Jordan
In his mind, Jordan was in the forest of the Pacific Northwest. Hunted. He had his wits, his will, and his need to see his woman again as his weapons. If he could survive for the next five minutes, he could survive for ten. For ten, he could survive an hour.
For the hunter wanted more than his life. It wanted his soul.
Fog slithered, gray snakes along the ground. The blood from the hastily bound wound in his arm seeped through the bandage and dripped into the mist. The pain kept him sharp, r
eminded him that he had more than blood to lose.
He should have seen it for a trap. That had been his mistake. But there was no going back, no point in regrets, no point in prayers. His only option was to keep moving. And to live.
He heard a sound. To his left? A kind of whispering the fog could make when parted by mass. He melted into the trees, pressed his back against bark.
Flight, he asked himself, or fight?
“What the hell game are you playing?”
“Christ Jesus.” He popped back from the world in his mind, the one speeding onto the screen through the rush of his fingertips over keys.
The speed of the trip had the blood roaring in his ears as he stared at Dana.
She stood in the doorway, hands on hips, eyes full of suspicion.
“This is the little game I call writing for a living. Go away, come back later.”
“Im talking about the flower, and Ive got just as much right to be here as you do. Its my brothers house.”
“And this is, currently, my room in your brothers house.”
She gave it one derisive scan. There was a bed, unmade, her own childhood dresser that shed passed to Flynn when hed bought the house, an open suitcase on the floor. The desk where Jordan worked had been Flynns during his teenage years and was missing one of the three drawers that ran down the side. On it was a laptop, some files and books, a pack of cigarettes, and a metal ashtray.
“Looks more like a weigh station,” she commented.
“It doesnt have to be pretty.” Resigned, he reached for his cigarettes.
“Thats a brainless habit.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He lit it, deliberately blew out smoke. “Half a pack a day, and mostly when Im working. Get off my back. Whatre you riled up about, anyway? I thought women liked getting flowers.”
“You sent me a single red rose.”
“Thats right.” He considered her more thoughtfully now. Her hair was pulled back, so shed been working. She hadnt bothered with makeup, so she hadnt planned on leaving the house. She was wearing jeans, a very faded Penn State sweatshirt, and shined black-leather boots with a stubby heel.
Which meant, he deduced from his knowledge of her, that shed been planning to work around the apartment, then had grabbed the first pair of shoes that came to hand because shed been in a hurry.
And that meant the flower had done the job.
“The single-red-rose gambit is supposed to be romantic.” He smiled when he said it, just a little smugly.
She stepped into the room, skirted the suitcase. “You said it reminded you of me. Just whats what supposed to mean?”
“Its long and sexy, and it smells good. Whats the problem, Stretch?”
“Look, you went for the big splashy date Saturday. Good job. But if you think I can be taken in by a fancy meal and a rosebud, youre sadly mistaken.”
He hadnt shaved, she noted, and could have used a haircut. Damn it, shed always been a sucker for that heading-toward-scruffy look on him.
Then there was the expression on his face when she stepped in the door, before hed known she was there. Half dreamy, half gone. And his mouth had been sort of grim and determined.