Page 22 of Destroyed With You

“Who?”

“I don’t know.” I glance toward the bed. “Please. Can I at least sit?”

He hesitates, then nods. I move to the bed, then sit on the edge, my legs tight together. I reach for a pillow to pull into my lap, but he shakes his head.

I draw in a breath, and cross my hand over my breasts. I’m not modest—in my business, it’s really not an asset—but right now I feel genuinely exposed.

For a moment, I think he’s going to tell me to put my hands at my sides. When he doesn’t, I relax a little, then have to remind myself to be vigilant. I still don’t know what the situation is. He says it’s a coincidence, but is it really? He could be telling the truth, but he could just as easily be lying.

That’s another reality of the world I live in now—everybody lies, and there’s not one goddamn person I truly trust. Winston was the last, and now I can’t even trust him.

“What?”

I force myself not to cringe, realizing my uncertainty must have shown on my face. I’m getting sloppy. Or, rather, Winston is making me sloppy.

“I was just remembering that night,” I lie.

“When someone came to the house.” His tone is harsh, as if he doesn’t believe me. Smart man. But in this case it’s true. Just not the entire truth.

“He said he worked with the local police,” I continue. “That there were things going down, and that you were in the middle of them, and that if you kept poking around you would end up dead.”

“Go on.”

“He told me that the only way that you would survive this was if you pulled your nose out of the entire mess, but that you were like a dog with a bone. And you wouldn’t give up unless something huge distracted you.” I meet his eyes, and feel real tears prick at my own. “He said the only thing big enough to distract you was me. He said I had to die.”

“And you were such a little martyr that you died for me.”

“I don’t blame you for not believing me, but it’s true.” I watch him, trying to read his expression. It’s blank at first, and then I see the shift on his face. The shadow in his eyes. The hint of a frown at the corners of his mouth. I think that he understands. That, maybe just a little, he’s beginning to trust me. Most of all, that he believes me.

I know it’s a risk, but I stand, then take a step toward him. I see his body stiffen, but he doesn’t step back, and so I move forward another few inches, then another. He’s still holding the gun, but I reach for his other hand, and take it in my own.

If this were a movie, the room would be filled with starbursts. His touch is so familiar, so wonderful. I’ve missed it. And oh, dear God, I want more. It’s not just the feel of his hand in mine that affects me. It’s the connection, and it ricochets through me, making my body react in ways that I wish it wouldn’t, because it reveals too damn much. Especially since I’m standing there naked in front of him.

But this isn’t about sex or attraction. I need him to believe me. And while I don’t like being vulnerable, not even in front of Winston, at least he can see the truth of it on my body. “I’ve missed you so much,” I whisper. “So, so much.”

He pulls his hand free, then steps back. “And yet you stayed away.”

“I had to. They said if you ever learned the truth, they’d kill you.” There’s a harshness in my voice that I wish wasn’t there. But it’s the truth, damn it, at least mostly. And it’s probably the only truly selfless thing I’ve ever done. I want him to know it. I want him to know that even though I did betray him, I only did it to save his life.

“Are you remarried?” I blurt the question out without thinking. “Seeing anybody?”

“No.” The word is hard. Firm. The answer makes me sad that he’s alone, but mostly it makes me happy. I know it shouldn’t. This is ending tonight. I’m going to extricate myself from this mess come hell or high water. I’ll curse the bad luck of running into my husband and I’ll move on.

I haven’t lied about the danger to him. Odds are Billy Hawthorne’s people are watching me. And if they think that I actually arranged to contact Hades’ former sheriff, well I could very well be a dead woman.

Right now, I’m probably safe, but the longer I’m with him, the more the danger increases.

The truth is, I won’t see him after tonight and it’s a miracle that we crossed paths at all. I’ve never been one for signs, but I’m a wiz with justifications. And at this particular moment there’s nothing else for me to do except extricate myself from this mess, then wait and regroup. I’ll find Bartlett again easily enough. And the laptop’s still in this room.

I take another step toward Winston, who holds his ground. We’re only inches apart now. I haven’t done anything this impulsive or foolish in years. Not since I was with this man, back when there was joy in my life. Back when he was the joy in my life.

“Don’t,” he says as I lift my hand and put it on his hip. The muscles in his face are tight, his voice harsher than I’ve ever heard it.

“Please,” I say. I step back, then press my palm between my breasts and slowly slide my own hand down over my belly, then let my fingers curl between my legs as I bite my lip to fight off a moan of pleasure.

“Christ, Linda.”

I watch his face, desperate for him to touch me. Not because this is a ploy to get me out of this mess—or at least, not entirely—but because I’ve been numb since the night I supposedly died. No. I did die. In every way that matters.