to get past her wall of thorns. Challenge stimulated him, though after the Fleur debacle, he made a big effort to avoid challenges in his love life. He tried to keep things simple. Uncomplicated.
“Tried” being the operative word, women being what they were.
Curiosity burned him like acid. It wasn’t his problem or his responsibility, but he wanted to nab this asshole who was terrorizing her. The more he thought about it, the more it pissed him off. He wanted to pin the sadistic fuckhead’s balls to the wall.
He rolled up off the bed, restless and jittery, and wandered into the bathroom. He set the shower running, and stared at himself through the mirror fog. He wasn’t vain about his body. It never occurred to him to be. It was a tool, a resource to be maintained. It was useful to have strong muscles and quick reflexes. Women tended to say yes when he made advances, and that was convenient, too. Up to a point.
He stared at himself, trying to see what Margot saw in him. Wanting her to want him. His pulse spiked, and his dick stood higher.
He stroked himself experimentally. He didn’t much go for the shallow relief of jerking off. It was wasted energy, and he disliked the flat, let-down feeling it gave him after. But six months, for fuck’s sake?
No one was perfect. No one was watching.
He stepped under the pounding water, soaped up his hand and gripped himself. His mind hit the reverse button and ran him right back to that moment where Margot’s slender, cool hand was pressed against the center of his bare chest, her multicolored eyes wide and fascinated. Midnight blue fading to bright aqua, and a ring of golden brown around the pupil, like whoever put her together couldn’t make up his mind and just kept on tinkering. That red, sulky-sweet mouth slightly open, cheeks flushed. Taut nipples poking the thin fabric of her worn T-shirt.
If things had gone how he wanted, her mouth would have curved into a sultry smile, and she would have pulled the T-shirt off and displayed herself to him. Eyes bright with that what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it look that drove him right out of his head.
No hesitation there. A sweep of his arm to clear the dinner stuff out of his way, and he set her on the table, shoved her onto her back so he could pull her sweatpants off, hands lingering on every warm detail of her lush hips and ass. She unbuckled his belt with frantic urgency.
Her words echoed. “…don’t have the time and energy for a boyfriend…can’t handle no strings sex…where does that leave us?”
Good question. A dangerous idea took form in his mind, parallel and independent to the sexual fantasy that churned on unimpeded.
Maybe they could work out the perfect deal.
He didn’t want a girlfriend any more than she wanted a boyfriend. He was tired of the frustration on the woman’s part, the guilty discomfort on his. He hated one night stands, too. Often squalid and empty, always a health hazard, and he disliked waking up with someone with whom he had nothing in common but sex. Sneaking off before the woman woke up was bad, as if he’d stolen something, but the coffee, the groping conversation, her hopeful eyes—that was worse.
He didn’t want no strings sex. He wanted carefully chosen, clearly agreed upon, precisely negotiated strings. A civilized, sensible arrangement between consenting adults. They were both single. She was attracted to him. She needed help, and protection. He was in a good position to offer it. She had her secrets to guard, he had his space to maintain. He would be very clear with her. Honest and respectful.
The idea excited him more deeply than the fuck fantasy had. The water had run cold, so he switched it off, rubbing water out of his eyes, and heard his cell phone ringing. He almost broke the sliding glass door in his haste as he bolted for the bedroom, dove for the phone. “Yes?”
Silence. The hollow kind that indicated that the line was open.
“Hello?” he said, more urgently. “Who is this?”
Click. Whoever it was hung up.
Her phone number had stuck in his mind even after he’d decided that he’d never have reason to use it. He punched it in. It rang, once, twice. The line clicked open. “Margot? You OK?”
Another brief silence. “No,” she whispered.
A queasy, crawling feeling squirmed in his belly. “What’s wrong?”
“Sorry I hung up on you.” Her voice was dull, none of its usual sass. “I lost my nerve.”
“Never mind that. What happened?” He waited a few agonizing seconds, and prompted her. “Did Snakey send you another present?”
“I think so. I’m scared to go out and look more closely.”
“Shit.” He was off the bed like he was on springs, fishing his jeans off the floor. He jerked them over his wet ass, not bothering with underwear. “What did he leave you this time?”
“I…I shouldn’t have bothered you. I don’t know why I…I guess I just panicked.”
She was chickening out. His instincts screamed to jump on her, pin her down, quick and fast. “I’ll be right there.” He shoved wet feet into his boots, struggled with laces. “Fifteen minutes, max.”
He hung up, the better to forestall further argument, and dragged on his shirt. His mind flicked across the Glock 9mm in the gun safe.
He decided against it. Bare hands were his preference, with the knife in his boot sheath for backup. He charged out the door and over the dew-soaked lawn. He gripped the wheel to keep his hands steady.
He was an idiot, running into God knew what kind of mess, but he would bet body parts that whatever secrets Margot was hiding were not her fault. And that changed everything.
He knew the difference between reality and fantasy. He’d choked down enough reality when he was ten years old to know exactly how it tasted, but just look at him now. All that meditation and detachment were for shit when that hot button was pushed. Pow, he jumped three feet into the air and charged off, cape fluttering, to save the fair maiden from the gigantic squid. Forever trying to rewrite the sad story’s ending.
Not that he was any goddamn superhero. In fact, he was a calculating bastard. Blatantly working the situation to his advantage.
But then again, she was free to tell him to fuck off if she pleased. So Margot Vetter needed help with her mysterious problems? Fine.
Then maybe she could be persuaded to help him with his.
Chapter
6
Blood all over her porch. Spattered over the peeling paint, the windows, the dusty wicker furniture that had been there when she moved in. Her welcome mat was drenched and sticky.
It was a scene straight out of one of those silly horror flicks she used to love, back before she figured out that life had enough horror in it as it was. She stared down at the puddle, remembering how she used to giggle and squeal with her friends at the Braxton theater, screaming insults and admonitions. Don’t split up, you airheads, someone always croaks when the group splits up! Don’t go down into the creepy cellar, you brain-dead ditz, can’t you hear the freaking music?
No
