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“You sure are curious.”
“So are you.”
He chuckles, but that flash of fear and pain crosses his face again. A wince. A tightening of his mouth. “The Jordans.”
Jordans. I feel like I’m supposed to know the name. Then again… Rich people. Their lives must be splashed all over the tabloids.
“So you’re housesitting and fixing stuff? Like the hedge?”
“I like fixing stuff.” He tilts his head to the side, studying me, as if I’m something he can fix, too.
But he can’t. He can’t fix my past, or my present.
Two million dollars. The sum flashes in my mind erratically, like a broken shop sign. Holy shit. Who could pay that back? My only way to survive is running and hiding.
Forever—if I’m lucky and they don’t kill me to make an example out of me.
“I gotta go,” I say, and push my chair back. “Thank you for the dinner. It was great.”
His eyes are on me, and I see a shadow pass through their blue depths. It looks an awful lot like sadness, and my breath catches.
Then it’s gone, and his brows lift. “No dessert?”
I lick my lips as I take a step away. He looks like dessert, with his dark hair tousled and all that gorgeous muscled body slumped back in the chair.
Bad, bad idea. “No… Thanks.”
He nods. “Then I’ll walk you out.”
***
Tripping over my own feet in my haste, I cross the living room and step out of the house, onto the patio. He follows, his bare feet whispering on the tiles. The blue light from the Olympic pool floods the air. I rush around its rim, my breathing echoing in my ears.
“Ray,” he calls out from behind me. “Raylin.”
I don’t want to turn around and see him. If I do, I may not leave. I may stay, and then all bets are off.
“I’m sorry!” I shout over my shoulder. “I have no manners, I know. Dinner was delicious. Thank you!”
“Slow down.”
“No, sorry. I have things to do. Dishes to wash. Cans to check for expiration dates. You know. Important stuff.”
“Hey, Cinderella. Your sandals.”
Oh shit. I turn around slowly, cursing myself. “Um… thanks?”
They’re dangling from his fingers. He’s stalking toward me, a slight limp to his gait I never noticed before. A crooked smirk pulls at his lips, his eyes twinkle at me, and I lose my train of thought.
God…
See, I knew this would happen if I turned. Butterflies somersault in my stomach, my mouth is dry and my pulse is beating everywhere—at the base of my throat, in my wrists, between my legs. I need something, I need him, and my hands clench helplessly at my sides.
He comes to stand in front of me, and I want him to kiss me. I want to taste his mouth and kiss my way up that square jaw, wrap my arms around him, feel the power in his body.
I gasp when he goes down to his knees and taps on my foot. “Lift.”
Automatically I lift my foot, and he growls in the back of his throat, startling me.
