He tore away from the wall, stalking toward her with a menace that was clearly meant to intimidate. And it had probably been very effective on his enemies, but Tatum knew Evan. Possibly better than he knew himself.
Or she used to.
But she trusted her instincts, which were telling her he’d hurt himself before he’d ever hurt her.
At least, physically.
She swallowed. The confidence she’d been shoring up wavered as he got closer. Reaching down, he wrapped heavy hands around her biceps and pulled her up from the floor. His hold didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t soft and easy, either.
He set her on her feet, but didn’t back away. Instead, he continued to press into her personal space, leaving her off-kilter in the way only Evan could.
“Don’t ever do that again. I could have seriously injured you,” he said, his voice full of gravel and self-recrimination.
“You didn’t.”
He snorted, the sound grating. Before she could stop him, his hands speared into her hair, tumbling the strands from the messy knot she’d piled at the crown of her head. He rubbed around the curve of her skull, giving her an “I told you so” look when she couldn’t stop the sharp intake of breath as he found a tender spot.
But he didn’t stop there. Spinning her, he pushed the thin strap on the gown she’d worn to bed off her shoulder and down her arm. Her skin was exposed and she was half-naked before she realized what he was doing.
Cold air brushed across her bared breast and her nipple tightened. Her knees buckled. Why wouldn’t they? Her body was still burning from that damn kiss. If he hadn’t been holding on to her waist, she probably would have collapsed to the floor again.
But Evan was too busy at her shoulder to notice.
Dragging in a breath, Tatum tried to steady her response, get control of her body.
He might have torn at her clothes like a madman, but his touch was gossamer soft and utterly careful. She could barely feel the roughened pads of his fingertips as they smoothed across her shoulder, down the ridge of her scapula and onto the first swell of her ribs.
Goose bumps erupted across her skin. Her nervous system hadn’t gotten the memo that this wasn’t supposed to be a seduction.
He probed, paying special attention to one area that smarted.
Tatum closed her eyes at the unbelievable sensation of him touching her. That kiss, he hadn’t been all there. Tatum knew he’d still been cloudy from whatever nightmare had gripped him and not completely in control of his actions.
He was definitely clearheaded now.
How many times over the last few years had she fantasized about this exact thing? Wished, prayed, begged for one more night with him? A night of caresses and kisses and feeling him move deep inside her.
One more night of the connection she’d only ever found with him.
She’d finally gotten her wish, but she was afraid it was three years too late.
“I don’t think anything’s seriously damaged,” he said, “but you’re going to have a couple of nasty bruises in the morning.”
Crossing an arm to hide her chest, Tatum craned her neck so she could see him. He stared at her shoulder, completely oblivious to the fact that he’d bared her breast without thinking.
Well, if that didn’t burst a girl’s bubble, Tatum wasn’t certain what would.
“It’s fine. I won’t break. I’m tougher than I look.”
His gaze dragged up to hers. He was so close there was no way she could miss the expressions swirling through his haunted eyes—regret, anger, acceptance and, finally, desire.
That single flare of heat blasted through her body, scorching her along the way.
Okay, he did still want her.
Tatum wasn’t sure that was a good thing.
His touch changed, no longer assessing, but with an edge of worship that would be hard for any woman to ignore. As if he’d never felt anything better than the texture of her skin. As if he could stand there, doing nothing but touch her for hours and be perfectly content. As if he couldn’t get enough.
Tatum’s pulse fluttered. Her lips parted and she swiped her tongue across the suddenly dry surface.
Evan’s gaze traveled down her body, taking in the disheveled state of her gown. His fingers dragged across the tiny strap now hanging below her elbow.
She wanted him to take it off. Instead, he gently tugged it back into place. His index finger glided over the ridge of material from her back, over her shoulder and down onto her chest. Her body arched, an involuntary motion that tried to get him close to the aching tip of her breast. But he ignored the offer.
Instead, he stepped back, the chill of the winter night blasting through her.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and then darted from the room, snatching up the shirt he’d draped across a chair.
The reverberation of her front door slamming shut had barely faded before the angry roar of his bike kicked up outside.
Tatum swayed in the middle of her guest bedroom, heart pounding, pulse thrumming, pain, fear, hope and need mixing into a toxic sludge in her belly as she listened to the sound of him leaving.
Would he be back?
Did she want him to come back?
Or would it be better for both of them if he just...disappeared and left her to the life she’d built without him?
* * *
HE COULDN’T REMEMBER the dream, not that it really mattered. Take your pick, he had several, all running with the same theme—blood, nasty behavior and killer choices. Holding a gun to a man’s head and trying desperately to figure out how to keep him alive without blowing his own cover and getting himself killed in the process. Handing drugs to a ten-year-old kid who was just trying to make enough money to care for his mom and sisters in the only way he knew how, when what Evan had really wanted to do was whisk him away from the dangerous life before he got in too deep.
But he hadn’t been able to save the boy. Or his fellow soldiers. He’d watched them all die and had been given one chance for survival.
What really bothered him about tonight was that he could have seriously hurt Tatum. Easily. And it wouldn’t have been anything he hadn’t already done, while defending himself against the scum he’d been wallowing with for the last three years. He’d quickly moved up the ranks of the cartel, which had made walking that thin line between right and wrong more difficult—and the target on his back even bigger.
It was mere luck that had prevented Tatum from getting a concussion, a knife to the throat or a bullet in the brain. In Colombia, Evan had slept with a gun under his pillow, finger already lodged on the trigger, and a knife strapped to his thigh. Just in case.
Days earlier, he had,
