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I’ve never felt so drawn to a person before, so caught up in someone that I want to hear their voice and stay in their presence for as long as possible.
“And now what?” I ask again.
“Now, we walk, femme fatale.”
“Can’t we do that without holding hands?”
“No, because you’ll run away.”
“This is called kidnapping.”
He tilts his head in my direction and for the dozenth time tonight, I wish I could take that mask off and see what’s truly beneath it. Is he really a monster?
“With all these people around?”
“The presence of people or the lack thereof doesn’t deny the kidnapping.”
He lifts a shoulder, his voice completely neutral. “I’m kidnapping you, then.”
My heart squeezes and my lips fall open. Is he for real? I mentioned kidnapping so it’d rattle him a little and he’d think that the hassle this situation presents isn’t worth it. I thought there was at least an eighty percent chance he’d let me go, but he completely ignored that risk factor.
“You really don’t care that I would report you to the police?”
“You have no evidence or facial description. Your report will sit on the incompetent police’s desk for days, months, and then will be thrown into the archives.”
I dig my nails into his hand and attempt to scratch the skin.
Hetsks, voice dripping with amusement. “Do you watch CSI a lot?”
“What? Why?”
“I assume the show is behind your attempts to get some DNA off me. I advise you to drop it, though. Not only will you complicate things for yourself, but your parents might pay the price for dragging me through the mud. See, my father takes offense when the family name is touched, and he has dangerous friends.”
I don’t release my hold on his hand. In fact it, I dig my nails in deeper. “I don’t have parents.”
His pace slows and I suddenly become the sole subject of his previously scattered attention. The shift is subtle, but it’s so intense that I swallow.
“My, my. You keep getting more interesting. Why do you not have parents, femme fatale?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Maybe I want it to become my business.”
“Why?” I meet the gleaming color of his eyes. They’re definitely light gray or dark blue—or a mixture of both. “Why would you want to know about me?”
“Because you interest me. Which, by the way, is an emotion hardly stirred within me.”
“Should I be honored?”
“Yes. You should also answer my question.”
“If I do, will you let me go?”
“I would say yes, but that would be a lie and I’m sure you don’t prefer that option. We should adopt an honesty policy.”
“Honesty is just an illusion invented by people to allow them to manipulate others.”
“You’re too smart.”
