Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [33]
Taking the purse had been an impulse. He’d liked the thought of having a Kincaid in his power, even if it was the most powerless of them. Mouser had lectured him, but it had done little good. He’d only considered letting her win at poker for a brief moment. He was a far better player than she was, and a far better cheater than the hapless Tomas. Mouser and Henry knew what he was going to do, but then, they knew him well. To Jamie Kincaid he was a total enigma.
Keeping it that way was a good idea.
It was a good thing she’d run. In another minute he would have had her ass on the kitchen counter and her thighs wrapped around her hips. And, whether she realized it or not, she would have let him.
But he’d let her run, when he’d wanted nothing more than to see how far she’d let him go. And one reason he’d wanted to touch her was for the simple reason that Nate would have hated it. For any number of complicated reasons, the thought of Dillon putting his hands on Jamie Kincaid would have driven his friend into a rage.
But Nate was dead. It was only his ghost to worry about, and Dillon didn’t believe in ghosts. It had been more than twelve years since he’d kissed Jamie. Twelve years could build up a hell of a lot of hunger. Particularly when he’d spent eighteen months in jail because of her.
He should let her go. He wasn’t going to. He was going to take his own sweet time, and when he finished with her she’d be ruined for any other man. And this time there’d be no Nate around to get in his way.
Because he didn’t believe in ghosts.
She hadn’t seen him as she she’d run into her room and slammed the door behind her. He could hear her fumbling with the lock, and he wanted to tell her the skeleton key wouldn’t do any good. Even a dead bolt wouldn’t stop Dillon if he wanted to get in.
But she wouldn’t have heard him any more than she’d have seen him. She knew he’d died three months ago, and she wouldn’t let herself see ghosts. Not when that was what she wanted to see.
She would have been the one who mourned him the most. With a clear conscience and a broken heart. Aunt Isobel would have carried on like a character in a Greek tragedy, but Jamie would have grieved quietly, deeply. The thought charmed him, almost enough to tap her on the shoulder when she least expected it.
But he wasn’t about to reveal himself until he was good and ready. Until he had the most to gain from reappearing. He wasn’t quite sure when that would be, but he knew that Dillon figured prominently in his timing. As long as he kept Jamie there it made matters relatively simple. And he knew Dillon well enough to know he wasn’t about to let her go easily. Not this time.
Dillon would get her into bed sooner or later, he thought resignedly. He’d wanted her from the first moment he’d seen her, when she was an innocent fourteen-year-old in awe of her cousin’s wicked friend. Fourteen years was a long time to fantasize about someone, and Dillon wasn’t the sort to live in a fantasy world. Now that she’d delivered herself to his doorstep he was going to take her, and there was nothing Nate could do to stop him. Rattling chains, bumps in the night—nothing would slow Dillon down once he decided to go through with it.
He had no choice but to resign himself to the inevitable. At least he would have the chance to watch.
The room was dark except for the intermittent flash of neon, but Jamie was too concerned with locking the door to worry about turning on the light. She’d taken the key from the bathroom, and while it wouldn’t stop a determined man, it might slow him down. Give her time to escape out the window.
Except there was nowhere out the window to go but down, into the trash-littered alley. The thin covering of snow would do nothing to break her fall, and then she’d be in even worse shape.
She pulled the key out of the lock, then shoved her suitcase against the door before