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“I’ve been busy,” he said, sounding vaguely defensive.
“With what?”
He swiped the butt end of a bagel chunk all around the inside of the cream cheese container to wipe up the last smear, stuck it into his mouth, chewed. Deliberately not answering her.
She busied herself by rummaging through the freezer. There it was, the very last lasagna. An offering to lay upon the altar of idiocy. She peeled off the foil, flung it into the microwave, and turned to him.
“You’re trying to find that guy, aren’t you?” she accused him.
His gaze flickered, and slid away from hers.
“Why?” she demanded. “Why not cut your losses and let him be?”
“And if you run into him or one of his goons at a rest stop on the interstate?” he asked. “How do you think that’s going to play? You want to stare over your shoulder for the rest of your life?”
“Oh, please. Don’t even try. This is not about me,” she snapped. “I’m a bit player in this drama, and you know it.”
“Let it go, Becca,” he said. “We’re not discussing it.”
A lump rose in her throat. It ached and burned. She couldn’t justify this emotion, couldn’t explain it or reason with this tangle of pain and fear and confusion. She just felt lost, scared. In the dark, in the fog.
She turned her back to him, to hide the hot liquid sting in her eyes. “Then why the hell are you even here?” she forced the words out around the choking lump. “Did you just come to torture me?”
She let out a sharp gasp as he grabbed her from behind, yanking her down onto his lap, with her back to him. Omigod. Her chest locked.
She tried to twist, get off, look him in the face—she wasn’t even sure what her intentions were, but she couldn’t move in any direction. He held her fast, arms clamped around her waist, pinning her elbows to her sides. He pressed his face between her shoulder blades.
His body vibrated with tension. His grip was almost painful. His breath bloomed, rhythmic against her spine. A moist, pulsing beat that came into focus as if he were kissing her. Or licking her.
He didn’t speak, just held her, hiding his face against her back. She felt awkward, perched on his lap, her nightgown draped over his knees. Unable to take anything more than the shallowest breath.
Another emotion unfolded slowly in her. An aching desire to give him the tenderness he so clearly needed. But he wouldn’t let her turn, or embrace him, or kiss him. He wouldn’t talk to her. This tight, shaking, silent embrace was the only way he could ask for it and all he would accept from her.
He reached out to her, and hid from her. In the same moment.
She was afraid to speak or stir, unwilling to end the fragile intimacy. They were finally together, even if they were balanced on the head of a pin. She finally pried one of his hands loose and pulled it up to her face. She kissed his scabbed knuckles. They sat there, in that silent, magic bubble, until the microwave started to ding.
He sighed, and his arms loosened. She slid off his lap and stumbled across the kitchen to stab the button to make that sound stop. She slid the steaming dish out of the microwave, laid it on the counter. “Nick,” she began gently. “Can you tell me—”
“No,” he said. “So don’t ask.”
She flinched, then took a deep breath and tried again. “But I—”
“I’m not talking about it.” The harshness of his voice was like a blow, and of course, she was wide open to it, now that he’d coaxed her into feeling like this. Fragile and unshielded.
She pressed her hands to her face. How many times would she have to go through this same torture before she got a clue?
“I’m sorry,” he said in a halting voice, after a moment of dead silence. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that I just can’t. It’s not safe.”
Nothing’s safe anyway, you idiot. Nothing will ever be safe again.
She wanted to scream the words at him, but she just dragged in a shuddering breath, and opened her mouth. “Tell me the bastard’s full name,” she said, her voice savage. “I deserve to know something about the guy who wants to rape, torture and murder me. He must have a record. Or something—”
He was silent for so long, she was sure he would blow her off again. Then he cleared his throat. “You won’t find it. Anyway, it’s Vadim Zhoglo,” he said. “Ukrainian mafiya kingpin. Very bad, evil motherfucker. But you know that.”
“Yes,” she whispered. She knew that.
Now that she had that scrap of information, she was at a loss. It wasn’t as if she had anywhere to put it, anything to do with it.
