All Mine (6 page)

Oh hell. This wasn't good.

"If I wanted you dead, you already
would be," he said mildly.

He had a point there. Slowly I let my
eyes open.

My bedroom was undisturbed, mostly
dark. Light from the kitchen sent a glow down the short hallway and
into the room.

It was all very normal except for the
dark shape sitting next to me on the bed. Even in the dimness, he
radiated power.

"I'm going to turn on the light," he
said.

"Don't do that, I—"

The bed shifted as he leaned to click
on the small bedside lamp. Forty watts had never seemed so bright,
making me wince as my familiar room came into focus.

Then, against my better judgment, my
gaze touched his face.

His steady gray eyes held no
particular expression as they studied me. Short, dark blonde hair.
Skin that looked tanned, though it was hard to tell in the
semi-dark.

The lamp side-lit his face,
accentuating its strong, lean lines. He was almost beautiful, but
his expression was just a shade too serious to allow
perfection.

His mouth was well-shaped, firm. The
type of lips that can be stern or sensual, depending on the mood of
their owner.

Controlled power was outlined in his
broad shoulders and chest under the fit of his dark T-shirt. His
arms were lean and seemed to ripple with cords of muscle, even
though he wasn't moving.

He made no move to touch me. He just
watched as I took stock of him, of my situation.

The light confirmed what I already
knew. I was in my bed, arms tied over my head.

Glancing down, I saw that I was still
wearing my gray Braves T-shirt and my worn panties, once a pretty
shade of cobalt blue. The rest of my clothes were gone.

Since he wasn't saying anything, it
seemed like it was up to me. My voice surprised me with its
calm.

"We don't know each other. Let's keep
it that way. You don't even have to untie me. Just take my money
and leave. I'll get loose once you're gone."

He chuckled again, a rumble in his
throat.

"I already told you. I'm not here for
money."

Attorneys advise not asking questions
unless you know the answer. But I'm no attorney, just a
damn-awesome receptionist in one of the best legal offices in
Atlanta.

"Then what is it you want?" I blurted,
testing whatever held my hands. It was soft, firm, and
tight.

A tiny smile crinkled the corners of
those mesmerizing eyes.

"You," he said simply.

A short silence followed. Inside I
cussed at myself for asking such a stupid, dangerous
question.

He went on, saving me from a
response.

"You're wrong. We do know each other,
quite well. My real name won't mean anything to you, at least not
yet."

"Call me what you always have.
Hex."

Hex.

I'd never heard that name said out
loud, not even by me. It was the passport to my secret life. The
one I manifested on my computer or phone, dismissing it at my
will.

My eyes raked him again. Somehow he
didn't look like a man who would be easily dismissed.

"Bullshit," I said. The tremble in my
voice robbed the word of power.

"Really? Who else would know that,
Cherry-on-the-Bottom?"

A hot flush stained my throat and
face.

"You could be anyone," I said,
mustering all the contempt possible while not wearing pants. "Any
little jerk can swipe an online account. Didn't some kid take down
the Canadian power department?"

"Tax department, but yes he did.
You're right to demand proof. The real Hex would have something to
prove he wasn't a two-bit hacker who decided to stalk
you."

Reaching to the floor by the bed, he
came up with a dark nylon backpack.

"Did you think I was joking about my
bag of tricks?" he asked with a little grin. "Well, here it is. The
one at home holds more interesting things, but this travels
better."

"That doesn't mean anything," I said.
"If you hacked the account, you saw the conversations."

Very plausible, very logical.
Elementary, my dear Watson. But deep inside, part of me
squirmed.

Holy hell.

Those oh-so-intimate exchanges about
that bag and what it theoretically held. Tricks of sensual torture
that had held me spellbound, a deviant side of me brought to dark
life.

"What you really need is something
that leaves no doubt about who I am. I just happen to have it," he
said.

As he reached into the bag, I
tensed.

Would he strangle me, cut me, burn me,
beat me? Something worse? Whatever it was, whoever he was, I wanted
no part of it here in the cold, practical light of my real
life.

I still wasn't prepared for what
emerged. Pale green, delicate, completely undeniable. A personal
instrument of torture worse than any I'd imagined.

He held it out to me. A handful of
fragile lace rested in his hard-looking palm, accusing me with its
dainty perfection.

"Something like this," he said. "I
asked for your scent, and this is what you mailed. Just before you
disappeared. Tell me what these are, Eva."

He knew very well what they were. So
did I.

Expensive Victoria's Secret panties
with the scent of a very intense orgasm on them. Used but never
worn, for one very obvious reason.

Those lace wisps were size two. On a
good day, I fill out a size eighteen. On a less good day, closer to
twenty. He'd half-stripped me while I slept, so there was no way
this fact could have escaped him.

Just one of the lies I'd told in the
process of making myself better. The way I should be.

"They came with this," he added,
unfolding a red Post-It note.

It was tattered and wrinkled, as
though handled many times. I didn't have to see it to know what it
said.

He read my words back to me
anyway.

Dear Hex – my scent, made
just for you.

I said your name when I
came.

Yours in all ways,
Cherry.

               

The room started to spin, and I closed
my eyes again. He was right. Undeniable proof.

