Chapter 8

Samantha

 

My stomach flutters as I sit next to Damon in his fancy, black car again. We're driving from my dorm to the highway, cruising under temporary archways of fake greenery and real icicles. Christmas lights and displays shine from every window and lamp post, and the sidewalks are full of bustling shoppers.

 

Normally, the Christmas season gets me depressed, because I've never had anyone to spend it with. Before meeting Damon, I’d planned to spend my holiday as one of the few people stuck in the dorms for the season. But, instead, I'll be spending it with him.

 

The last two weeks have been a tremendous thrill. Not only am I feeling better than I have in years, not only are we finally filing the lawsuit after a ton of work, but Damon and I are being romantic as hell, holding hands and stealing kisses. It’s all new to me; I’ve never been touched by a man before, and though we’re not doing much yet, it’s still amazing.

 

Every time he kisses me—even the slightest touch of his lips—it both thrills and frustrates me. Under awnings as we escape the rain, under sprigs of mistletoe that seem to have sprouted in every shop doorway, and almost every time we touch, our lips find each other. His mouth is always warm and sure against mine, and when he cradles me against his broad chest, it makes me feel safer than I’ve ever felt before.

 

But he doesn't go beyond that. I know that he wants to. Each time, I feel him struggling to control himself.

 

I wish that he wouldn't. But with the lawsuit and Board complaint likely to shine a spotlight on the pair of us, the best I can expect until we win are some longing looks and a little tenderness. And none of that in public.

 

It still makes me sad and frustrated. My feelings aren't rational, but it's sometimes like I'm a shameful secret he is keeping. I also feel sometimes that he isn't telling me the whole truth about himself—he’s just too good to be true. The random calls from nowhere that he won’t answer around me and how tense he gets after them really make me wonder. And, sometimes, he will start telling me a story about his life and then suddenly leave off, as if the story is wandering into parts of his life that he doesn’t want to reveal to me. I start to suspect that he does have a wife or a steady girlfriend stashed somewhere.

 

If that is the case, at least he has some ethics to him in not sleeping with me—even if he is still flirting with me and kissing me. Each time he kisses me, my whole body aches with the hunger for more. But, like him, I end up conflicted—mostly because he is, and I don't know why, but my emotions seem to take a cue from him.

 

I suspect that I am being paranoid about things. He told me his reason for not getting serious with me yet. And still ...I can sense that there's something he isn't telling me—something that might be even more important.

 

"So I'm thinking I'll try some of that sorbet stuff while we're in the hot tub, if you're into it." He has a gleam in his eye and a little curl to his lips.

 

Immediately I feel my sex tighten as my nerves come alive from my neck to my knees. Is tonight the night? Is he finally getting so thirsty for me that it’s making him reckless? In spite of the risks, I hope so.

 

"I don't have a bathing suit," I point out, and his lopsided smile widens as he takes the on-ramp onto the highway. We both go quiet as he merges with traffic and then starts moving left toward the fast lane.

 

He's settled into the drive and is starting to answer when a white van roars up beside us and starts edging aggressively into our lane. Damon curses and pumps the brakes, letting the van in front of him before it can knock us into the guardrail. It ends up scraping along against the furrowed metal itself, striking sparks along one side.

 

"Oh my God!" I gasp and turn to look at Damon. That didn’t look like an accident. He scowls and grips the wheel, his whole expression and demeanor changing in an instant.

 

I stare at him in horror as the pleasant, friendly, foul-mouthed, and flirty doctor I know disappears in an instant beneath a cold, hard glare. Even when he speaks, his accent has thickened. "Hold on."

 

He takes advantage of an opening and swerves to the side, neatly maneuvering the car around the van and getting in front of it. The van speeds up, trying to attack again, but Damon floors it—and the Prowler leaps to life.

 

The roar of the engine sends my heart racing in a way I have never associated with pleasure before, as an enormous thrill runs through my whole body. We leave the van behind within seconds, as the bulky, weaker-engined vehicle reaches its limit. My terror dissolves in the thrill of escaping.

 

He doesn't slow down or say anything at all until he's left the van far enough behind that we can no longer see it. "That was not some random drunk," Damon finally growls, sounding furious about it. "That was a targeted attack."

 

"I don't understand," I mumble, shivering in fear. "Why would anyone be after me?"

 

"They're not after you, sweetheart, except by association." He sounds resigned, his rough manner and accent only gentling now that he’s speaking to me. "They're after me."

 

It's a tense drive back to his penthouse, and I'm too dizzy, baffled, and scared to ask too many questions until we're safely indoors. On the way up the elevator, he looks at me and a touch of the old tenderness returns to his eyes. "You all right?"

 

"I guess I would be a lot worse if you weren't such a good driver," I breathe, not sure what else to say. "But you owe me one hell of an explanation."

 

He nods, his jaw working as he leans his head back against the wall of the elevator. "Yeah. Suppose I've put this off for too long."

 

We pick the chairs closest to the fireplace, and I stretch my hands toward it, feeling the chill and the shivers of fear fading at once.

 

He brings us both tea with lemon, honey, and brandy and waits until I've swallowed down my first cupful before he goes into his story. The whole time, it's like he's become some gentler version of Mr. Hyde—rough, working-class, hard-eyed—but only when he isn't looking at me.

 

When he does look at me, his brown eyes go soft again and their gaze fills me with warmth. And that's the only thing keeping me going as I struggle to listen to his story.