Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [18]
He wasn’t coming back. So I had to stay beyond tonight, had to get him to let me stay…for both our sakes.
I ran over several different scenarios. Calling my professor and having him appeal to the man was probably not going to help. Lebeaux didn’t appear to be the helpful type, like his uncle had been. So he probably wouldn’t encourage anyone snooping around in his house, digging up secrets about its past.
Maybe the secrets of the house would be enough, though. Because my host hadn’t revealed by so much as the flicker of an eyelid that he had any idea who I was talking about when I’d called him a serial killer. Perhaps he didn’t even know about the bloody secrets hidden in these walls.
“So I’ll tell him,” I muttered. “I’ll tell him and he’ll be so fascinated he’ll let me have the run of the place.”
Including his bedroom. Wishful thinking, I know. But I couldn’t help it.
Have I mentioned that I’m fricking horny?
It wasn’t just how badly I needed to get laid that had me scheming in my bed well into the night. I was sexually attracted to the man like I’d never been to anyone else. And I was fascinated by him. Why was he hiding out here in this drafty old place all alone? Why was he so secretive, so angry?
Then there were the scars.
Oh, you can bet my imagination had been on overdrive about those. Had he been mauled by an animal?
No. Not enough gouges to be claws.
A car accident?
The injuries seemed too precise and limited.
Shot. Or stabbed.
As much as I hated to admit it, I believed that could be the answer. The scar on his face looked thin and wicked, as if a blade had traced a quick route from his hairline to the corner of his eye. And the one on his chest wasn’t as long and looked more surgical, as if he’d had to be cut open to have something removed. Like a bullet?
Yeah, yeah, I was going off on tangents. See an appendix scar and imagine a shootout at the OK Corral, that was my m.o.
Only, that wasn’t any appendix scar unless the man’s appendix had decided to take up residence near his heart. And the darkness in his eyes wasn’t from someone who’d had some minor little surgery.
He’d been wounded. Physically and emotionally. I knew it like I knew every word on the menu at my folks’ restaurant.
But I didn’t know enough, I wanted to know more. Had to know more. Like any good researcher, I was filled with curiosity.
Like any hot-blooded woman, I was filled with desire.
I wasn’t leaving here until both had been satisfied.
Hoping the man wouldn’t toss me on my ear at dawn before I’d had a chance to wear down his defenses with my vivid serial killer storytelling ability—or my cleavage…hey, I was desperate—I suddenly thought of another stalling tactic. He couldn’t very well make me leave if I was incapable of going anywhere.
Hopping out of the bed, I cringed as my bare toes hit the cold, wood floor. I guess people who’d stayed here wanted the whole authentic shebang. Personally, I’d take a thick plush carpet over icy feet on a splintery floor any day.
Grabbing my purse, I dug around until I found my keys. Trying to tiptoe in case my host’s room was directly below mine and he was down there in his bed, all hard, muscular, and naked—stop it—I made my way toward the window. It overlooked the front parking lot, where my pretty, perky car sat like a freshly cracked yellow egg sitting in a skillet.
This probably wouldn’t work. But it was worth a shot.
The window was the old-fashioned type, thickly paned with warped glass. The paint on the frame was cracking and dingy—fitting in with the aura of abandon that permeated this place. Blowing off some dust, I quickly found the latch and unfastened it. Newer hotels didn’t have windows that opened—probably because of the fear of leapers. This one, though, slid up after I applied a good bit of pressure to it.
A strong, frigid gust of moist wind burst into the room, sending the curtains straight back. My hair, too.
Shivering, I leaned out the window, my keychain in my hand, and prayed I wasn’t too far away.