Devin snorted. “From what I saw last night?” There in the man’s eyes, in his face...in the very energy accompanying him. “I’m not counting on it.”
Chapter 5
The blade insinuated itself into Mac’s thoughts—into his body, reacting so strongly to the woman before him. Reacting to her feelings, her sensations...her uncertain realization that she had them at all.
He turned away from her, moving blindly toward the window—not seeing it. Seeing only his mind’s eye, with her wide eyes writ large, her expression surprised and yet, as he moved away, somehow wistful. Propped back on her elbows in that familiar snug shirt, those wrinkled trim slacks.
He’d never had to imagine the shape of her, modest curves and toned body and profoundly excellent ass. He just hadn’t expected her to feel so...
He hadn’t expected himself to react so...
He put one hand flat against the window, eyes closed. Seeking escape.
From himself.
From what he thought he was becoming.
Because surely this feeling wasn’t truly about what he felt for a woman he’d only just met, no matter how they’d skirmished together or how she’d sat with him through the hardest of nights.
It was about the blade and what it did to him.
It had to be.
“I don’t understand what’s happening here,” she said, her voice backed by its usual determination but without its equally usual blithe spirit. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me. And I don’t like it.”
The knife fed him a dozen trickles of feeling, tugged him a dozen different ways. Someone in despair, someone in fear, a quick bubble of exaltation...the blade sifted it all, hunting for something on which to take action. Forgetting, apparently, its fear and danger from the night before.
Mac fought his way out of those places. They aren’t mine. I have my own feelings. He glanced back at Gwen—sitting up on the bed now and just watching him. Knowing that he had answers for her and wasn’t telling her. Feeding the blade her trickle of desire, her healthy dose of wistfulness, and her frustration. Not mine.
But somehow those words didn’t ring as true.
Gwen didn’t wait long.
“Look,” she said. “I’m going to take the shower I so richly deserve and put on the stylish and clean clothes I managed to buy. When I come out, I’d really like there to be some answers waiting.”
Answers. Wouldn’t that be a change? He’d had nothing but questions for years now. Questions and the sly trickles of information granted him by the blade—coming more often now, even as its influence grew stronger within him.
The wild road. Not his words, not his term. But he knew, in his gut, what it meant.
And he knew that to get Gwen to talk about her father, he’d have to talk first. He just didn’t know how to do that.
Not with words.
As she showered, he nuked the meal she’d brought, gulped down another protein drink, and changed his clothes—from one set of jeans to another, with the addition of a short-sleeved henley in a dark, bloodstain-hiding maroon, the Red Wing work boots from the night before traded off for basic black cross-trainers.
When she emerged from the shower, her hair sleek with conditioner and twisted into a knot at the back of her head, she’d exchanged her worn outfit for a bright turquoise T-shirt that did amazing things for her complexion and sport shorts that did amazing things for her legs. He took a deep breath and said, “Come with me.”
She hesitated, eyeing him—assessing the changes in him. “I’m not dressed for—”
“Walking,” he said. “You’re dressed fine for walking.”
“Okay.” And then she laughed at him as she grabbed her new sunglasses from the counter and propped them atop her head. “Did you think I’d be hard to convince? What have I got to do for the next twenty-four hours but wait?”
“For new credit cards,” he guessed.
“Being overnighted to the hotel.” She slanted a look at him, reaching for her sport sandals. “I’ve been trying to decide how to ask if I can borrow your credit card to get a room here tonight.”
No. His response came instantly, deeply—and he kept it entirely to himself.
Or tried to, but she sent a little frown in his direction that made him think he hadn’t been successful. “Okay, then,” she said. “I guess that wasn’t the way to do it.”
He shook his head. “Whatever you want to do.”
“Look,” she said. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate... No, you must be kidding. I’m not going to be sorry because I’m not gung ho to share a room with a man I don’t even know. No matter how much I appreciate the help so far.”
“There’s more than that going on and you know it,” he said, more sharply than he’d meant to, and then pushed the heel of his hand against his brow. He already knew her well enough to know that hadn’t been the right thing to say, oh, no.
“Do I?” she snapped, proving that instinct. “As if I can’t manage from here on out perfectly well on my own?”
“No.” Focus, dammit. Find the right words. “As if you shouldn’t. As if there’s not—” He stopped, gave into frustration. “Come with me. Walk.”
She snatched up the hotel key and led the way, full of dignity in her generic gym clothes.
He could only follow. And hope he was doing the right thing.
Stupid man, Gwen thought. He couldn’t just tell her whatever it was he was keeping from her. No doubt because he still all-too-obviously wanted to grill her about her father.
As if her past mattered to what was happening here. As if it was any of his business anyway. Simply because she’d made a single allusion...
Except in her heart, she knew if it didn’t matter, talking about it wouldn’t feel so big.
In that heart, she felt a twinge of guilt at his kindness—pushing the hotel door open, waiting for her to plunk the sunglasses from her head to her nose, waiting for her to adjust to the heat beating against exposed skin.
But if she made him wait for her to adjust to what had just happened on that hotel room bed, they’d be here forever. She nodded, more curtly than she’d meant to. “All right.” And marched off.
“Hey, hey!” He laid the words on a laugh, ran a step to catch up, and took her hand, instantly and comfortably twining his fingers between hers. “Not like that.”
“I—” She stopped, confused. “Then like...?”
“Like this.” He stopped, closed his eyes, lifted his head, tilting it just a little. His chest rose with a deep breath; his nostrils briefly flared, as if he was hunting scent. She stared, fascinated, as some faint reaction chased across his face; she moved a little closer without thinking about it, watching.
Just like that, his eyes opened—catching her there, closer than she’d meant to be, more engaged than she’d meant to be. He smiled, holding his ground...giving her tacit permission to stay right there in his space.
“Pfeh,” she said, stepping back—not far, considering he still had her hand, but a distinct distancing. “We’re not walking, you may have noticed.”
He gestured with their clasped hands. “This way.” And that grin of his, just an edge of wry...an invitation.
Dammit. She bit her lip on the smile that wanted to respond to him and said, “Okay. That way.”
She let him keep her hand.
She even let herself relax, walking in the bright sunshine, absorbing all over again the unique touches of the city—the propensity for sculptures, the little hints of sporadic beauty along the roadsides and in the signage, the street names that spoke of the area’s Spanish heritage.