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And on the eve of the debut of his project, it had been infiltrated. The audacity of the culprit infuriated him.
Like any intense emotion, it unleashed a desire to eat, despite the large meal he had just consumed. Powerful stress always induced a violent, cramping hunger in his belly, like the hunger he remembered from his boyhood, foraging for survival in maggoty garbage heaps.
The lying whore with bouncing breasts had spoken of a Grand Marnier chocolate torte. God forbid that, too, should go to waste.
He stubbed out his cigarette on the floor and made his way to the kitchen. There it was, on a dessert tray by the door. A tempting confection covered with a coating of dark chocolate, drizzled with syrup.
Unfortunately, Solokov had chosen just that spot to open the jugular of one of his men. The dessert tray had been liberally sprayed with blood. Zhoglo shrugged inwardly. Gouged out a piece with his fingers.
His men would not begrudge him a few drops of their heart’s blood, he thought, stuffing it into his face, gulping without chewing.
And he was anything but squeamish.
The long drive back to the city was as surreal as the boat ride. Heat was blasting over her, but she couldn’t stop shaking. She drifted from one waking dream to another, nightmares where she was always helpless, always naked, always cold, legs sunk in icy muck. Men with sliced throats that gaped like wet red mouths screamed their rage at her in some harsh, alien language. The Spider’s pink, smiling face, eyes sparkling with unholy glee as he reached to fondle her breasts. In her dream he didn’t stop there. His fingers slid right through her skin as if she were made of butter, and closed around her heart, squeezing with cruel iron fingers until she thought it would explode—
After that one, she forced her eyes to stay open. She hurt all over. She shook with adrenaline, vibrating at a screamingly high frequency, despite her exhaustion. She felt so exposed, as if lights were glaring down on her in a sports stadium. No cover. All the painful, shameful, embarrassing truths about her, right there for all to see. How small and stupid she was. She had made enormous mistakes.
This guy had risked his neck, done something incredibly brave and difficult and dangerous to save her.
Lives were at stake. I traded them. For yours.
She owed him for that and it was a debt she could never repay. There was no point in trying to find out his name. He would never tell her the real one anyway, if he was running true to form.
She wrapped her arms around herself, clutching the thermal blanket, trying to endure her own existence, second by second. Time ground by. Her feet hurt, her joints hurt, her wrists hurt from breaking her fall into that puddle of blood, her shoulders hurt from being handcuffed to the banister the night before—it was hard to find a place that didn’t hurt.
The one small redeeming thing was that Mr. Big was not a ruthless criminal.
Wonderful news.
Not that it mattered. He was a ruthless something else that was probably just as bad. That he’d saved her life against unbelievable odds and that he made her wild with sexual excitement when he took a break from being a hero, was beside the point. Irrelevant.
Besides, he had to despise her, for screwing up his operation. He’d only had sex with her—all-the-way sex—because he’d been coerced. The night before didn’t count. It would be silly to take it personally.
All things considered, the experience they’d shared was not a good foundation for a relationship. Hell, it wasn’t even a foundation for a one-night stand.
She buried her face in her hands, tried to burrow into a hole in her mind and just hide there.
She jumped when she felt his hand on her shoulder. “Huh?” she said. “What?”
“We’re there.”
She looked around. The world was a blur without her glasses, particularly at night. She wrenched her brain into line and squinted until she could make out the big, ramshackle house where she lived in the top floor apartment. Dawn was far away. The cold orange glow of streetlights reflected off the thick cloud cover.
“How did you know where I lived?” she asked.
“Went through your purse at the A-frame,” he said. “So I could ditch your license and your cell and your plastic. Didn’t want him to find it.”
“So that’s why you had my lipstick.”
“Yeah. Don’t know why I stuck that in my pocket.”
She blinked. He’d thought of everything. Her purse and stuff was gone, but only because he’d been trying to save her from the start. Becca struggled for something meaningful to say that would not come across as idiotic. Before he disappeared forever.
So sorry for screwing up your life. Thanks for saving me from a fate worse than death. The sex was great too. See ya.
She wondered if she would ever see him again and fought a jolt of odd, irrational panic at the idea of him just fading into black. Leaving her alone, unmoored. Her inner world smashed to junk.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Probably trying to think of a way to get her out of his truck. Her tongue felt thick.
