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He was still drop dead sexy, maybe even more so, but it was clear that not all of the last six months had been kind to him. I wanted to ask him if he was well, but I wasn’t sure I wanted him to know I cared enough to ask. I chose another question instead.
"How is that not exactly, then?"
"They might have thought I was lying, that the press reports were faked. They could have had their own contacts in WITSEC or the DEA. They certainly knew I was lying at the end."
The end.
I drew a deep breath. "How did they die?"
"Painfully." His gaze shut down and I knew that was all the information he would give me on the topic.
"You could have told Hollman?—"
"No, and you won’t tell her, either, not until I’m sure you’re safe and don’t need WITSEC." He ran his hand along his shin, his fingernails dragging along the denim of his jeans so hard they would have dug burrows if it had been his skin. "And I wanted to make sure you’re doing okay."
"She could have told you how I was doing." I was glad he hadn’t asked anyone in WITSEC, but I was desperate to know if his visit was more than some kind of health and welfare check. I pressed my hand against my stomach, as if that could stop the knots twisting through it.
Adrian’s hand balled into a fist and he shook his head. "She could tell me you’d found work, that you had an apartment in a safe neighborhood. But she couldn’t tell me whether you’re adjusting, if you’re thinking about going back to school…if…"
He finished with a shrug and a fresh scowl.
Something gnawed at him, but he seemed reluctant to release it. That meant it was gnawing at both of us. Needing to know, I gave him a little prompt. "If what?"
His gaze skipped around the room. There was little to see. I’d furnished it with mismatched pieces from Goodwill and other second hand shops. There were no pictures, certainly no photographs. A few books from the library rested on a bookshelf next to a few I’d picked up from a used bookstore. The apartment looked exactly like the purpose it served—a way station and not a home.
"If you’re making friends, if—" His attention jumped back to the bookshelf, his right brow lifting slightly.
Making a quick mental inventory of my to-be-read pile, I felt a rush of blood to my face. I put my hands on the table, hoping to divert his attention.
"I socialize with a few acquaintances from work. It’s hard to make actual friends when I’m trying to concentrate on remembering what name I am supposed to answer to, where I fictitiously grew up and stuff."
Frowning, I tilted my head to the side. "But I guess you know what that’s like, Adrian."
The little twitch of his mouth and the way his eyes slid back in my direction told me he was no longer thinking about the hot little romance on my bookshelf with its tawdry clutch cover.
"So, now you’re up to speed." I finished with a flat little smile.
"You said you had questions." He tossed the smile right back at me, his gaze still shuttered. "What do you want to know?"
My question hadn’t changed, neither had my inability to ask it.
Was it all a game or did you want me? Do you want me now?
Lifting my shoulders, I looked away. "You’ve answered them already."
"All of them, ba—" He froze and my heart did a back flip.
My eyes slowly shut, heat instantly coalescing low in my stomach at the fact that he had just stopped short of calling me baby or baby girl.
"Have I answered all of yours?" I whispered, my eyes still shut.
"All the ones I’ve asked."
How the hell could he sound so self-possessed when I was splintering inside? I looked at him knowing I was starting to cry but unable to stop the tears. "What haven’t you asked?"
"Do you hate me?" His voice was level but both of his hands gripped his leg, one at the knee and the other wrapped around his ankle, the knuckles white from how hard he squeezed. "Did I make the wrong choice?"
I blinked at the question. "You want to know if saving my life was the wrong choice?"
