Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [29]
It was no business of his. Jamie Kincaid had come back into his life unexpectedly, and she’d be gone just as fast. As soon as he was ready to let her go, that is. In the meantime he had every intention of enjoying himself.
She’d had a crush on him when she was sixteen. She thought he didn’t know, but he had. For some reason it pissed Nate off—he liked Jamie being his own personal fan club—but there was nothing he could do about it. Dillon knew because she blushed when he walked into the house, and looked anywhere but at him. He knew because she always found some reason to come into the room where he and Nate were smoking. He knew because he saw her looking at him one day, with those wide gray eyes that were an affront to his unregenerate nature.
He’d had every intention of leaving her strictly alone. For one thing, Nate was oddly protective. For another, the Duchess scared the shit out of him. And then there was the fact that he liked fast girls, bad girls, not honor students. If it had been up to him he never would have gone near Jamie Kincaid.
But it hadn’t been up to him. He’d had no more than a taste, a long time ago. And a taste could build up a powerful appetite.
He sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. What would Nate think if he could see what was going on? He’d be pissed as hell—he’d never wanted Dillon anywhere near Jamie, and he’d made sure that had never happened. But Nate was dead, and there was no one to stop Dillon from doing exactly what he wanted with his unwilling houseguest. Maybe it was time to find out just how badly she wanted to go home. Nate was no longer here to stop him. No one was.
Except his own tarnished sense of honor. Or even better, maybe it was just self-preservation. For all his gut telling him he could have her, his common sense was screaming no. And maybe, for once in his life, he’d let his brain run his body, instead of his hunger.
Jamie woke up with a start, the flash of neon outside the only light in the barren little room. She’d been sleeping too much since she’d been there, which was crazy, when sleep was usually the most elusive thing in her life. Maybe the answer had always been boredom. She had nothing else to do but wait, and she wasn’t even sure what she was waiting for. And so she slept.
She sat up and groped for the switch on the dim light. Her book lay discarded on the mattress—it was no wonder she’d fallen asleep. In the best of times Charles Dickens was a tedious bore. In the worst of times he was unbearable. Maybe when she got back to Rhode Island she’d forgo the yearly ordeal of teaching David Copperfield and switch to A Christmas Carol instead. For one thing, it was a hell of a lot shorter. For another, it was a better story. And not so many simpering female characters.
She shoved a hand through her hair. She was hungry, of course. She’d come upstairs planning to just sleep the rest of the day away, but luck wasn’t with her this time. It was dark, she’d had nothing but three cinnamon buns earlier in the day, and it didn’t look as if Dillon had any intention of feeding her. The sound of male voices drifted upward—they must be playing poker again, and if she had any sense she’d resign herself to David Copperfield and ignore them.
And then she smelled the pizza. It was like a siren call, one she didn’t even try to resist. It didn’t matter that it was late—the other voices assured her she wouldn’t be alone with Dillon, and for the sake of food she was willing to risk a lot. She went in search of pizza.
She was right, they were playing poker. The kitchen was filled with cigarette smoke and the yeasty smell of beer, and the pizza boxes lay open on the littered kitchen counter.
“Hi, there, Jamie!” Mouser greeted her cheerfully. “I wondered when you were going to