Obsession (26 page)

“You stole my car. Hell, you wrecked it!” He sounded genuinely upset about that. “You were trying to run away from me. Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said through her teeth. “Maybe I have a problem with being lied to.”

He was looking at her like she’d grown an extra head again. By this time, she was getting pretty damned tired of being looked at like that. He might be dangerous, but not, she thought, to her. He hadn’t hurt her so far, and she was as sure as it was humanly possible to be, given her current cognitive limitations, that he wasn’t going to.

That being the case, she decided to lay her suspicions on the line and see what kind of reaction she got.

“You’re not a doctor. You know it, I know it, so admit it.”

His response was not what she had expected. No guilt, no anger, no shocked confession. No tensing of his body, no glancing away. He simply stared at her for a moment, then rolled his eyes.

“Jesus, are we back to that again? You
know
me, remember? You’re my next-door neighbor. You even checked my frigging ID.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yeah, and you know what I think, now I’ve had time to think about it? I think it was fake. I think everything you’ve told me about yourself so far is bullshit.”

His brows twitched together. His face tightened. “Katharine . . .”

“I’m not Katharine,” she gritted out. Then, more slowly, her eyes never leaving his, she added, “And I think you know it. You do, don’t you? Don’t you?”

“What?”
His tone was incredulous. The look he was giving her said she was completely, around-the-bend loony tunes. If she’d had her hands free, she would have decked him. Because she wasn’t. She
wasn’t.

At least, she was pretty sure she wasn’t.

But then, he wasn’t reacting as he should have if she was hitting the nail on the head, either. Maybe the guy was a consummate actor. Or maybe he really didn’t know anything.

Or maybe she was just totally, completely wrong and soon the men in white coats would be coming to haul her away.

All in all, the third possibility was the one she liked the least.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?” Despite her best efforts to keep her cool, there was a note of rising hysteria in her voice. “Who do you work for? Are you CIA?” A hideous thought occurred, and her heart lurched. “Holy crap, do you work for Ed?” Her lips parted as she sucked in air.

The thought was terrifying, and it must have shown in her face because he gave a quick shake of his head.

“No. Hell, no. Of course I don’t work for your boyfriend, or the CIA.” His eyes searched hers. His voice was grim.“There was a reason why you ran out like that, and I want to know what it is.”

“Maybe I just got sick of the company.”

“It’s something to do with that dream you had, isn’t it? You were fine up until then.”

She broke eye contact as the memory of the nightmare made her stomach clench, and started struggling to get free again.

“Not till you tell me.”

She stopped struggling—it was useless, and she knew it—and glared up at him. “You want to know about my dream?” Her tone was belligerent.

“Yeah, I do.”

She hesitated. Just remembering the nightmare set her teeth on edge. The emotions had been so real, so intense, and what ultimately had happened had been so horrible. . . . Even now, with the images flickering only faintly on the edges of her brain, she felt a rising tide of terror, anger, loss. . . .

Wetting her lips, she tore her eyes from his, glancing around in an effort to reassure herself that this—this steamy wet night, this sexy, suspicious man crushing her into the ground with his weight—was the reality and the other was the bad dream.

Where they were, near the edge of the clearing, darkness surrounded them on all sides. The pale slice of moon was just visible when she looked up, playing peek-a-boo among the racing storm clouds, lightening the night to the thick gray of twilight and then, as it ducked behind the clouds again, plunging them into near total darkness once more. Branches stretching out like bony fingers far overhead provided some protection from the intermittent sprinkles that still fell. Under her back, the ground was soft and spongy beneath its layer of wet, slippery leaves.

She was wet to the skin, and with the gusts that were now swirling through the trees, she would have been cold, she thought, but for him.

Everywhere they touched—and that was just about everywhere—she was toasty warm.

She glanced back up at him, and their eyes met.

“You can trust me, you know.” His voice was very quiet.

“Said the spider to the fly.”

“Tell me about the dream.”

Maybe, she thought, if she did, he could explain it. Or explain it away. Whatever. But she suddenly wanted—no, needed—to share it, to hear what he had to say about it.

She took a deep breath. “It was night. I was tied to a chair in some kind of an office. An old-fashioned-looking office, with metal file cabinets against the wall and wooden desks. I looked like I feel I should, like the me I always think I am until something reminds me, with wavy auburn hair and pale skin and a few more curves, you know? The office has two rooms, and I can see into the second. There are two men in there, just opposite the door. One is forcing the other to his knees with a gun shoved right in the place where his shoulder and neck join. He’s going to kill him, I know.”

The more she talked, the more vivid the image in her mind’s eye grew. It was almost as if she were right there in the midst of the dream again. By the time she broke off to try to put some distance between the here and now and the horror flick running in her head, her breathing was ragged.

“Go on.” His voice was grim.

She flicked a look up at him. All right, this was definitely the here and now. The moon outlined his wavy hair in silver rather than gold. She could feel the heat of his body, feel its solid weight pressing into hers, hear the rasp of his breathing, see the shadowy lines and angles of his face and the dark glint of his eyes. Considering that she’d been running from him, he’d caught her, and he now had her pinned to the ground and all, it was probably stupid of her to feel safe. But she did.

“Then something happens—I guess somebody I can’t see shoots the man with the gun. His head just—explodes.” She shuddered at the memory. “He and the other man—and I don’t know who the other man is, but I know he’s someone I care a lot about—just sort of crumple to the ground, dead, and there’s this rolling river of blood.”

By this time her eyes were closed, squinched shut as she tried her best to block out the memory—no, the dream. But it didn’t feel like a dream, it felt real, and therein lay the problem: She was hideously, horribly afraid that somehow, some way, it was real. Or at least it had once been real. She could feel him looking down at her, but she didn’t open her eyes. The images were way too close, way too vivid, and she was having to work way too hard to push them away. Her heart pounded, her pulse raced, and her stomach had long since curled itself into a pretzel. She was even a little nauseated.

