Extreme Danger (26 page)

“Woo hoo! He sounds virile. So? Was he, you know, good?”

“I tell no tales,” Becca said primly.

Carrie made a disgusted noise. “Hello? Becca, this is me, Carrie. Your sister. We’re alone. I’m legally an adult. Was he good?”

She took a deep breath, and it rushed out. “He was amazing,” she confessed. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

Carrie crowed with delight. “Oh, thank God you’ve finally gotten properly laid! I was wondering if it would ever happen! It wouldn’t have ever, if you’d married the dickwad. So when do we meet Mr. Muscles?”

She winced. “You won’t. It ended. Very badly.”

“One of those one-night stands where the guy never calls again?”

Becca let out a long, measured sigh. “I guess so. More or less.”

“Those suck,” Carrie said sagely. “But it’s probably just as well. He’s just a rebound boy. Slam, bam, thank you, Sam. Those Neanderthal types are great when the lights are out, but you can’t take them to the opera. You can’t let yourself get depressed about that.”

She was obscurely irritated by her sister’s superior, lecturing tone. “Actually, it would appear that I can,” she snapped.

It always needled her when Carrie played the role of the more sexually experienced sister. At nineteen, she was just too damn young, but Becca had always been too frantically busy keeping her orphaned family afloat to do the role justice herself. Carrie had picked up the slack with great enthusiasm. It worried Becca sometimes

Carrie was still nattering on. Becca jerked her attention back to her sister’s voice. “…up to Seattle, just to check on you,” she was saying. “It’s definitely time for a visit.”

Panic exploded through her. She sat bolt upright. “No! Carrie, no. Don’t come up. Please.”

“Good God, Becky. Why the hell not?”

Becca floundered for a credible explanation, but she found herself mired in unspeakable memories instead. Gunshots, pools of blood, slashed throats, the Spider’s wet smile and glittering eyes, it was all far too close to her, too real. The toxic vibe infected the very air she breathed. She didn’t want Carrie and Josh anywhere near it.

And she couldn’t do anything crazy, like disrupting their lives by taking out a loan and sending them both to Argentina without telling them everything. Telling them struck her as even more dangerous.

“But I’m worried about you,” Carrie said plaintively. “It’s not like you, Becca. Not answering your phone, forgetting to go to work, picking up dangerous strangers and having wild sex with them…it’s weird. I think you need some serious, heavy-duty, industrial strength cuddling.”

Her heart squeezed, and tears rushed into her eyes. “You’re a sweetie, honey, and I appreciate the concern, but I don’t want to interrupt your studies. You can’t lose your scholarship. I can’t—”

“Yes, yes. I know. You can’t help me with rent and tuition both. I know, we’ve been through it.”

“Please,” Becca pleaded. “I can’t handle a visit now. I’m just not presentable. I need to lick my wounds alone for a while, OK? And oh, before I forget. I lost my cell phone. Here’s my new number. Got a pen?”

“Go ahead,” Carrie said.

Becca recited the new number to her. “Could you give it to Josh? And as soon as things calm down, I’ll come down to see you. I promise.”

“Hmm. We’ll see,” Carrie hedged. “I’ll talk to Josh.”

“Carrie, I’m serious,” she said, edging on desperation. “Please—”

“Talk to you soon, Becky. Big, smoochy kisses, OK? Bye.”

The connection broke. Becca stared at the phone in her hand, silently cursing her stubborn little sister. She flung the phone in the direction of the table and missed. It tumbled to the floor and began to beep forlornly.

Just as well. She didn’t want to get an angry phone call from Gilda, the manager of DeLillo’s Fine Gourmet Catering, Becca’s off-and-on night job. She didn’t want to grope for lies, excuses, justifications, for feeling so bad. She just wanted to stare at the sky through the window as it turned from cobalt blue to black.

It got so terribly quiet. She pushed the button of the TV remote, did a desultory surf, and settled on a channel with Friends reruns. That was the only thing that felt safe and bland enough to watch.

