“I don’t like being played for a fool,” he muttered.
“Skinner isn’t playing you for a fool.”
“How can you be sure? You don’t know him even as well as I do! So why are you defending him?”
God, it was already starting—her inability to hide that she had a personal interest in Virgil’s well-being. She’d always been far too transparent.
Telling herself to at least try to be more subtle, she glanced over her shoulder and saw the man in question wearing nothing but his jeans, quickly donned and still unbuttoned, and an inscrutable expression. “I’m just saying he seemed committed. But I’ll drive over and call you when I get there.”
“You do that,” he said.
Although Peyton was certain Wallace had disconnected, she pressed the end call button three times, even dialed her own voice mail to be sure. She couldn’t take any chance that he might overhear her talking to Virgil.
“Laurel’s okay?” Virgil asked.
She could tell he was worried. There was so much more at stake here than their attraction to each other. “From what Wallace tells me, she’s fine. But there are some…complications. He wants to talk to you.”
“Which means we have to go back to the motel.”
“That would be best, yes.” They could wait fifteen minutes and have him use her cell phone, as if she’d just arrived at his room. But she didn’t suggest that because she knew she couldn’t continue to spend time with him. Last night scared her. It showed her how easily she could come to care about him—more than she already did.
When he made no move to get his shirt and shoes, she looked up.
“Just tell me one thing,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Do you regret what happened last night?”
She hated having to lie to everyone about it. She hated thinking she might’ve made a terrible mistake, because she didn’t typically make mistakes. Not like this one. And she knew seeing him go inside on Tuesday would be so much harder on her now than it would’ve been had she kept her distance. Did all of that add up to regret?
When she didn’t answer right away, he said, “Forget it.”
“Virgil—”
“Let’s get out of here.” He left the kitchen as she stood there, hovering indecisively about what to do next. The only way to recover and still be the same woman she’d always been was to pretend last night had never taken place, and to treat him in a strictly professional manner from here on out.
But that wouldn’t be easy. She knew she’d never forget the way he’d touched her. For all his tattoos and scars and prison mentality, even his lack of experience with sex, he was the best lover she’d ever had. Just looking at him reminded her how lonely she’d been since coming to Crescent City. That loneliness would go deeper after such fulfilling intimacy. But another tumble in bed would only undermine what she wanted to believe about herself, would only postpone the inevitable.
They were better off trying to prepare for the future. He had a debt to pay society, one that could cost him his life. And she had to lock him up two days from now.
12
The drive to town seemed interminable. There was so much Peyton wanted to say—and yet she couldn’t find the right words. She and Virgil both sat staring straight ahead, as if the attraction that had compelled them to be together now tore them apart with equal force.
Peyton hated the change. She didn’t want what had happened between them to end this way. But she couldn’t pretend she’d be willing to let the relationship progress, couldn’t hold on to him for fear of where it might lead. He was the first man in a very long time to capture her interest, but she knew he wouldn’t be flattered if she told him that. He’d expected her to balk at some point, to escape the risk associated with him, and now she’d done that. His anger made her feel rigid and judgmental and selfish—all the things she didn’t want to be.
But she had the right to look out for herself, didn’t she? She’d known from the beginning they couldn’t have anything beyond a professional relationship.
She glanced over at him, his face an implacable mask. His defenses had snapped into place the moment he asked if she regretted being with him and she hadn’t been able to answer. He’d withdrawn so completely she doubted she could reach him again even if she tried. That caused an odd sense of loss, which added confusion to the already jumbled emotions churning in her gut.
“I know you’re worried about Laurel, but you shouldn’t be.” She broke the silence with what she hoped would provide some reassurance. “Wallace isn’t my favorite person, but I believe he’ll try his best to keep her safe.”
“He’ll be sorry if he doesn’t.”
The steely determination behind those words frightened Peyton. She didn’t want him to do anything that might land him in worse trouble—which proved she was making the right choice by backing away. He couldn’t divorce himself from all the experiences that made him who he was or the responsibilities that forced his hand, and neither could she.
“You can’t think like that,” she said.
His eyes cut to her, and for the briefest moment she remembered the tenderness with which he’d touched her last night. Not that any of that tenderness showed now.
She adjusted the position of her hands on the wheel. “What?”
He didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to. That look was enough. He was telling her to mind her own business.
“Just because I’m not willing to ruin my life by getting any more…involved with you doesn’t mean I don’t care about you,” she blurted out.
A muscle flexed in his cheek—evidence of some strong emotion. “I never asked you to care about me. Last night was nothing. We got off a few times. That was it.”
His response felt like a slap in the face. She’d honestly wanted to be with him, not anyone else. That made it more than a purely physical encounter. “So I was just a piece of ass? Your last hurrah before going back inside?”
“First and last.”
She shot him a dirty look. “Thanks for making me feel cheap.”
“You’re the one who did that.”
“You know what our situation is. I don’t have any choice.”
He took a deep breath before hitting her with a penetrating stare. “That’s true. So stay away from me in the future.”
“Your gratitude astounds me.”
“I didn’t ask you for any favors.”
“And I didn’t do you one. I was…sincere, Virgil. I—”
“Stop it. We were never meant to be friends.” He shifted his attention to the window until she pulled to the curb at the usual place. She thought he’d walk off without even a goodbye, but he turned back at the last second, removed the medallion that hung around his neck on a leather cord and handed it to her.
“What’s this?” she asked in surprise.
“The strap it hangs on is the only thing I’ve ever made.”
The pain in her chest grew more acute. After what he’d just said, after feeling his frustration and anger, she hadn’t expected this and didn’t know how to take it. “Why are you giving it to me?”
“Why not display a token of my admiration along with everyone else’s?” he said. Then he shut the door and walked off.
The medallion was a Spanish coin from 1739. She had no idea where he’d gotten such a rare object, but she guessed it would’ve been worth quite a bit—which, once again, showed that he didn’t think like most people, didn’t value the same things.
The coin’s monetary value meant nothing to her, either. What mattered was that it was still warm from the heat of his chest.