Chapter 18
Liam blinked awake. Found himself seated in his darkened truck. For a second he was discombobulated, lost about where he was. He rubbed a kink from his neck. Where was he and what the hell was he doing here? Why was he—?
In a flash, he remembered. He was parked on the far side of Lamplighter’s lot, backed into a space, the nose of his truck facing the building, giving him a view of the front façade of the motel. He glanced at Rory’s second-floor room. There was a sliver of light around the door frame, as if it wasn’t completely shut.
He saw movement behind the curtained window. Rory? Someone else?
Oh, shit.
Liam threw open the Tahoe’s driver’s door. Leaping from the cab, Liam kept his eyes focused on Rory’s windows. Two figures.
Could be anyone, he told himself.
But he had a bad feeling.
Liam raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He heard Rory’s tense voice, a man’s answering growl. What the hell?
He pushed open the door just as the man lunged forward, a knife in his hand, swinging at a dazed-looking Rory. Without thinking he hurled himself forward. At the same moment Rory bent over, grabbed a wad of bedding that had puddled on the floor, and yanked.
The assailant’s booted feet slipped. He tried to recover his balance as Liam slammed into him, driving both their bodies to the floor in a tangle of the bedding. “Get out!” Liam yelled at Rory as he struggled to subdue the assailant. But the attacker was a wild man. Though facedown in the coverlet, the assailant, all sinew and muscle beneath his slippery leather outfit, squirmed and slashed, making quick wide arcs behind him, a sharp blade slicing wildly through the air, intent on finding a mark.
Liam grabbed at the deadly arm, but his grip slid and he was forced to dodge and weave, holding the growling, wriggling thug down while trying to avoid being sliced to ribbons.
Somewhere, Liam thought, he heard sirens.
Get here! Get here fast!
The guy must’ve been a wrestler because he moved suddenly, feinting right, throwing Liam’s weight to one side, then gathering himself and arching, moving left, reversing the situation so he, red-faced and angry, was on top. Liam’s grip slipped as he jerked his arm away. “You sick son of a bitch,” the attacker spewed, raising his arm, intent on ramming his knife into Liam’s face.
Liam bucked just as Rory came into view near the door. The room went suddenly dark.
Crash!
The attacker’s body jerked and he yowled as something heavy collided with him. He slumped against Liam, who struggled out from under him and then climbed atop the son of a bitch. He didn’t know what had happened, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The guy was dazed and Liam took advantage of it.
“You bastard!” Rory gritted out, her voice shaking. Footsteps sounded through the open doorway.
“What’s going on?” a woman’s shrill voice demanded. “I called 911 on you!”
Thank, God, Liam thought as the sirens screamed closer.
“You called the cops?” a gravelly voiced man asked in shock.
“Jesus, Warren, yes! Did you hear them?” the woman answered back.
The overhead light snapped on and Liam saw Rory, still holding the lamp she’d used as a weapon, braced against the wall near the windows. Blood crusted her nostrils and her skin was white as chalk. “Cal,” she whispered, staring. “It was Cal. All along. He tried to kill me then . . . at the wedding, and he tried to kill me now.”
“Redmond?”
She was nodding as the footsteps clambered on the porch outside. A second later a police officer stood in the doorway, weapon drawn. “Police!” he ordered. “Get down! Now!” He caught a glimpse of Rory. “You, too.” Another officer appeared behind the first. Her sidearm was in her hand.
Liam lifted his palms. “I’m Liam Bastian and this is my wife—”
“Do it!” the female cop ordered, her anxiety evident in her strangled tone. “Hands over your head. Get on the floor. Now!”
Liam placed his hands over his head and lay on the floor. Rory slithered down the wall, then did the same. He felt his wallet being tugged from the back pocket of his jeans, allowed his hands to be cuffed behind his back.
He didn’t care. The police could restrain him all they liked. As long as Rory was safe. It would all be sorted out soon enough anyway. At least the madman, now, finally, was being handcuffed.
Now, maybe the nightmare of the last five years was finally over.
* * *
Bethany was waiting.
And she was the last person Liam expected to find at the Laurelton police station when their story was told and he was finally released. But there she was, sitting ramrod stiff on a bench in a brightly lit, austere area of the department where family members were allowed to wait for their loved ones. Two others were in the room as well, an African American kid of about nineteen, earplugs connected to his cell phone. He barely glanced up as Liam walked out. The other was a worried pregnant woman whose face dropped in disappointment at the sight of Liam. Through the glass partition separating this waiting area from the rest of the department, he saw an officer seated at a desk.
