Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [28]
For some reason the notion came as a complete shock. It had simply never occurred to her that there’d be a woman in Dillon’s life. And how idiotic of her—there’d never not been a woman in Dillon’s life.
The type of women Dillon had been involved with had never seemed the type to be interested in housework, but twelve years could make a lot of changes. Not that much in a unregenerate bad boy like Dillon, but maybe enough to appreciate someone who’d sleep with him and clean his house at the same time.
No, not Dillon. He’d never be that practical. He’d always chosen girls by the size of their breasts, the bigger the better. It was a good thing that Jamie was still a meager 34B. Not that Dillon was a serious threat to her.
He was trying to intimidate her with his suggestive comments. It would shock the hell out of him if she called his bluff. He had no interest in her, and never really had. That night so long ago had been a fluke. He’d been drunk, and bored, and mischievous, but the moment he could he’d handed her off to someone else.
She wasn’t going to think about that. Ever again. She was going to grab that box of soggy crackers and head back upstairs. She was going to sit in her room and try to figure out what the hell she was going to do. And try not to worry about whether there were rats crawling up the curtains in the room above her. Or ghosts.
She didn’t believe in ghosts. If it had been up to her she wouldn’t believe in rats, either, and if she’d never had to see Dillon again she probably wouldn’t have had to deal with an oversize rodent.
It wasn’t fair that she was stuck here, with the last person in the world she’d ever wanted to see again. She’d done it for her mother, thinking she could dash in and out without ever having to look Dillon in the eye. She hadn’t counted on her car giving out. Or her purse being stolen.
And she hadn’t counted on the fact that when she looked up into Dillon Gaynor’s cool blue eyes she’d feel like a vulnerable sixteen-year-old once more. Just as frightened. Just as wary.
And just as fascinated.
7
There was no sign of Jamie when Dillon finally strolled back into the kitchen. It was already dark outside, and he was starving. He opened his refrigerator and stared at it for a long moment, as if looking for the answers that had eluded him all his life. A six-pack of beer that Mouser had brought over with the donuts. Diet Coke and a soggy head of lettuce, a half dozen eggs that were probably ready to hatch, and some moldy cheese.
He shouldn’t be surprised—food had never been one of his priorities. If he wanted to eat he went out and found something. Otherwise he didn’t bother. Mouser was trying to reform him, but then, Mouser was trying to reform everyone. They were playing poker again tonight—he’d probably show up with another armful of groceries. Dillon could wait that long.
There was no sound from upstairs. Maybe Jamie was asleep again. He liked watching her when she was asleep—it reminded him of when she was sixteen and so innocent it made him ache with the memory of it. Her innocence was long gone, her defenses were in full flower, but when she slept he could stand there and look at her and pretend it was twelve years ago, a lifetime ago, when he still had choices.
He was turning into a sentimental asshole in his old age. Next thing he knew he’d be turning up at reunions of a high school he never bothered to graduate from. He could even drop in on the Duchess and express his sympathy for the loss of her beloved Nate. She’d always had a blind spot where her nephew had been concerned. The Duchess believed in what she wanted, and her priorities had always been clear. Her daughter had been a distant second, no matter how Jamie tried to deny it.
It was no wonder she’d come here, the last place on earth she’d want to be, to see him, the last person on earth she’d want to be