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“Not that, either.”
“Are you sure of that?” His calm question set off a new wave of reaction, something she couldn’t hide.
“Don’t do that!” she said, her voice low and fierce.
“Don’t do what?”
“Just don’t.”
He crossed the room, shrugging out of his leather jacket. He still hadn’t buttoned his shirt. The complex and beautiful tattoos were hidden. All she could see was his smooth, golden skin.
“Don’t do what?” he said again, his voice low. Too close, he was standing too close, and she could feel the heat from his body like a physical touch.
“Don’t do this,” she said. “Maybe you think I just need sex from a good man to get over my hang-ups, but you’re dead wrong.”
He almost smiled. “I don’t remember offering you sex, Summer. And I’m most definitely not a good man.”
She was well past the point of being embarrassed. “That’s a relief,” she said, trying to sound brisk and practical. “It’s not that I really thought you wanted me, but the topic of conversation is a little distracting.”
“Oh, I want you,” he said casually.
Her heart stopped beating for a long, endless moment. “No,” she said. “I don’t like you.”
“You probably don’t. But that doesn’t mean you don’t want me. I’m trained to be observant. You watch me when you think I’m not looking, you shiver when I touch you. I think right now you’re probably terrified. And wet.”
Her eyes widened in shock. “You’re disgusting.”
“Sex isn’t for the fastidious. Haven’t you learned at least that much from your lone, incompetent lover?”
“You’re not having sex with me.”
He sighed. “You’re right, I’m not. You’re the only one who’s going to get off.”
“Dream on. If you think you can seduce me into telling you where the urn is, you have far too high an opinion of your dubious charms.”
This time he did smile, and a wicked light filled his eyes. “‘Dubious charms’?” he echoed, amused. “You’ll tell me where it is and then you’ll have sex. Where is the urn?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
“Of course you are,” he said, picking up her hand. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t release her. “Tell me where the real urn is. I’ve played around for too long already, and I can’t afford to waste any more time. I don’t want to hurt you, but you need to tell me where the urn is.”
“No.”
The pain was sudden, swift and blinding, so sharp that she could barely muffle her instinctive cry and then it was over. He brushed the back of his hand against her face, tenderly; there was no mistaking the regret in his austere, beautiful face. “Don’t make me do it again, Summer. People’s lives are at stake, and I can’t let sentiment get in my way. Where is the urn?”
“I won’t—” The words were cut off as she gasped again in pain. Then he released the cruel grip on her wrist, and his fingers were gently stroking the red marks. “Where is the urn, Summer?”
She looked into his calm, implacable eyes. He would do this. He would hurt her until she told him what he wanted to know, whether he wanted to or not.
And more than anything in the world she needed him to take his hands off her. Not the hands that hurt her. The hands that touched and comforted. And she’d do anything, tell him anything, to make him let go of her.
“It’s in the Bainbridge house
,” she said, yanking her hand away. Her wrist was numb, throbbing, and she had no idea what he’d done to her. She only knew he wouldn’t have stopped.
“What Bainbridge house? In Washington state? There’s no record of you or your mother owning a house up there.”
“It’s in my grandmother’s name. My father’s mother. She didn’t want Lianne to know she was giving it to me. She didn’t trust her.”