The doorbell rang, and the illusory sense of safety dissolved like smoke. In an instant, she went from feeling limp to feeling every muscle go rigid, with terror.

Who…? The Spider had found her already?

She got up, stumbling down onto one wobbly knee and kept herself bent over in the dark so no one looking in the windows would see any moving shadows as she crept towards the door. Kicking herself for not thinking to turn on the porch light before. Turning it on now would announce her presence behind the door like a trumpet fanfare.

Oh, hell, her security was useless anyway, so Nick said. And the Spider’s guys could shoot her right through the freaking walls, if they felt like it. They probably had thermal imaging devices on their damn guns. She should get over herself. She forced herself to stand up.

She put her eye to the peephole. There was enough light from the streetlamps to see the tall, broad silhouette. Those night-dark eyes.

Nick. Oh, God. It was Nick.

A wobbly rush of fresh feelings went through her. A thrill of excitement, mixed with shame and fury, and a sharp tang of fear.

And a hot, sweet twist of awareness between her legs.

No way. Not in a million years would she let that bastard get that close to her again. No matter what pulsed and throbbed inside her.

She put her hand up to the mass of curly hair that swung a couple inches below her chin. She still couldn’t get used to all that volume the shorter length created around her face, but she was past the worst of the shock, at this point, and the hairdresser had done a nice job in shaping it, so she was coping with the hair trauma. No thanks to him, though. She shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and squinted through the peephole.

Wow. He’d cut his hair too, just as he’d threatened. He looked very different. The spiky brush of hair stuck out every which way. The bruise under his eye had faded to a purplish line slashing downwards diagonally, from the inside corner of his eye to under his cheekbone.

He wore black leather. She was not one bit surprised.

His dark eyes stared into hers, unwavering. It was like the door didn’t exist at all. He knew perfectly well she was there. Staring at him. Cowering behind the door like a goddamn mouse. Whiskers trembling.

She undid the old lock, the new lock, the deadbolt, the chain, and pried out the kitchen chair she’d wedged under the knob. She yanked the door open, and gave him her coldest frigid bitch look.

“You,” she said. “What do you want?”

He didn’t answer. Seconds crept by, stretched into minutes.

She realized, at length, that being cold and mean would have no effect on this guy. He wouldn’t get the subliminal message. Nor would he get embarrassed or flustered, or feel in any way at a disadvantage. Why should he? Mean and cold was his normal default setting. It probably made him feel right at home. Comfortably familiar. God only knew, tenderness and intimacy had scared him half to death.

This was silly. They couldn’t stand there having a staring contest all night, and having the door open to the night made her twitch. She stepped back, and gestured him ungraciously into the apartment.

He closed the door behind himself. The room was so dark. She stood there, rigid with uncertainty. Nick flipped the light on. She flinched, putting her hands up to her eyes. Since that weekend, turning lights on when it was dark outside made her feel scarily exposed, like being in a fishbowl, even with the blinds closed. She’d been creeping around in the dark and she had the bruises on her shins to prove it.

He stared at her fixedly, his thick, straight dark brows knitted into a scowl. “I told you to go blonde,” he said.

Her chin went up. “What are you going to do about it? Highlight me by brute force? Tie me down and do foil tips?”

His eyes flashed. “If I had you tied, it’s not your hair I’d go for.”

She was struck dumb for a moment. She took a step back, raised a shaking finger, waggled it back and forth. “Uh-uh. Don’t start with me, Nick. Don’t even think about it.”

He lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug, but the intensity of his gaze was unwavering. “Your hair looks pretty,” he said. “I like it.”

Her hand flew up to touch the short ends before she could stop herself. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. “What you’re looking at is a miracle rescue.”

That appeared to roll right off his back. “You should change the color, though,” he said blandly.

“I doubt those guys would recognize me,” she said. “I wasn’t wearing glasses, I had lipstick all over my mouth, and I was bare-assed under that slutty blouse. Probably all they ever saw was my chest and butt.”