“Scary dream,” he said, with absolutely no intonation at all. “I can see why you woke up screaming.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him. It was a long look, penetrating, almost accusing.

“There’s more.”

“So let’s hear it.”

“You were in it.” Her tone was tense, her gaze suddenly wary. All at once she was cold, despite his all-encompassing body heat, and she shivered a little.
Maybe,
a little voice inside her head whispered,
you’re making a mistake here. Just because you feel safe with him doesn’t mean you are.

He blinked once, almost lazily, like a cat. “Me?”

There was, she thought, a certain grimness about his mouth. Or was that merely an illusion cast by the shadows that danced over them as the moon ducked beneath the clouds again and the creaking branches overhead swayed in the wind?

Jesus, who knew? All she knew was that she was trusting her gut on this—and she could only pray she wasn’t wrong.

Dumb as a rock
was not exactly the epitaph she had always dreamed of.

She took a deep breath. Her eyes locked with his. “After somebody blew that man’s head off, you appeared in the door between the two offices and pointed a big silver gun at me.”

There. It was out in the open.
Holding her breath, she searched his eyes, his face for a reaction.

For a moment he didn’t say anything. He simply looked down at her, his expression—what? Thoughtful? Worried? Angry? She didn’t know. It was too dark. His face was impossible to read. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest against hers, and thought that perhaps he was breathing a little faster than he had been when she had started talking. His shoulders flexed, as if, she thought, he was trying to work some tension out of them. His fingers moved; his hands were still warm and strong on her wrists, but his hold was perhaps a little looser now. His body was heavy, pushing her into the wet, spongy ground, but she discovered to her own surprise that she no longer minded at all.

That strong sense of familiarity she always felt in his company was back. Whoever and whatever he was, she thought, she
knew
him. Which meant, of course, that he knew her, too. The sheer surprise of that corollary thought made her stiffen and frown at him. She felt like a blind person trying to make her way in a sighted world.

“Who
are
you?” she whispered, her eyes glued to his face. She was breathing hard, still shivering a little, trying not to let herself get totally unnerved. The answer was something she both needed and dreaded to hear.

In response, his eyes slid over her face and his mouth curved into the smallest of rueful smiles.

“Looks like I’m the guy you see in your dreams now, angel eyes,” he said.

Even as that registered, even as it resonated and found its home deep inside her, even as her eyes widened and her heartbeat quickened and her brain scrambled to latch on to the elusive memory that was
right there,
he lowered his head and touched his mouth to hers.

16

The electricity generated by that soft, almost tender kiss was so strong it practically ignited the air. She froze for an instant, absorbing its intensity, letting it scorch through her. He kissed her again, his lips teasing over her mouth, barely there yet nevertheless managing to make her heart stutter, make her loins clench.

She shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t want him, and she knew it. But she did.

He let go of her wrists at last, sliding his hands up along her palms to clasp hers, stretching her out, keeping her trapped beneath him while still pressing those soft little kisses to her mouth. She didn’t turn her face away, didn’t resist or reject him—didn’t want to, even though with the tiny part of her brain that was still rational, she knew she should. Instead, her fingers twined with his and her body arched up under his and her eyes closed. She burned with wanting him. Her heart beat in slow, thick thuds. Her body tightened with quivering anticipation. But still she tried to keep her head, keep some kind of control, reminding herself that she was lost in some nefarious game that she didn’t understand, and he was part of it, too, she was almost sure. And he was probably dangerous and she certainly didn’t trust him and . . .

It didn’t matter.

He slid his tongue along the line between her lips and her bones melted. Just like that.

And she gave up on the whole trying to think thing and made a tiny little sound under her breath and wrapped her fingers around his—and kissed him back.

He let her take the lead then, let her kiss him, and she pressed her lips to his long, mobile mouth with hungry intensity, plying his lips with hers, her pulse accelerating until she could hear it drumming in her ears. Her heart pounded fast and strong. Her body tightened and burned.

His lips were dry and warm and firm, and she had wanted to kiss them for so long that now that it was finally happening she couldn’t seem to get enough of the feel of them against hers.

How she knew that she didn’t know, but she did. That was the one rock-solid thought that surfaced through the steam clouding her brain. Breathing erratically, clinging to his strong hands like she would fall for a thousand miles if she didn’t, she pressed her tightening breasts up against his chest and licked into his mouth and let go of everything except this moment and the way she felt with him. His mouth was hot and wet and exciting and she couldn’t get enough of it. . . .

That’s when he broke the kiss, lifting his mouth from hers, sucking in air.

“Jesus.” His voice was low, husky. “This is a mistake.”

But if that’s what he thought, he wasn’t making any moves to do anything about it. His fingers were tight on hers, his body hard as he pressed her down into the leaves. He was breathing way too fast. She could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against her breasts. Opening her eyes, she saw that his mouth had gone all grim and his jaw was taut and his eyes were narrowed and glinting down at her through the moonlight. A dark flush rode high on his cheekbones. Their faces were so close that she could feel the warm brush of his breath against her cheek. So close that all she had to do was lift her head a few inches to touch her lips to his again.

But for some obscure reason that she didn’t even try to make sense of, she didn’t do it. She wanted
him
to kiss
her.
She wanted him, not her, to be the one to lose control. She wanted him to be wild for her.

Like, she discovered to her chagrin, she was wild for him. So much so that she was practically on fire with it, making sexy little moves beneath him even though he was no longer responding at all, curling her bare toes deep into the wet leaves.