Beth’s mouth dropped open at the sight of him. “For the love of God, Liam! What the ... what’s going on? You were arrested?” She stared at Liam as if he’d sprouted horns from his head.
“I was questioned. But yeah, I took a ride in a cruiser.” Actually he and Rory had been forced into the back of a police vehicle and driven here to be questioned for over two hours about the attack by Cal Redmond. The police had been suspicious and had called Portland PD as he’d given his story. That had alerted the homicide detectives who’d grilled Rory earlier, and Detective Grant had interviewed Liam as well, wondering if there was some kind of link between the Cal Redmond attack, the assault at the wedding, and Teri Mulvaney’s murder. Both he and Susskind seemed to believe Liam was holding out on them. Apparently, the detectives had brushed up against him too often in the last few days for them to think it was coincidental.
But the truth of the matter was, Liam didn’t know.
Finally, he’d been allowed to leave. Rory was with another officer and he knew it was going to take longer for her to be released. Cal had attacked her twice, and Liam had been informed that the police wanted full statements. He would have to come back for her, so he’d called Derek, explained the situation, saying he would need him later for a ride back to the Lamplighter to retrieve his Tahoe.
But here was Beth.
“How’d you know I was here?”
“You were with Rory,” Beth accused in disbelief. She was nearly shivering in some kind of pent-up rage. Devoid of makeup, her hair pulled back and clipped away from her face, she was hurt and upset, arms folded under her chest beneath the too-bright lights of this small area.
“Who told you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Hell, yeah, it matters.”
“The bigger question is why were you and Rory attacked in a motel room? Jesus, Liam, you’ll never get over her, will you?”
So like Beth to go straight there. No concern for him. Not, How are you doing? Not, Is Rory okay? Not even, Who was the assailant and what did he want? Nope. The burning question in Bethany’s mind was: You’ll never get over her, will you? And she was right. He knew that now; he’d known it from the moment he’d seen his runaway bride again.
“Let’s get coffee,” he suggested as he looked through the sidelights to the exterior door and saw a fast food place on the other side of a wide parking strip.
She eyed the all-night diner, glowing bright in the night, a few cars parked nearby. “I think we should just go home.”
He cocked an eyebrow. Home?
“I’ll take you to your place,” she clarified tightly.
“Seriously?”
She nodded. Vigorously.
“I’m coming back for Rory, so you’d better take me to my car.”
She seemed to tighten all over. Lips, corners of the eyes, neck muscles, shoulders. “Of course.”
He said, “But first, coffee. I’ll tell you how I ended up in police custody and you tell me how you knew I was at the Laurelton police station. Deal?” he asked, holding the door for her.
Without answering, she walked stiffly through. As the door swung shut, she muttered, “What’s taking so long with her?”
“They have more questions for her.”
“What does that tell you, Liam? Huh? That she comes back into town and almost immediately all hell breaks loose?”
They were walking across the nearly empty parking lot where Bethany’s white Lexus gleamed pearlescent beneath a security lamp. With Bethany a few steps behind, Liam stepped over the curb to a short path cutting between struggling boxwood plants in the strip of landscaped earth between the two buildings. The path was wide and littered, created by thousands of feet that had made the trek between the all-night diner and the station.
Inside, the restaurant was nearly empty, one tired waitress manning the cash register, a sprinkling of night-owls tucked in worn booths and huddled over coffee or sodas in the middle of the night. Though not lit as harshly as the waiting area of the Laurelton PD, the restaurant was hardly intimate.
Liam slid into a booth near the window with a view of the police station.
“You can’t go on living your life for a woman who comes and goes as she pleases, who’s apt to disappear and reappear on a whim.”
“She’s my wife, Beth. And Charlotte’s my kid.”
“You think.”
“Pretty sure.”
“Until there’s a DNA test.”
“It’s happening. Should get the results soon. Private lab with a rush order, but I know.”
Beth was about to say something else when a thin, fiftyish waitress with bags under her eyes and a weary smile stopped at their table. She was holding a coffeepot and turned over the cups already set on the booth’s battle-worn table. “Breakfast?” she asked, and Bethany gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, her lips knotted.
“Just coffee. Thanks. And black is fine,” he added, anticipating her request.
