Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [38]
She sat up, leaning against the wall as the neon flashed over the thin mattress. It had to be very late. Even close to dawn, maybe, since they’d played cards well into the night. But there was no light in the sky—there was nothing but long, empty hours to remember that night over and over again.
And the damnable thing was, she could still remember how good it felt, with Dillon’s hands and mouth on her. And how bad when it had been Paul.
She pushed herself up from the mattress, unable to stand being alone with her thoughts anymore. The huge old building was silent—Dillon would have gone to bed hours ago, and even the rats were asleep. There would still be alcohol downstairs, and she intended to find it and drink enough to put herself into a nice, lengthy stupor.
The hall light was still on. She was wearing flannel boxers and a T-shirt—her usual sleeping attire—and she didn’t travel with a bathrobe. It didn’t matter—she wasn’t going to run into anyone. She could sneak down there stark naked and no one would notice.
She moved carefully on the darkened staircase, not wanting another encounter with rodent corpses, but the way was clear, and when she stepped into the shadowy kitchen she saw with mingled relief and disgust that the table was still covered with glasses, ashtrays and poker chips. No money, though, which was a blessing. She wasn’t quite sure what she would have done if there’d been a nice pile of cash left there, promising her escape and freedom. She probably would have taken it, though Dillon was a dangerous man to cross.
His half-full glass of whiskey was still there, and she reached for it, intending to drain it in one gulp. She almost choked on it.
It wasn’t whiskey. It was unsweetened iced tea. She set the glass back down, disgusted. No wonder he was able to beat everyone else. They were cheerfully getting drunk, thinking he was matching them drink for drink, and instead he was staying completely sober just to win. She shouldn’t be surprised that he’d be that devious.
She began a slow, methodical search of the kitchen. She’d been drinking beer, and there should have been some left, but there wasn’t a trace. Mouser and Henry must have taken the leftovers with them. There was no alcohol in the place at all.
“Find anything interesting?” Dillon drawled from the open doorway.
She hadn’t realized he was there, watching her, and she froze, but she had a moment to compose her expression before turning around to face him.
Lucky thing. He was leaning against the doorjamb, his jeans riding low on his hips, his flannel shirt unfastened. He still had a beautiful body—she knew for a fact that he had to be very strong, but it didn’t show in his lean frame. Just the hint of muscle in his shoulders and arms. For some reason that deceptive strength was vaguely erotic.
And what the hell was she doing even thinking of the word erotic? Especially in connection with this man.
“I was looking for a drink. I couldn’t sleep.”
He moved into the room, closing the garage door behind him. “Now, I know it isn’t a guilty conscience that’s keeping you awake. You haven’t lived enough to feel guilty about anything.”
“But I imagine you make up for it.”
“Make up for your lack of experience? Depends.” He shrugged. He started moving toward her, slowly, and without thinking she began backing away.
“I mean, you more than make up for my lack of guilty conscience. You have plenty to feel guilty about.”
“Yes, I do. Fortunately I think guilt’s a waste of time. What’s done is done, and all the whining in the world won’t change matters.”
“I don’t whine.”
“I didn’t say you did.” He was circling around the table, between her and the stairs. “What I’m saying is, sooner or later you just have to get over it.”
“Fuck you!”
“That’s one way to deal with the problem.” He’d gotten closer, with seemingly little effort, closing the distance between them.
She stopped her retreat. “This is ridiculous. You can’t chase me around a table