She instantly regretted the thoughtless words when Nick’s gaze fell directly to her chest and butt. She was so not up to intense male scrutiny right now, and particularly not his. It would be difficult for her to feel any less schlumpy than she did right now, clad in her billowing flannel buttoned-up-to-the-neck granny nightie. And those hideous, squinchy black rectangular eyeglasses perched on her nose, the ones her girlfriends had persuaded her to buy because they gave her face “structure.” Her nice, normal ones had been forever lost on Frakes Island. Her hair was a mad, staticky cloud of dark curls, her face was wan and pale, completely bare of any help cosmetics might have given.

In short, she looked as plain as a mud fence. And she hated it.

“I recognize you just fine.” His voice vibrated with intensity. “And if I do, he would.”

She shivered. “Well, whoop de doo,” she said, with fake bravado. “I recognize you too, in spite of your new hairdo. So there. Go blond yourself, why don’t you. I dare you. In fact, I’ll make a deal with you. Bleach your hair, and I’ll bleach mine. Sound good?”

He looked away, and his mouth betrayed him for a brief instant, twitching before he could flatten it into a tense, hard line again.

“Nick, what are you doing here?” she demanded. “This is a bad idea. You should go.”

He frowned, and his jacket creaked as he folded his arms over his chest. “I just thought I’d check on you.”

“Ah.” She let out a long sigh, waited. “I see.”

“And so? How are you, then?” he prompted.

She swallowed. “I’m awful,” she whispered.

He reached out to smooth a lock of her hair back, his eyes deep and somber. She flinched away from his touch.

He let his hand drop.

“That’s what I figured,” he said.

She winced. “That bad, huh?”

He shook his head. “No. You’re gorgeous, Becca.”

“Oh, please.” She twitched aside the kitchen curtains to peek out the window, a gesture that had become compulsive. “Get real.”

“No, really,” he persisted. “You look like a beautiful woman who’s hiding. But you can’t hide from me. Not now.” He moved up behind her and kissed the back of her neck. “I’ve watched you burn like a house on fire. You can’t cancel that out of my head. Don’t even try.”

She shuddered at the tender touch. “Look, Nick.” The words burst out of her violently. “Don’t bother to come on to me, OK?”

He kissed her nape again. “Why not?”

“Because I know that story. I know how it ends. I am not going to do that to myself again. So go. Just piss off. Good-bye.”

His snort of laughter exploded against her sensitive neck, hot and ticklish. “Tough chick,” he murmured. “I’m devastated.”

“You are not. Do not condescend to me, you bastard.”

He stroked her shoulders and the heat of his palms burned right through the flannel. Gripping her, with gentle, implacable strength. “Heartless Becca,” he murmured. “You mean, all my heroics count for nothing? I’ve got no points racked up with you at all?”

She wrenched away so violently she almost lost her balance, and wrapped her arms tightly around her shaky, uncertain self. “Let me get this straight—this owing you sex in exchange for my life thing. How long is the statute of limitations on that?”

He circled around in front of her, eyes gleaming. “It’s indefinite.”

She blinked at him, outmaneuvered. “You manipulative jerk.”

“Uh-oh. You’ve figured me out,” he said. “I am so fucked.”

“Ah, no, in fact. You’re not. Or rather. You won’t be.” Her back hit the wall, bumping against the rack where all her utensils hung. A ladle and the cheese grater slid off and clattered to the floor. “Got that?”

He looked wistful. “I’ve got that.”

His meekness made her suspicious. She waited for him to go. He started shrugging off his jacket.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, panic edging her voice.

He flung his jacket over the back of a chair, revealing a plain black polo shirt that did nothing to hide his unbelievable physique. “You got a problem with me sitting down in your kitchen?”

“Why?” Her voice was getting shrill. “What are you going to do?”

He looked elaborately helpless. “You tell me. What do a man and a woman do together when they’re not having crazy monkey sex? The imagination boggles. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten this far in a relationship with a girl. Not past the monkey sex, I mean.”