“Cream and sugar on the table anyway.” She pointed a long, gnarled finger tipped in red toward the condiments and napkin holder pressed against the far end of the booth near the window. “How about you, honey?” She eyed Bethany, who visibly bristled.
“Nothing. Oh. Maybe sparkling water. With a slice of lemon.”
The waitress, whose name tag read NORA, nodded. “Okay. Let me know if you change your mind about breakfast. The special today is a Belgian waffle with fresh strawberries and a side of bacon.”
“Will do,” Liam promised, and she returned quickly with the water glass, complete with lemon, then made the rounds with her coffeepot, stopping at the next booth where two teenagers, dressed in hoodies and ripped jeans, drinking sodas, were plugged into their cell phones. Liam looked at the time and saw it was after midnight.
He took a swallow of coffee.
“How can you be so damned calm?” Bethany asked once the waitress was out of earshot. “You’ve been up half the night, assaulted by a deranged ex, dragged down to the police station, for God’s sake . . . All I’m saying, Liam, is that Rory is trouble. Real trouble. Her mother is a wacko, her stepfather’s in jail, and her brothers are petty crooks at the very least.”
“Stepbrothers. And Aaron is—”
“Yes, I know he’s gone. Caught in the crossfire at your wedding to her. You got hurt yourself. I know.”
Her words made him want to rub his thigh, but he stopped himself. A habit he needed to break.
“And your father?” Her eyes were ice-cold. “Because of Rory, Geoff is in a wheelchair.”
“What happened at the wedding wasn’t her fault,” he argued, starting to lose his cool. He was tired, angry, and he didn’t need a fight with Bethany. Not now. Well, not ever.
“You don’t know that. My God, Liam. Why do you defend her? She’s dangerous.” Her eyes narrowed and she swirled her straw in her untouched water glass, making the slice of lemon dance and swirl within the tiny cubes.
“I just don’t blame her for what happened.”
“A few days ago, not even a week, you were going to divorce her.” She raised her eyes, pinned him in her gaze. “Now—?”
“I don’t know.”
She made a sound of disbelief. “Fine. I tried, you know, to be more like her. God, it was so obvious you were in love with her! I really tried. Even colored my hair a more reddish shade of blond. How stupid is that?” She laughed bitterly. “You never even noticed.”
He hadn’t really. Her hair had always been pale, but now, yeah, it was redder.
“What a fool I’ve been.” Sighing, she suddenly realized she was fiddling with the straw and let go of it. Her big eyes were hurt, wounded. “Do you know how hard it is to compete with a ghost? You didn’t know if she was alive or dead and somehow she became this . . . this angel. And look, will you? She actually left you high and dry, bleeding at your own damned wedding ceremony. What does that tell you about her?” She glared at him as if she wanted to kill him. “She hid out for nearly five years in that stupid little rinky-dink town as far north as she could flee, never letting you know where she was, keeping her daughter secret, living under an alias, probably. . . oh, I don’t know . . . making up a story about a pretend ex-husband who was abusive or running from the law or whatever. She’s shady, that’s all I’m saying, a liar and an escape artist. Open your eyes and take a look at who she really is.”
“How do you know so much about her?” he asked slowly, taking in everything she’d said.
“From you. Come on, Liam. She’s all you ever talked about.”
He didn’t think so, and yet Beth was firm, her lips knife-blade thin, her French-tipped nails digging into her palms. “I never had a chance. The ghost of Rory has always been between us, even though she was alive and well and she could have returned to you anytime she wanted, but she just let you twist in the wind while she was hiding in Point Roberts making Frappuccinos for tourists!” She threw a glance at the ceiling, tears standing in her eyes. “God, I’ve been a fool.”
“I haven’t talked about her,” Liam said. He’d been careful about Rory with Beth. Always very careful. “And I didn’t know she was in Point Roberts until just recently.”
“It’s common knowledge now.”
“But it hasn’t been. And I didn’t talk about it with you.”
“Well, I heard it. No big deal.” She gave him the look, leaning back in the booth, eyebrows faintly arching. Almost daring him to figure it out. And he did.
“You knew,” he said.
“Knew what?”
“Where she was.”
