him wearing dark glasses and a long black coat that almost reached the floor.
A part of her wondered vaguely why he was dressed that way…it wasn’t that cold outside.
Before any sort of reason could penetrate her mounting confusion, another, more powerful emotion regained control.
He was alive and, apparently, well and he hadn’t called. Hadn’t bothered to let her know that he’d simply decided not to come back.
For weeks and months, she’d grieved him. And then she’d gotten angry, made herself as well as those around her seriously miserable. Eventually she’d gotten over him. Filed away every single memory associated with him.
The idea that he would show up now—for whatever reason—was like a blast of the harsh wintry New England wind that swirled and snapped and stung as it slapped you in the face.
“I said, get out of my house.”
The realization that he had broken into her home and had the audacity to stand here and toss warnings at her as if he were her assigned guardian angel made her want to shoot him on the spot. Just then, she could likely do that and not feel an inkling of remorse. Might even be able to cop a temporary insanity plea.
“Think about it, Rowen,” he said. She’d always loved the way he said her name, with an emphasis on the second syllable—very French. “How do you suppose I gained access to your home? You’re not safe here. You must—”
She held up her hands and slashed them back and forth as if she could somehow erase his words, as well as his presence. She cursed herself for the weakness the resonance of his voice could evoke. He had no right to even utter her name…not now…not after what he’d done. “Don’t you dare come here after all this time, you bastard, and pretend to care what happens to me.”
The anger and hurt that filled her tone was undeniable. She hated, absolutely hated, that he would know with that statement just how badly his leaving had injured her. “I don’t know why you came back but I want you out of here. Now. Or I will call a unit to pick you up. Breaking and entering is still against the law, Hunter.”
As if she hadn’t spoken at all he moved closer. “Listen to me, Rowen,” he murmured. “That’s all I ask. Then if you still want to throw me out, I won’t resist. Just five minutes.”
She squared her shoulders and glared at him, her lips trembling in spite of her best efforts. “You don’t deserve five minutes.”
“I know what you think,” he offered, that deep, rich timbre playing havoc with her senses, quelling her anger faster than she could reignite it. “I can’t change what you think of me, but I had to come and warn you. You are in grave danger.” He inclined his head as if to look beyond her to the open window. “You’ll have to excuse my tactics, but I needed you to understand just how vulnerable you are.”
She couldn’t take this any longer. Fury driving her, she snatched the concealing eyewear from his face and forced him to look directly at her.
He squinted those pale gray eyes, held up his hand to shield them, then turned away from her, as if the dim light sifting in from the window more than a dozen yards behind her was too much to bear.
A whole new barrage of questions flooded into her brain all at once. “What’s happened to you?”
It wasn’t until he’d reached up to block the light that she noticed he wore gloves. Why? It was only October. Sure, the mornings could be chilly, but not that chilly.
And then what was wrong with the whole picture he presented meshed fully with her senses. His hair was far longer than before, but restrained in a ponytail. He wore all black—heavy, concealing black, including the gloves. His face looked pale…and weary.
Hunter took the glasses from her hand and slid them back into place before she could analyze anything about his eyes other than the redness that spoke of too little sleep or too much alcohol. “I didn’t come here to talk about me.” He settled his gaze back on her. At least, she presumed he did; the glasses once again concealed his eyes.
This was too much. Way too much. She scrubbed her hands over her face, rubbed her own eyes, then smoothed a hand over her damp hair. She needed coffee. She needed to think. She had four unsolved murders on her plate right now and she didn’t need to have to deal with this, too. But she knew him…too well. There was no fighting him when he’d made up his mind about something.
Resigned to her fate, she crossed her arms defiantly. “What do you want?”
“Coffee?” The tilt of his lips could hardly be labeled a smile.
She sighed, feeling a new surge of defeat despite her challenging stance. He was here. A cup of coffee couldn’t hurt. She could use one herself. Her gaze performed a tour of him once more. Some part of her, too weak or stupid to know better, needed to understand what had brought about this change in his appearance…in his manner. She shouldn’t care…and yet she did.
“One cup of coffee.”
He acknowledged the condition with a single nod of his dark head, then stepped aside and she led the way down the stairs. The idea that he was right behind her had goose bumps skittering over her skin. She hated that he could still do that to her. It was so damned unfair.
When they reached the entry hall Princess finally decided to bother to get up and greet the intruder.
She sniffed and yapped once. When she didn’t get the desired response, she followed her mistress into the kitchen to see what would happen next.
Once Rowen got the coffee brewing, she tossed a scoop of gourmet Kibbles into the polka-dot ceramic dog food bowl and added fresh bottled water to its twin. The dog refused to drink tap water. How was that for spoiled?
When the smell of her favorite blend of coffee had filled the air, she topped off two cups, both black. She remembered that he had taken his coffee straight up, the same as she did. It bugged the hell out of her that she could remember so much about him.
She set the cup in front of him at the small table in her cozy kitchen.
Rowen almost never ate in the dining room. Not in the past three years, anyway. She preferred the warmth and earthiness of the whitewashed cabinets and butcher-block counters. Who wanted to go to the trouble of setting a table when preparing dinner for one? That, she reminded herself, in no way diminished the fact that she was over Evan Hunter on that level. She didn’t need him. Sure, he still possessed the power to make her body tremble, but there were other men out there. She simply hadn’t had time to pursue a personal relationship lately.
“What’s happened to you?” she asked again. She claimed the chair directly across from him so that she could appraise his face, or what she could see of it. His mouth remained fixed in a firm line, but the unflattering expression failed to lessen in any way the full, sculptured appearance of those tempting lips. Of all his assets, why the hell did she have to focus on that just then? She blinked and pushed aside the troubling notion.
“I developed a condition,” he said after giving the question lengthy deliberation, “that requires I shield my skin and eyes from light.”
As he spoke, she watched his mouth move, noted the angular lines of his jaw. She’d kissed his face so many times, had reveled in his sheer beauty. As hard as she’d tried not to she’d become
