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“I can’t just laugh.”
He hums, drumming his fingers, his mischief growing.
“Whatever you’re planning on doing,” I say, tilting my head, “don’t do it.”
He tilts his right back, and just as I’m bracing myself to run, his arm shoots across the island at lightning speed and seizes me. I gasp. James grins. “I saw you moving before you thought to move yourself,” he says, far too smugly, staring me down across the island, his hold of my wrist solid. I’m not concerned.
“You’ll have to release me to get around the island to me,” I point out haughtily. “And then I’ll run.”
“Who says I have to release you?”
“Oh.” I nod, looking as sarcastic as could be. “Do they call you Mr. Tickle, as well as The Enigma?”
He can’t restrain his smile. Neither can I. “Tickle,” he muses, and I solidify on my stool. No. No tickling. I can’t stand it. He needs to release me to get to me, and as soon as he does, I’m out of here. I’ll lock myself in his bathroom. Just as I think that, James braces a hand into the counter and launches himself up.
“Oh,” I murmur as he flies across the island. Literally. He didn’t even jolt my arm. One swift swivel and drop has him on the stool next to me, my wrist still in his hold. Fuck it. I lift my cast. “This is a white flag.”
And there it is. A laugh. It’s rich and deep and like a balm to my broken heart. And that’s just the sound. The sight makes me fall a little harder. I sit, admiring him, lost, dazed. Stunning.
Once he’s gathered himself, James stands me up and walks me back to the rug by the window. He silently lowers me to my back and sits over my thighs. Not my stomach, but my thighs.
I’m rigid beneath him, unable to appreciate his gorgeous form or his twinkling eyes. “Please don’t,” I beg.
“Then laugh,” he whispers, and I tilt my head back, clenching my eyes closed.
“I can’t just laugh.”
“Try.”
“Ha!” I blurt like a fool. “Hahahahaha!”
“Lame.” He digs me under my arm, and I burst into a fit of hysterics.
“No!” Oh my Jesus, torture! “Stop,” I splutter over my laugh. “Please, stop.”
He does, and I’m surprised. Then he shoots up, and I’m worried. “What is it?” I ask.
“The sensor on the front entrance,” he says, going to his cell and checking a few things before taking it to his ear. “Visitors? Who?” he asks, coming back to me, his pace faltering. “Oh?” He holds his hand out for me, and I take it and let him pull me to my feet. I’m not grateful I got off lightly. I’m too concerned by these visitors.
He hangs up, his lips straightening. “You have visitors.”
“Oh no,” I breathe, pacing to the kitchen and getting my cell. I find three missed calls and a message threatening to come here. “Shit.” I slam it down. “Time to be roasted.”
“That’s not fucking funny, Beau,” James mutters, collecting me and guiding me to the stairs.
I don’t have the mental capacity to be remorseful of my choice of words. “I think it’s best I see him alone.”
“Forget it,” he snaps.
I grimace at the space before me. “Don’t be so unreasonable.”
James releases me from his hold when we make it to the bedroom and goes into his dressing room, while I scratch around for something to throw on. He comes out moments later in his jeans, dragging a T-shirt over his head. He’s grouchy, and my inappropriate comment isn’t the only reason. He has bigger issues than my family politics.
“Worried I’ll let them convince me to walk away?” I ask, removing my T-shirt.
James laughs under his breath, then falters, his eyes climbing my body to my face. He scowls. “No.”
I sigh. “Can we agree on one thing?”
“Depends what it is.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, what’s got into you? You’re behaving like a petulant school boy.” It’s actually quite hilarious, this heartless killer sulking like a brat. I pull my shirt on and start buttoning it with one hand. “I’m not telling them about this.” I take my index fingers and point them at my stomach. “Not yet.”
James stalks toward me and stops, dropping a kiss on my cheek. “Agreed.” He heads toward the bathroom, leaving me a little shell-shocked in the middle of his room.
“Oh,” I say to myself, going to the bed and sitting on the edge. That was easier than I thought it would be.
“You ready?” he asks, coming toward me with his hands in his hair, coaxing it into place. I smile, and he stops. “What?”
“Trying to make a good impression?”
“No, I’m trying to keep busy to stop myself thinking about all the things I should say to your uncles.”
“Like what?”
“Fuck off.”
I press my lips together to stop my laugh. He seems so tense. Could it be nerves?