“Who? Rory? You’ve got to be kidding. How would I—”
“Someone told you. Who?” It hit him like a punch in the gut as soon as he asked the question. “Jacoby,” he said. Hadn’t Liam asked the Van Hornes if they’d ever used a private investigator? Hadn’t it been Beth herself who said her father worked with Brian Jacoby? Now it was his turn to feel the fool. “He told you where she was.”
“No . . . why would he?”
But she was lying. He could tell. “He told you where she was at the same time he told me.”
“No.”
And then he knew something else, the realization coming to him with icy clarity. “You hired him to find her before I did. You didn’t want me hiring him to find Rory. You wanted to find her.”
She didn’t deny it, just glared at him with such hatred he hardly recognized her. He realized Jacoby had been playing both ends against the middle. Collecting fees from both him and Beth. Suddenly, he asked, “Did you know where she was before I did?”
She didn’t answer for a second, weighing her options: truth against the lie.
“Beth,” he warned.
“Why would I look for her?” she blustered. “What good would that have done me?”
“How long have you known where she was?”
She let out a huff of disgust. Her silence was as much a deception as an outright lie.
“I love you,” she said as if it were a defense, then, gauging his reaction, she suddenly reached into her purse and retrieved the Yoda ring. “Talk about stupid.” Angrily she flicked the bit of plastic away as if she were a frat boy flipping beer bottle caps at his friends. The green ring skidded over the worn tile floor to settle against the edge of another booth. “It was a dumb thing. Almost as dumb as waiting for a real engagement ring from a man who was still hung up on his first wife. You were—are—still married to her, and I wanted you to get that divorce!” Her anger was palpable. “Whether you admit it to yourself or not, you’re still in love with her.”
Before he could respond, she stood abruptly and, either by intent or accident, he couldn’t tell which, knocked over the water glass, sending ice cubes and the lemon slice skittering across the table in a splash of icy water that landed in his lap. Muttering under her breath, she breezed past the teenagers, who didn’t so much as look up from their devices, then turned abruptly around and stormed back to him.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Wasn’t sure I was going to, but . . .”
Liam waited. She was clearly struggling with herself.
“Your family has secrets,” she finally said. “And I know about them. And they know I know about them.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, don’t be so smug!” she hissed.
“I’m not smug. I’m just waiting for you to tell me what you think you know about my family.”
His choice of words was wrong. He knew it immediately, but it was too late. She straightened up as if pulled by a string.
“To hell with you, Liam,” she choked out before stalking through the restaurant and across the parking lot to the well-worn path to the police station. Seconds later he saw her white Lexus tear out of the station’s lot to speed down a side street.
“Uh-oh,” the waitress said, showing up with a towel and mop. “Trouble in paradise?” she asked as Liam swiped at his pants with napkins.
He found his wallet and dropped a twenty on the table. “Trust me, it was never paradise.”
* * *
Rory couldn’t get out of the police station fast enough. They were decent to her, offering medical care, photographing her injuries for future documentation, bringing her water and asking her if she wanted anything else, but all she desired was to get back to Charlotte. She said as much as she told her story of the attack to a woman officer with the Laurelton Police Department who wrote everything down. In turn Rory learned that Liam had talked to the Portland detectives, alerting them to the fact that Cal Redmond was the would-be killer who’d attacked her at the wedding, that his motivation was his belief that she’d aborted his child and that his assault on her, then and now, apparently had nothing to do with the assassination at the wedding.
When she was finished, she walked outside and her knees nearly went weak when she saw Liam was waiting for her by his Tahoe. “Derek picked me up and took me to my car,” he explained as she climbed inside. “He had a million questions about Cal and he asked about you, too.”
“I’ve had enough explaining.”
“Yep. Finally talked him into leaving.” Liam put the vehicle in gear just as a police cruiser drove into the lot, the beams of headlights splashing against the side of the building. “Let’s get out of here.”
“To the hospital.”
“It’s the middle of the night and Charlotte’s sleeping. I just checked and I called Darlene. She’s already there.”
Rory felt her muscles relax.
“You,” he said in a surprisingly tender voice, “need to get some more sleep. I hate to say it, but you look like hell.”
He flipped down the passenger visor so she could see for herself the bruising that was already visible around her eyes. Her hair was a wild red mess, her pallor ghostly, her nose swollen. “I look like I’ve been in a bar fight,” she grumbled, as he started the SUV.
“Not quite that bad. But if you want to see a doctor—”
“No. No doctor. The only reason I want to go to the hospital is to see Charlotte.”
