Dangerous Desire

32

He leans against the counter and folds his arms over his chest. “Aye. I talked to him.”

No longer able to hold myself up, I flop back against the pillow and struggle to breathe through the onslaught of emotion. Trembling and almost panting, I whisper, “Tell me what he said. Tell me everything.”

“May I remind you that you’re not the one in charge here?”

I look at him beseechingly. “Please just tell me if he’s all right. Please . . . how did he sound?”

Killian makes a face. “He sounded like a bloody maniac, to be honest. Threatened to kill me with every other breath.”

My body is flooded with relief, then guilt, as hot as my earlier fever. Imagining how Naz must be feeling, I squeeze my eyes shut and whimper. How angry he must be. How frantic and lost.

In a gentler tone, Killian says, “He’s all right, Eva.”

“He must be so f*****g worried.”

After a pause, Killian says, “That’s the first time I’ve heard you curse. I’ve kidnapped you, beaten you, threatened your life over and over again, stabbed a man three feet away from you and then threw him to his watery death, and this is when you decide you’re upset enough to curse. When you think Naz is worried. Unbelievable.”

I open my eyes and look at Killian. “Did he sound mad? At me, I mean. Is he angry with me for leaving?”

“You’re completely mental.”

“Please tell me. I have to know.”

When he c***s his head and narrows his eyes, I start to get concerned. Then, when he asks lightly, “Are we negotiating?” and a crafty smile curves his lips, I get downright nervous.

“I . . . don’t know. Negotiating for what?”

“Well, generally in a negotiation, two parties ask for what they want, then discuss terms. Hence the word ‘negotiate.’”

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

He pushes off the counter and saunters over to me, then sits on the edge of the coffee table and props his elbows on his knees. “Do you want to know what Naz said or not?”

“Quit playing games. You know I do. What do you want?”

Very deliberately, he looks at my mouth.

Alarmed, I shrink back into the sofa.

Utterly nonchalant, he shrugs. “Have it your way. I couldn’t care less.”

But he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t stop looking at my mouth.

Desperation sets in. “I’m in no shape to be kissing anyone right now.”

“I didn’t say it had to be now.”

I pull the blanket up to cover the lower half of my face and stare at him.

“What, did you like it too much the first time? Afraid you’ll start wanting more?”

I look at the ceiling, silently ask God to grant me patience, then flip the blanket down. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He temples his fingers under his chin and gazes at me as if he’s my psychiatrist, all ears and full of concern. “You did, though.”

“No, I definitely didn’t.”

“Your n*****s got hard.”

Heat floods my face. I open my mouth, close it again, and look away, mortified by this turn in conversation.

“I know because you weren’t wearing a bra.”

I say through gritted teeth, “Because you didn’t give me one.”

“Because I wanted to see if your n*****s would get hard when I kissed you.”

Shocked, I look at him. “You . . . planned that?”

His smile manages to be sweet, smug, and condescending all at once. In a husky voice, he says, “I’ve got all sorts of things planned, pet.”

Anger lights me up like a Christmas tree. I glare at him, wishing I had the strength to claw his eyes out. “I’m not your pet. And if my n*****s did get hard—which they didn’t—it was only because the entire time I was kissing you, I was thinking of Naz.”

“Oh, she’s mad at me now,” he says mockingly. “Must’ve touched a nerve.”

When I turn my head to the side with my lips clamped shut, he chuckles.

“So that’s a no, you don’t want to hear what he said, then?”

I refuse to look at him. I stare up at the wall instead, following a hairline crack in the plaster up to the ceiling and wishing the entire thing would fall down and smash his head.

His tone turns thoughtful. “Because he had a lot to say.”

I glance back at him, desperation beating a drumbeat through my bloodstream. I have to bite my lip not to ask Like what?

Then the bastard starts to calmly examine his fingernails. He’s waiting, as patiently as if he has all the time in the world, because he knows—he knows—that I’ll crack. He understands my weakness and exactly how to exploit it.

I clear my throat. “What if I . . .”

Eyes blazing, he turns his full attention to me. It’s like standing on a dark stage and being hit with a blinding white spotlight, full bore.

“What if you what?”

I swallow. “Um. How about . . . a hug?”

As if I’ve just suggested I’d like to slather his body in dog poo, he grimaces.

“A long hug?”

Slowly, holding my gaze, he shakes his head. “Quid pro quo, Clarice. I give you what you want, you give me what I want. Or no deal.”

“A Silence of the Lambs reference. Coming from you, Hannibal Lecter Jr., that’s very apropos.”

“So we have a deal?”

“I can’t make that deal. It’s like cheating.”