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A wobbly rush of fresh feelings went through her. A thrill of excitement, mixed with shame and fury, and a sharp tang of fear.
And a hot, sweet twist of awareness between her legs.
No way. Not in a million years would she let that bastard get that close to her again. No matter what pulsed and throbbed inside her.
She put her hand up to the mass of curly hair that swung a couple inches below her chin. She still couldn’t get used to all that volume the shorter length created around her face, but she was past the worst of the shock, at this point, and the hairdresser had done a nice job in shaping it, so she was coping with the hair trauma. No thanks to him, though. She shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and squinted through the peephole.
Wow. He’d cut his hair too, just as he’d threatened. He looked very different. The spiky brush of hair stuck out every which way. The bruise under his eye had faded to a purplish line slashing downwards diagonally, from the inside corner of his eye to under his cheekbone.
He wore black leather. She was not one bit surprised.
His dark eyes stared into hers, unwavering. It was like the door didn’t exist at all. He knew perfectly well she was there. Staring at him. Cowering behind the door like a goddamn mouse. Whiskers trembling.
She undid the old lock, the new lock, the deadbolt, the chain, and pried out the kitchen chair she’d wedged under the knob. She yanked the door open, and gave him her coldest frigid bitch look.
“You,” she said. “What do you want?”
He didn’t answer. Seconds crept by, stretched into minutes.
She realized, at length, that being cold and mean would have no effect on this guy. He wouldn’t get the subliminal message. Nor would he get embarrassed or flustered, or feel in any way at a disadvantage. Why should he? Mean and cold was his normal default setting. It probably made him feel right at home. Comfortably familiar. God only knew, tenderness and intimacy had scared him half to death.
This was silly. They couldn’t stand there having a staring contest all night, and having the door open to the night made her twitch. She stepped back, and gestured him ungraciously into the apartment.
He closed the door behind himself. The room was so dark. She stood there, rigid with uncertainty. Nick flipped the light on. She flinched, putting her hands up to her eyes. Since that weekend, turning lights on when it was dark outside made her feel scarily exposed, like being in a fishbowl, even with the blinds closed. She’d been creeping around in the dark and she had the bruises on her shins to prove it.
He stared at her fixedly, his thick, straight dark brows knitted into a scowl. “I told you to go blonde,” he said.
Her chin went up. “What are you going to do about it? Highlight me by brute force? Tie me down and do foil tips?”
His eyes flashed. “If I had you tied, it’s not your hair I’d go for.”
She was struck dumb for a moment. She took a step back, raised a shaking finger, waggled it back and forth. “Uh-uh. Don’t start with me, Nick. Don’t even think about it.”
He lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug, but the intensity of his gaze was unwavering. “Your hair looks pretty,” he said. “I like it.”
Her hand flew up to touch the short ends before she could stop herself. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. “What you’re looking at is a miracle rescue.”
That appeared to roll right off his back. “You should change the color, though,” he said blandly.
“I doubt those guys would recognize me,” she said. “I wasn’t wearing glasses, I had lipstick all over my mouth, and I was bare-assed under that slutty blouse. Probably all they ever saw was my chest and butt.”
She instantly regretted the thoughtless words when Nick’s gaze fell directly to her chest and butt. She was so not up to intense male scrutiny right now, and particularly not his. It would be difficult for her to feel any less schlumpy than she did right now, clad in her billowing flannel buttoned-up-to-the-neck granny nightie. And those hideous, squinchy black rectangular eyeglasses perched on her nose, the ones her girlfriends had persuaded her to buy because they gave her face “structure.” Her nice, normal ones had been forever lost on Frakes Island. Her hair was a mad, staticky cloud of dark curls, her face was wan and pale, completely bare of any help cosmetics might have given.
In short, she looked as plain as a mud fence. And she hated it.
“I recognize you just fine.” His voice vibrated with intensity. “And if I do, he would.”
She shivered. “Well, whoop de doo,” she said, with fake bravado. “I recognize you too, in spite of your new hairdo. So there. Go blond yourself, why don’t you. I dare you. In fact, I’ll make a deal with you. Bleach your hair, and I’ll bleach mine. Sound good?”
He looked away, and his mouth betrayed him for a brief instant, twitching before he could flatten it into a tense, hard line again.
“Nick, what are you doing here?” she demanded. “This is a bad idea. You should go.”
He frowned, and his jacket creaked as he folded his arms over his chest. “I just thought I’d check on you.”
“Ah.” She let out a long sigh, waited. “I see.”
“And so? How are you, then?” he prompted.