“Here.” He handed her his phone. “The last number dialed goes directly to the nurses’ station at Pediatrics.”
“I’ve got my phone,” she said, but memorized the number from his before making the call. She learned from one of the nurses that, as he’d said, not only was Charlotte still sleeping, but yes, Darlene had arrived. She next placed a call to her mother, but before she could say anything, Darlene jumped in with, “Oh, my God, Rory! Are you all right? Liam said you were attacked by Cal. I never liked him, you know. Untrustworthy. You could see it in his face!”
This from the woman who had tied the knot with Harold Stemple, a thief who lately had spent more time behind bars than as a free man. But at least Darlene was concerned and willing to stay with Charlotte until Rory could pull herself together. “If Charlotte’s sleeping, I think I’ll go back to my motel and do the same.”
“Oh, absolutely, honey. I’m here. For as long as you need me.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Rory said, heartfelt. She was suddenly close to tears. She clicked off and closed her eyes, fighting a hot wave of emotion. As soon as the emotion passed, she reopened them and for the first time noted that they were heading east, toward Portland and away from the center of Laurelton. “Where are we going?” she asked. Street lamps glowed, offering watery blue light against the dark sky.
“My place.”
“Wait. What?” Liam’s home? “No. I have a motel room.”
“That’s currently a crime scene,” he pointed out as he merged onto Highway 26.
“But my things? I don’t have—”
“I do.”
“What?”
“Some of your stuff.” He cast a glance at her in the darkened SUV and she saw the self-deprecating turn of his lips. “Never got rid of it.”
“Oh . . .” She didn’t know how to feel about that. Glad that he’d kept reminders of her or sad that he hadn’t let go. Hadn’t he said he wanted a divorce? Then, why? Because he didn’t believe you were dead. He hoped you were coming back, that he would see you again, if only for a final showdown, a prelude to the divorce. “I don’t know about being at your place.”
He didn’t change course.
“What about Bethany?”
“It’s over.”
She cast him a disbelieving look.
“She’s out of my life.”
“Since when?” she asked.
“Since earlier this evening. We had a break up, ring and all.”
Ring? “I didn’t think you were engaged already,” she said, processing.
“We weren’t. I’ll explain later.”
“Okay.”
Again there was silence, the interior of the Tahoe illuminating in flashes as they passed streetlights and oncoming cars. Finally Liam said, “I know you’re sick to the back teeth of talking, but I’d like to know about Cal, when you’re ready.”
“He thought I killed our baby. His and mine.”
Liam’s head swiveled quickly her way, so she launched into the story, what she knew of it, of her miscarriage and Cal’s subsequent belief that she’d aborted the child, of his jealousy and obsession with her, how he’d gotten the catering job at the wedding, how he’d hidden his injury from the police. “He says he didn’t know the suspected shooter, DeGrere, that he had nothing to do with what happened at the wedding.”
“Do you believe him?”
Rory shrugged. “I don’t know.”
They were silent again for a while, but the silence was becoming more companionable. “Were you coming to Portland when Charlotte got sick?” he asked.
“No.” She felt guilty admitting the truth. “I was heading south. As far as I could get. I figured everyone would think I’d go to Canada, I mean it was so close to Point Roberts and all. And I did for a while . . . you know.”
“With Kent Daley and his friend Maude.”
“Right. I thought driving as far as I could in the opposite direction would be a smart idea. LA or Phoenix, maybe. But then Charlotte got sick, so . . .” She cast him a look. “I ended up in your backyard.”
“The place you wanted to avoid.”
They crested a final hill before dropping through the canyon cutting into the center of the city, streetlights blurring past. Liam maneuvered through the one-way streets on the west side of the river and into the parking garage of a high-rise located in the Pearl District. A converted warehouse, the brick-and-concrete structure still held on to some of its authentic nineteenth-century charm, while equipped with the latest conveniences and finishes. When Rory walked out of the elevator and into Liam’s penthouse, she found herself in a huge, nearly cavernous room with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the city lights and one of the bridges crossing the dark Willamette River.
The living room area opened to a roof-top deck. “Nice,” she said, eyeing the shimmering stainless steel-and-white kitchen equipped with all the bells and whistles. A far cry from the apartment they had shared in Seattle.
“One of the first projects I worked on when I took over the company,” he said, but didn’t add, After the sniper attack on the wedding. After you disappeared. After I recovered from gunshot wounds that nearly took my life. “Hungry?” he asked, and she shook her head.
