Blood Noir - Laurell K. Hamilton [42]
“I’m just wondering how often you do this in St. Louis.”
“Do what?” he asked.
“Pretend everything is fine when inside it’s not.”
His blue eyes hardened, and some of the strain showed in his face, but only for an instant. Then he smiled at me, and it filled his face up all the way to his eyes.
“I’ll eat if you make me.” He moved close to me. And just like that, I wanted to move back from him. He hadn’t done a thing, really. His expression was still pleasant. But there was a promise in the way he just stood there that made me uncomfortable.
“I’ll eat because you’re right,” he said. “I don’t need to be hungry when I’m under this much”—he touched my face—“stress.”
That one play of fingertips made me shiver. I closed my eyes, not sure whether I was closing them to keep the sensation closer, or so I couldn’t see his face. His eyes weren’t smiling now. They held something too grown-up, too real, too…uncomfortable.
His hand slid along the curve of my jaw, to cradle my face. He kissed me, and with me in the heels I was a little taller. It felt different enough that it made me open my eyes. I was suddenly staring into his eyes from inches away.
“You look startled,” he said, voice soft.
I had to swallow before I could say in a voice that was oddly breathy, “I guess I am.”
“Why? We’ve kissed before.”
I stared down into his face. I couldn’t put it into words, but…I licked my suddenly dry lips and whispered, “I don’t know.”
“You look almost…scared,” he said, and he was almost whispering, too.
I stepped away from him, far enough that he couldn’t touch me. That was better.
He put his head to one side and looked at me. “You’re nervous,” he said, and he sounded surprised.
I walked to the little sitting area to the side of the room, with its chair and ottoman. I sat down and didn’t look at him as I took off my shoes and set them beside the chair.
“Talk to me, Anita,” he said.
“Let’s order food,” I said.
He came and knelt in front of me. His shirt was still held in place by only the French cuffs. The shirt spread around the smooth expanse of his chest, the muscles of his stomach bunching as he knelt.
I looked away again and started to get up. He put his hand on my wrist. My pulse sped under his touch. I stood up and was caught between Jason and the ottoman. I started to fall backward. He moved in one of those incredible too-fast-to-see moves. He was just suddenly standing, holding my wrists, pulling me forward. I ended up falling into his body, and he caught me around the waist. We were the same height again without the heels.
I was left staring into his face; the eye contact was so intimate, too intimate. I pushed at him, almost fought to get away.
He let me go, but said, “What’s wrong?”
I opened my mouth, shut it, took a deep shaking breath, another, and finally said, “I’m not sure.”
“Liar,” he said.
I frowned at him. “I’m not lying.”
“Normally, I can’t tell when you’re lying. You don’t even smell like you’re lying, but your pulse sped, and your eyes showed it. What’s wrong, Anita, please, talk to me.”
“Let’s order food first, and then while we wait I’ll try to explain.”
“You want the time to organize your thoughts.” He made it a statement.
“Yeah,” I said.
He nodded. “Okay, let’s find the room service menu.” His face was careful, closed down. He did not need me to go all weird on him now. I was supposed to be his refuge while we were here, and I was blowing it.
He went to the desk at the side of the room and found the menu on top of it. He opened it without looking at me again. But he was too good a friend for me not to see how he was holding his shoulders. The line of his body told me he was unhappy. Shit.
I knew what was wrong—my own weird internal argument with myself about sex. Nathaniel helped ease me through it, as did Micah, and Jean-Claude. Even Jason himself had helped me deal with some of my issues about Nathaniel when I was still trying not to be his lover. But though Jason could help talk me through issues with other men in my life, Jason had never tried to talk me through