Faith stood, staring for several minutes after he left before picking up the notebook.
He had terrible penmanship. She scanned the page, reading the copied instructions from the box until she arrived at the last line.
Eggs fell from the carton she held with her long, elegant fingers, landing in a splatter on the Mojave-tiled floor.
Well, well. That wasn’t in the directions.
It was a dark and stormy night. Her golden eyes reflected off the flash of lightning, and he knew he had to have her. Alive as his slave or dead so no one else could claim her. Didn’t matter. She’d be his. Tonight. She’d eluded him for too many years, trying not to dream or self-medicating in an attempt to numb her mind. Foolish. Her thin, weak frame hid beneath a black peacoat, but he knew every inch of that body. The wind caught her wavy brown hair, plastering the strands to her unremarkable pale face as she crossed the street. Closer to him.
Alec reread the paragraph for the four hundred and sixty-seventh time, but it was no use. Nothing came. That was all he’d gotten out.
Faith had done something to him earlier by making him write down those ingredients. Out of politeness, he’d complied, more amused by her tactics to help than thinking they actually would. Except they did.
For a time.
Now it was hours later, night had fallen, and all he’d jotted down was a lousy paragraph. He wondered if his editor would consider this book complete.
Scrubbing his hands over his face, he set the laptop aside and stretched his legs out in front of him. In the process, he knocked his handwritten timeline off the couch and to the floor. He bent to retrieve the pages and skimmed his notes.
The plot was to have the woman kidnapped and held throughout book one by the demon of nightmares. Her brother unearths all kinds of dark crazy while searching for her. In the rest of the trilogy, two more women are taken, one in book two and the other in book three, and the brother begins to find the childhood connection between them. Of course, he’s tortured by his own nightmares. Yada, yada.
His notes on book one’s female character didn’t match the paragraph he punched out. Not the first time, wouldn’t be the last. But he’d really veered this time around. Instead of blond locks and blue eyes with a killer figure, meant to embody innocence and desire intertwined, he’d gone and made her look just like . . .
Faith Armstrong.
He tossed the papers on the couch and laid his head back, staring at the ceiling. He’d been so intent on getting more written that he hadn’t even bothered with a lamp. The illumination from his laptop cast a bluish glow. Reaching over, he wiggled the laptop so the reflective pattern moved on the ceiling. Shifted.
Like the way his Nightmare demon was supposed to.
Sitting upright, he grabbed the computer and set it on his thighs, fingers hovering over the keys. Hovering, but not typing. Hovering.
Come on, come on . . .
Fuck. He considered throwing the laptop across the room. At least he’d have an excuse for the lack of productivity.
Writer’s block. How weak. He used to laugh when he heard the term from others in his circle. Alec never had a problem shutting his brain down, focusing on the story, even if it took three straight days and no sleep. Caffeine and sugar. Characters screaming in his ear. The only true escape from his guilt.
A quiet knock came from the front door. So quiet he chalked it up to nothing until it came again. A glance at his watch told him it was nine-twenty. Kind of late for a social call from Jake. Rising, he opened the door to . . .
“Faith?”
She held a plate in her hand and a wary expression. “Am I disturbing you?”
“No.”
Her gaze darted behind him to the laptop on the coffee table. “I interrupted. I’m sorry.” She looked at the plate in her hand and thrust it toward him. “Ginny felt bad that you didn’t get any of the brownies we made.”
He took the plate, grabbed her wrist, and tugged her inside before all the heat could crawl in. The brownies smelled good. Or was that her? “Yum.” He shoved one in his mouth and spoke around the chocolate. “Sugar. Mmm.”
“Yes, well . . .” Those golden-brown eyes of hers stared at his mouth, transfixed, before she shook her head. She glanced around, then peeked at the floor. “I should go.”
He swallowed. “Why?”
“You’re working.” She pointed to the table.
Not wanting to corner her—because she looked cornered—he walked to the couch and sat. As an afterthought, he switched on the lamp. “I’m not working.”
“But . . .”
“I was writing, thanks to you, but I seem to have stopped.” He leaned forward and turned the laptop around for her to see. That got her to move deeper into the room.
She didn’t look long enough to read the whole paragraph, which was just as well. She’d have to be an idiot not to see the similarities between her and his character. Most people would’ve chopped off an appendage to read his work before publication. Not her.
“That’s good. You’re writing again.”
“You missed the part where I said I stopped.”
“I’ll go.”
“I didn’t stop because of you.” He’d started because of her. “Have a brownie.” He held the plate out, wiggling it like a taunt.
“I shouldn’t. I’m not supposed to.”
Huh. “You a diabetic?”
“Er, no.”
“Allergic?”
She sighed. “No.”
“Then have a brownie.” She was so damn thin. Angular bones and soft skin. At least it looked soft.
She hesitated a moment and then took one off the plate, cupping her hand under it to catch the crumbs. It felt like a small victory when she took a bite.
“So, you don’t usually eat brownies, don’t stay awake past ten, and you’ve never seen the ocean until recently. What is it you do like to do, Faith?”
She stilled, swallowed the last bite, and avoided his gaze. “Why did you stop writing?”
“Answer my question.”
“Answer mine first.”
Ooh. A spark of challenge. “I guess because I can’t.”
“I can’t either. Do those things.” Her gaze lifted to his.
His question was what she liked to do, not what she couldn’t, but now he was interested. “Why can’t you?”
She took a page from his book and avoided answering. “Maybe you should try meditating.”
Alec set the plate aside. “You mean like chanting ‘ohm’ while closing my eyes and going to a happy place?” He hadn’t had a happy place in nine years.
This earned him a smile. “Something like that.”
“You’re one of those people.” He fixed his expression to one of mock horror.
“What people?”
“The tree-hugging, holistic, all-natural types.” He looked at her calves just below her capris. “At least you shave.”
She sighed, but the smile remained. “You’re very tense. Meditating might help you relax and clear your head.”
He was tense? “I’m tense?”
Hello, pot, meet kettle.
Her smile widened, and there was something close to a twinkle in her eye. She didn’t wear any makeup, not even a swipe of lip gloss, but he found himself liking her face. It was fresh. Clean. He didn’t know any women who didn’t hide behind cosmetics. Or seduction. And yet Faith did neither. In fact, she always had one foot out of the room.
She stood. “Enjoy the brownies. Have a good night.”
Like that. One foot out the door.
And just like she had the other night on the beach, she just up and walked away.