“No.” Her stomach grumbled loudly at that moment. “Okay, changed my mind. Make that ravenous.”
“Sit.” He pointed to a long couch backing the kitchen area and she didn’t argue, just dropped onto the plush cushions as he rattled around in his bachelor pad. There was no sign of Bethany that she could see. No earrings left on the table, no pictures of her on the mantel of a tiled fireplace, no lingering scent of her perfume. Not that it was any of her concern, she reminded herself as she closed her eyes and listened to the sound of bacon sizzling on the stove. Nudging off her shoes, she told herself to still the questions that spun crazily through her mind and just relax. She smelled the warm scent of coffee and was aware of the familiar sounds of a coffeepot gurgling and hissing. Once more her stomach responded noisily.
She’d thought she’d barely closed her eyes when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Blinking, she found Liam in front of her. On the glass-topped coffee table was a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon, and beside the platter sat a cup of steaming coffee, cream clouding the dark liquid. “Eat first. Then sleep.”
“Mmm, so now you’re a chef?” she asked, yawning and stretching.
He grinned. “An apprentice fry cook at best.”
She swung into a sitting position and Liam joined her.
“We made the news,” he said as she took a swallow from her cup and felt the warmth of the coffee slide down her throat.
A television, mounted over the fireplace, was turned on but muted, closed-captioning running along the bottom of the screen. “Oh, God.” The coffee that had tasted so wonderful a moment earlier suddenly curdled in her stomach as she saw Pauline Kirby’s intense face on the screen and noted that she was standing, microphone in hand, in front of the Lamplighter Inn. “Turn on the volume.”
“You’re sure?”
“Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.”
He touched the remote and Pauline’s voice was suddenly filling the room.
“. . . details are incomplete at this time, but we do know that Liam Bastian and his wife, Aurora, known as Rory, the runaway bride, were questioned and released about an hour ago. Calvin Redmond, an ex-boyfriend of Aurora’s, is being held, charged with assault against her at the Lamplighter Inn late last night. There is speculation, as yet unconfirmed, that Redmond might have had a part in the shooting at the wedding ceremony of Liam and Aurora Bastian in Seattle five years ago. That attack left one man dead and several others wounded—”
Liam clicked off the set. “Okay?” he asked her.
She nodded. She’d had enough as well.
He plunged a bite of eggs into his mouth, then when he noticed Rory hadn’t taken a bite, pointed at her plate with his fork. “Eat.”
She did. At first mechanically, and then with more gusto as the food hit her stomach. Very little was said as they ate their meal, and as she took the last slice of bacon from the plate, Rory felt her limbs go liquid as her tension subsided. It was all she could do to follow Liam to the bathroom while he sorted through his meager medical supplies. The bruises beneath her eyes were more pronounced and the cut on her chin had healed to a small scrape. Her nose looked like she’d run into a door, which, well . . . she had.
She cleaned up as best she could, and as she turned off the faucets she caught Liam’s gaze in the mirror. He was leaning in the doorway, faintly smiling. “Good as new?”
“More like ‘as good as it gets.’”
She turned around to find his gaze moving slowly up her body. “Pretty damned good, I’d say.”
“You must be blind,” she accused.
“Come here.”
“No.”
“Just come here.”
“That is not a good idea.”
“Yes, it is.”
She could feel the sexual tension rising between them. Heart beginning to pound, she stepped closer to him, knowing she shouldn’t, unable to stop herself. He reached forward, clasped her by the shoulders, the pressure points of his fingers warm enough to permeate her top and heat her muscles.
He’s going to kiss me.
Her pulse skyrocketed as he leaned in close, his coffee-laced breath whispering across her skin. His face was so near that she noticed the changing color of his eyes, the way his whiskers were starting to appear. Panic and a little bit of anticipation surged through her. “Come on,” he said in a low voice and applied a little pressure, pulling her forward until she was in the bedroom—his bedroom—as he guided her toward the bed.
I can’t, she thought wildly.
I can’t stop was the quickly following thought.
He gave her the slightest of pushes toward the bed and then said, “Now. You. Sleep.” And then he was backing out of the room and closing the door and she wanted to cry out and call him back, to close her mind to the world and tangle in the cool sheets and his warm arms.
But she didn’t.
Instead she dropped onto the mattress, snuggled under the covers, closed her eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.