Black Ice - Anne Stuart [72]
She had no choice, not with his long fingers cupping her face, not with the dark eyes in his impassive face giving her no room to wriggle. “Open your mouth,” he said again, softer, almost seductive, and she did, letting him place the piece of fruit against her tongue, the taste sweet and tart.
And for one mad moment she thought his mouth, his tongue would follow. Madness indeed, as he sat back, away from her, and she slowly ate the orange. He didn’t want her, thank God. He would keep her safe from everyone else, and she was safe from him. She had to be grateful for that small mercy. She had to be.
“I’m sorry.” Her words came as a surprise to her, but even more of a shock to him. He turned to stare at her in the tiny, candlelit room.
“What did you say?”
She cleared her throat. She could taste the blood orange on her mouth. She could taste his fingers on her lips. “I said I’m sorry. For asking you rude questions, for arguing with you, for trying to run away and not listening to you. You’ve gone out of your way to protect me, and all I do is whine and complain. I’m sorry. And I’m grateful.”
He rose from the bed, stepping away from her, as far as he could in the tiny room. His eyes were hooded, unreadable, watching her. “Grateful? I thought you considered me a fiend from hell.”
“You are,” she said, her irritation bubbling up again. “But you’ve saved my life, at least twice, and I never said thank you.”
“Don’t thank me now. When you’re safely back in the States you can spare a kind thought for me.”
“Why do you care? I don’t understand why you’re going to so much trouble for me. I know you said you rescued me from Hakim on a whim, but I don’t believe it. I think you’re not as cold-blooded as you think you are, and when push came to shove you couldn’t let Hakim kill a woman. I know deep down that you’re a decent human being, even if I don’t know who and what you are, or even your real name.”
“You don’t need to know my name. Besides, you’re deluded,” he said, his voice clipped. “I’m a cold-blooded bastard. I don’t make a habit of rescuing women who wander into places they should keep away from. In your case it’s easier to get you back to the States than get rid of you here.”
“You wouldn’t kill me. I know you killed Hakim, but I don’t think you could kill a woman.”
“Don’t you?”
The faint mockery in his voice was very unsettling. Her father was right, she never could stop talking when she needed to. But she’d had to apologize, to thank him. He had saved her, was still protecting her, presumably out of the basic human decency he seemed so determined to deny. It couldn’t be anything personal.
He moved closer to her, his body blocking out the candlelight, and caught her chin in his hand, drawing her face up to his. “Look at me, Chloe,” he said softly. “Look into my eyes, and tell me you see the soul of a decent man. A man who wouldn’t kill unless he was forced to.”
She didn’t want to look. His eyes were dark, opaque, empty, and for a brief moment she could almost see the blackness inside. She tried to jerk her head away, but his hand tightened, holding her firmly, and his face was close to hers. His mouth was close to hers, and she could smell the blood oranges on his breath. “Tell me I’m a good man, Chloe,” he said in a soft, dead voice. “Show me just how stupid you really are.”
The words were cruel, harsh, and there was no light or warmth in his face. Only pain, hidden so deep inside that no one could see it, driving, wrenching pain that was tearing him apart. She could see it, feel it, like a tangible entity in the tiny room, and she put her hands on his wrist, not to pull his harsh grip away, just to touch him.
“I’m not stupid,” she said, feeling suddenly very calm and certain. He wasn’t moving away, and she was going to kiss him. She was going to put her mouth against his because she wanted to. And he was going to kiss her back, because beneath that darkness was a need as powerful as hers.
And then it wasn’t going to be up to her, because