His face was as smooth as his marble countertop once more, all expression gone as he checked his various security features and collected intelligence on their—his—current situation.
Finally, he straightened and turned to her. “My cameras’ reach isn’t foolproof. There may be stragglers I can’t see, even after the bulk of the pack departs. I don’t intend to leave my home until authorities give us the official all clear and I’ve seen no sign of zombies for at least forty-eight hours. You can stay here with me until then.”
A generous offer.
She didn’t understand it. Without a plausible explanation, she didn’t trust it either.
“Why?” Exhaustion, hunger, and uncertainty sapped her remaining strength, and she leaned heavily against the edge of his glass work desk. “Why snatch me away from danger and lecture me about self-preservation if my life means nothing to you? Why offer me safe shelter for days or even weeks to come if the survival of others doesn’t concern you?”
Whenever he offered her that one-shoulder shrug, casual and Gallic and infuriating, she wanted to smack the shit out of him.
“I noted the initial zombie’s approach in time to kill it without your ill-considered assistance,” he said bluntly. “Still, you believed you were saving me. Youintendedto save me. You foolishlyrisked your life to do so. In return, I feel obligated to provide basic assistance, at least this once.”
“So you’re merely fulfilling a perceived debt, then.”
“Correct.” How he managed to pack so much ostentatious boredom into two syllables, she’d never know.
“You don’t actually care if I live or die.”
“Correct.”
Edie hadn’t spent time around farm animals in at least three decades, but she could still identify the pungent scent of bullshit. “What if I left here tonight to warn the other Zone residents?”
It would be a suicide mission, and they both knew it.
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “I would not recommend that.”
“Of course not, but would you care? Would you mourn my death?”
He silently watched her for a moment, a vein throbbing at his temple, before answering. “You told me you didn’t wish to die. Was that a lie?”
“I haven’t lied to you,Chad.” Her thick sarcasm should have choked him.
“Then you won’t leave before dawn.”
Much as she’d love to contradict him, he was right. “If the pack moves away and the sirens don’t sound during the night, I’ll go at daybreak.” She couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t at least try to alert other Zone residents and the authorities that a calamitous breach had occurred. “Thank you for your kind offer of shelter until then.”
If he noted any irony in her tone, he didn’t react to it. He simply nodded.
After one last glance at his monitor, he stood and left his media room. “I need to change. Wait for me in the kitchen.”
He disappeared into the doorway across the hall, and she ventured back into the kitchen in search of an ice pack. Her ankle had stiffened up and was currently protesting the unanticipated evening of zombie kicking, mole hole tripping, and ladder descending.
She limped to his refrigerator, slid open his freezer drawer, and found…nothing. Absolutely nothing. No freezer-burned bags of corn. No microwaveable dinners. Not even a pint of Häagen-Dazs.
He reappeared at her side before she even had time to close the drawer. Somehow he’d managed to change and cross a vast expanse of concrete floor in about thirty seconds, max. Which was…telling, she figured.
Compared to the leather hoodie and animal-hide thong, his track pants and tight Henley were disappointingly normal, albeit ridiculously flattering. When her eyes drifted toward his rounded posterior, she whipped them upward again. She was still blinking away spots from that damn thong. Too lengthy a perusal of his ass now might entirely burn out her retinas, like staring at an eclipse.
“I don’t suppose you have an ice pack tucked away somewhere else,” she said.
“No.” His forehead creased. “You’ve injured yourself?”
“My ankle isn’t injured. Strained, maybe.” Also twisted and jammed, but that wasn’t important. Even without an ice pack, ibuprofen and a few hours off her feet should take care of the issue. “Do you have something to drink? And is there somewhere I can sit without ruining the sacrificial efforts of all those naked, shivering geese?”
She looked down at her blood-splattered, muddy coverallsand winced. Mess didn’t bother her, but gore? Yuck. Sadly, there was no point asking to borrow clean clothes. Nothing he owned would fit her generously rounded frame, on toporbottom.
He hesitated. “I suppose I could get some towels to put beneath you.”
