coat, crosses to the door, and lets himself out, shutting it quietly behind him.
10
Declan
W
hen I return to the living room, Kieran takes one look at my face and snorts.
“She got to ye, too, eh?”
And how.
I know he means that she got to me in the way she has that makes a man want to throw himself into a pool of sharks to escape because a quick, violent death is preferable to the slow, agonizing one caused by spending time in her company.
But she got to me in another way. It’s far worse. And far more dangerous than a pool of sharks.
She’s kind.
- Writer
