“Five years ago? That’s interesting.”
“Why?”
“Just that you started drinking my brand of Scotch right after I left you. Seems like a kind of sentimental, romantic thing to do.”
“Romantic?” She was outraged, partly because when she’d started drinking it she would close her eyes and taste his mouth on hers. “There’s nothing romantic about Scotch. I was trying t
o scour you out of my system.”
“Did you try prune juice?”
“We never did it that way.”
His laugh was cold. “Well, if you’re interested . . .”
Instinctively she shoved him, not caring if she hurt him. It was a mistake. He caught her hands the moment she pushed at him, and he held them against his skin, staring down at her, his eyes hooded. “You need to be careful, little girl,” he said softly. “I’m not in a tolerant mood. I don’t like killing, even when it’s necessary, and it makes me impulsive.”
After her first attempt at pulling away she stayed still, knowing she was no match for his strength. She could always butt her head against his wound, but he seemed impervious to pain, and it would only annoy him. Or worse. “Impulsive, how?” she said, but it came out in a breathy tone.
“Impulsive in that I could easily turn you around, shove you against the dinette, and fuck you senseless. It would take very little to make me do it, and you wouldn’t stop me.” His voice was flat, expressionless, as if he were talking about math equations or directions to the nearest Walmart.
“You mean I couldn’t stop you,” she said, her voice cold, her body flaming.
“No, I mean you wouldn’t stop me. And you know it as well as I do.” They stayed motionless, staring at each other, her hands splayed across his warm, muscled stomach. There was nothing between them but anger, she told herself, and she didn’t want to make him any angrier.
Aggression was rolling off him in waves, and he would turn that aggression on her. If she admitted the truth, he was right, she would let him. She lowered her gaze and her head, like a submissive bitch, she thought bitterly, but it worked. He released her hands and backed off. “Get your clothes on,” he said, “and grab some extras. We’re getting out of here, and we’re leaving Anastasia behind.”
“Annabelle,” she corrected automatically, able to breathe now that he had stepped back. “And I’m not leaving her anywhere.”
“You don’t have a choice in the matter. She’s too noticeable. You and Merlin and I are going ahead on our own. I need to be in New Orleans in three days, and I’ve already wasted too much time.”
She didn’t bother arguing—she wouldn’t win. She had no intention of agreeing either; she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. She simply started toward the bed and the drawers of clothes built in underneath it.
The trailer was very small. She practically had to rub against him in the narrow passageway, and she found she was holding her breath. All that skin. All that firm, golden, muscled flesh. “Is there any chance you could give me some privacy?”
He looked at her, and for a moment she was sure he was going to say no. But then he said, “Five minutes,” and left without another word. She dressed as quickly as she could, taking care with her wounds. They were already looking better, but she didn’t want to do anything to aggravate them. She could hear Bishop unfastening the coupling between the trailer and the pickup, and she bit back her fury. There was nothing she could do about it right now.
Her only real decision was whether or not to bring her research. In the end she tucked it beneath her mattress. A lot of it was scanned onto her computer and safely tucked in the Cloud, including the first month of her notes, but she’d left the two American sites for the end of her trip, and that was looking iffy. Then again, her ex-husband could always show up and steal everything again, though right then Pete didn’t seem like much of a threat. He hadn’t published anything since he’d put out her research as his own, so she imagined he must be feeling a little desperate.
God, she had lousy taste in men! Most disturbing of all was her reaction to Bishop’s presence. She could thank God he had no idea what she was feeling, what she was thinking. It was weak, shameful, unutterably stupid, and she hated herself for it. He was the enemy, she reminded herself, on every single level. He’d as good as kidnapped her, and she’d watched him commit murder. The man had been stunned, helpless, and Bishop had simply cut his throat with a horrifying efficiency. And she’d ended up wanting to fuck him.
She needed to get away from him, she’d always known that. That wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon, but if she behaved herself he might lower his guard. She had credit cards, money in her wallet . . .
In the truck. It was in the glove compartment, and there was always the chance he hadn’t looked there. A chance in hell, she thought.
Merlin was awake, trying to sit up, his legs wobbly underneath him, and she knelt on the bunk, helping him. Merlin was more important than a thousand Bishops. As long as he was okay, she could deal with a trifling annoyance like her ersatz husband.
The door slammed open, and the trifling annoyance stood there, a damned sight bigger and more annoying than she’d hoped. “You ready?”
“Merlin needs help,” she began, but he stepped into the camper and caught her arm, spinning her around and pushing her out the door.
“Get in the truck,” he said tersely. “I’ll bring him.”
She stayed on the bottom step. “I don’t want to go out there.”
“For God’s sake, why not?”
“Is . . . is that man still there?” If he was, she would get sick again, and that was the last thing she wanted. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten, and as far as she was concerned she could wait a hell of a lot longer. The thought of dry heaves, however, made her think twice.