There were plenty of real worries I
should have right now: robbery, rape, mutilation, murder. A man who
would do this was capable of anything.

Whatever screwed-up things it said
about me, I almost hoped for murder. Anything to erase the
humiliation of being exposed as the fraud I was.

How does that old saying
go? Things can always get worse. As it turned out, they
did. 

CHAPTER TWO

"Answer me," he said. "Do you
recognize these?"

My throat was too tight to speak. What
would I even say?

I wouldn't have sent them
if I'd known you're crazy.

You don't have to kill me.
Humiliation is doing that.

Maybe just the
ever-popular
go to hell.

Keeping quiet seemed safest. I hoped
for a fire. An earthquake. A meteor strike. Anything to get me out
of this.

When nothing arrived, there was only
one thing left. I leveled my best go-to-hell stare at
him.

He brought the panties to his nose and
inhaled with unfeigned appreciation.

"It's faded, but still so goddamn
beautiful. You lied about these being yours. Is this really your
smell? Or did you pay someone to finish up your lie?'"

Whatever he saw in my expression made
him nod, as if I'd agreed with him.

"You got your proof," he said. "Now
I'm going to get mine."

The dim light played over the lines
and planes of his face. He'd said he was twenty-six, but there was
a control and tightness about him that made him seem
older.

"I knew from the first time we talked
that you weren't being straight with me," he said. "I just couldn't
tell where the line was. Some was truth, some was outright lies.
Like this."

His fingers traced the curve of my
cheek. Under that touch I froze, unable to pull away from him. This
must be how a mouse felt when a predator was closing in for the
kill.

"You lied to me about this. About what
you look like," he said. "You sent that picture, but it's not
really you. You didn't go to a cosmetic surgeon for change, just to
Photoshop."

Surreptitiously I tugged at my hands.
There seemed to be a tiny bit of slack.

"That makes you the worst kind of
liar," he went on. "The kind who lies for no reason. Why would you
change this beautiful face? To make it thinner? Like that fake
weight on your driver's license?"

A welcome burst of anger finally
flooded my body, drowning the horror he was carving into me a word
at a time.

"If you're going to do something awful
to me, then just do it," I snapped. "But stop playing with me. I'm
not interested in your sick games."

"Another lie," he said. "You love my
games, sick or not. And you know what, Eva? I don't need to do
awful things to you. You do a good fucking job of that on your
own."

I dropped my eyes from that
almost-perfect face to his broad chest. It only gave me a renewed
sense of his body, muscular and hard. His few online words about
that came back to me.

"I don't have time for a
gym. I work hard, and that keeps me in good shape. I like being
outside too, and fuck sunscreen. The body adapts."

The irony. He'd been honest about his
looks, but I'd lied at every turn. He conveniently forgot to
mention being a stalker.

Too bad there was no checkbox for that
in an online profile.

His finger was under my chin, tilting
my face upward to his gaze.

"Don't look away from me again, or
I'll strip you all the way down. Is that what you want?"

I shook my head until my hair was a
storm around my face.

His gaze was hypnotic as he took
inventory of me, starting with the wild snarl of my hair on the
pillows. His hands cupped my face, touching as though seeing me
through his fingers.

When his eyes started lower, I froze
again. The greatest part of my façade was about to be examined in
all its fleshy glory.

Embarrassment twisted inside of
me.

He broke into your house.
He drugged you. He's probably going rape, kill, and eat you, not
necessarily in that order. And you're worried about being
overweight?

Holy shit. You're crazier
than he is.

Probably, but there it was anyway. Raw
truth coughed up from deep inside of me. I was terrified not
because of what he would do, but because of what he would
see.

My skin was pale, scattered with
freckles. It was nowhere close to the golden tan I'd described in
glorious, phony detail.

The body under that skin was round and
soft. There was no sign of the gym addiction that I'd pretended to
have. The Braves shirt and sensible panties clung to every
oversized curve.

If he decided to torture me with
stretching, I'd break in half before reaching the five-foot-nine
I'd claimed to be.

How airily I'd tapped out all those
lies.

No skyscraper heels for
me! My legs are already long and lean enough. Skirts are always too
short, but no one complains.

Every extra pound – and there were
plenty of them – mocked my pretended passion for running and
volleyball. All the lies of being a sporty girl. The truth about
being an excellent swimmer didn't deserve much credit. It was
pretty easy for me.

After all, fat floats.

I swallowed hard, watching his face as
his eyes moved over me. Already I could tell that nothing got past
that gaze.

My eyes begged me to let them close,
but his threat had found its mark. The shirt and panties weren't
much, but right now they were the only game in town.

Part of me wished he'd say something.
Part of me dreaded what it might be.

He finished his slow assessment before
he looked into my face again, seeming to search for something. When
his eyes took on a new gleam, it seemed as though he'd found
it.

He leaned in again, nuzzling against
the side of my neck, inhaling deeply. His scent curled around me
like a living thing.

"Not the smell on the panties, but in
the same neighborhood. I need to be sure about a couple of things
before we proceed."

He pulled away from me, reaching again
for the black nylon bag.

"Get the hell out of here," I said.
"I'll scream if you don't. There are seven other units in this
building. My neighbors –"

" – have no part in this. This is
between you and me."