That story haunted him, like he had tried to haunt her. Since she kept staring at him as though he were a ghost, he must have been successful haunting her. But he didn’t bother correcting her misconception; it was better that she think him a ghost than what he really was. He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, but he couldn’t shake off the pain any more than he could the hunger. “Some people just need killing.”
She sucked in an audible breath and adjusted her grip on her gun, steadying the barrel that was still pointing directly at his chest. “That’s not for you to decide.”
“It wasn’t for you to decide that he should live and I should die.” Because she had let that bastard live, more would likely die. Maybe even her...
She drew in a shuddery breath. “You gave me no choice. I couldn’t just stand there and let you kill him.”
“So instead you killed me.”
“But you’re not dead,” she murmured, reaching out the hand not holding the gun toward his face. And as she did, her sheet slipped a little lower and revealed the deep cleft between her breasts.
He sure as hell wasn’t dead, not with the way his heart pounded frantically as desire coursed through him. Then her fingers brushed across his face, scraping over the stubble on his cheek until her fingertips covered his lips. Heat sizzled between them. He uttered a gasp of breath, and she shivered.
“You’re not a ghost, either.”
“No,” he admitted, moving his lips against her fingertips.
She shivered again, and her nipples hardened even more, pushing taut against that thin sheet. “If you’re not a ghost, what are you?”
“Well, I’m no angel.” But if he was, Warrick would be an avenging one. Or he would have been had she not interfered. Because she had, he had lost his chance for vengeance...against his enemy.
Her interference should have made her his enemy, too. He’d told himself that she was. And that was why he couldn’t leave her alone even though he no longer had any reason to stay in Zantrax. Except vengeance. Against her.
Liar.
His tense, aching body called him on his lie. He didn’t want vengeance on her. He just wanted her. Her fingers still pressed against his lips, he didn’t have to speak—to explain. All he had to do was lean closer...to her.
* * *
Kate’s heart hammered against her ribs. He was staring at her mouth with that intense, eerie topaz gaze. He was going to kiss her. And just like she hadn’t wanted to shoot him in the alley, she didn’t want to stop him.
He had broken into her apartment and had been watching her sleep. And instead of shooting him, she was going to let him kiss her? After all of those sleepless nights, she had totally lost her mind. She had no doubt anymore.
Only desire.
She had touched him to see if he was real or if her fingers would pass right through him like mist. But she couldn’t stop touching him, skimming her fingers along his jaw to his lips—which were surprisingly soft and warm. She wanted to taste them, too. She slid her hand to the nape of his neck and tugged him closer so that only a breath separated his lips from hers.
He was breathing. Fast and ragged. And his heart was beating. She could feel the vibrations of it despite the small space that separated his body from hers. His skin radiated warmth to hers, making her tingle in reaction.
He was no ghost. No dream.
“What the hell are you?” she murmured again. “Indestructible?”
“I’m destructible,” he replied with a heavy sigh that teased her lips.
“You weren’t wearing a bulletproof vest,” she said. “I saw the gunshot wound, saw you bleeding.” Her trembling fingers skimmed down his neck to the buttons on his shirt. She needed to see the scar, needed to understand how a man could have survived such an injury. If he was a man...
He caught her fingers in his hand. “If you see my scars, I’m going to have to see yours.”
Goose bumps lifted along her bare shoulders and arms. She had scars, but hardly anyone knew about them. How could he know? The fear she should have been feeling the minute she’d discovered him in the shadows finally coursed through her. The hand holding the gun tightened on the grip.
“Who are you?”
He chuckled and cupped her cheek in his hand. “Poor Kate, you can’t figure out if you want to kiss me or kill me.”
She gasped at his arrogance and his perception. And the desire that jolted her with his touch.
“Remember how well that worked out for you last time,” he goaded her with a wink, his long thick lashes brushing against his chiseled cheekbones. “You can’t kill me.”
“You said you’re not indestructible.”
“Killing someone isn’t the only way to destroy them.”
She knew that better than most. “Is that what you’re trying to do to me?” she asked. “Destroy me?”
Reporting an officer-involved shooting and being unable to produce the body had harmed her career. Seeing glimpses of him everywhere after she thought she’d killed him had harmed her sanity. That had to be why she was so addled, so confused—that she’d asked none of the questions that she should have, that she hadn’t fired her gun.
He sighed again, raggedly, and leaned his forehead against hers. Then his hand slid from her cheek, down her neck to clasp her throat. “Like you, I can’t figure out if I want to kiss you or kill you.”
The barrel of the gun jammed hard into Warrick’s chest. He smiled in anticipation—not of the bullet but of her mouth beneath his, her lips opening for his possession. And he wanted to possess her.
In every way.
A clock chimed, the metallic clang reverberating from the living room beyond her closed bedroom door. He had been out there before, when he had checked out her whole place after coming through her window. The open living area was as big a mess as her clothes-strewed bedroom. But out there newspapers and mail littered the couch, small table and countertop. Only the grandfather clock standing on the wall next to the front door was neat and polished—its wood and brass gleaming. The old clock chimed again.
His skin tightened, tingling and itching. He shouldn’t have made his presence known to her—not this close to midnight. But when she’d awakened with that emotional shout, he hadn’t been able to just walk away—no matter how much he should have. He had been watching her...to see if the man she’d let get away that night was also watching her. Or that was what he’d told himself—that she might lead him to Reagan. Or maybe he’d just liked messing with her because of that—because she’d let Reagan go while she’d shot him.
The chime clanged again.
He didn’t have enough time. Not for what he wanted to do to her.
