Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [41]
Except for the way she kissed him. She tasted the same—innocence and eagerness and sex that was buried so deep inside her it would take a bulldozer to get at it. Or a very determined man.
And he was nothing if not determined.
He had to admit it had shaken him. It was one thing to have the hots for your best friend’s little sister, and not even that unlikely to act on it. But the feel of her beneath him, shivering, the look of panic in her eyes, the taste of her tongue were more powerful than he’d ever expected. And it scared the hell out of him.
Maybe he’d listen to his conscience, to Mouser’s arguments, and let her go. Make a miraculous recovery of her purse, spend half an hour beneath the hood of her Volvo and she’d be good to go. It was sitting under a tarp in the corner of the garage—he’d been in no hurry to let her escape. Once she left he’d never see her again—there’d be no reason. Nate was the only thing that connected the two of them, and it was a pathetic excuse for a tie. Time he broke it, kicked her out and went on with his life.
The only question that remained was whether he was going to screw the living daylights out of her first. Or resist temptation.
He knew the answer. Fucking Nate Kincaid’s little cousin would have driven his old friend crazy. And if for no other reason than that, he was going to have her.
And there were many more reasons than that. It would be a spit in the eye to the overbearing Duchess, not to mention finishing something that had been started more than twelve years ago. He’d always liked a sense of closure in his life.
And besides, if it hadn’t been for her he’d have had another eighteen months of his life. He figured she owed him. She’d be giving it up to someone, sooner or later. It might as well be him.
A million reasons, all of them good ones. And none of them the one that really mattered. The simple fact that he wanted her, so badly it made his bones ache.
And it didn’t matter how scared she was. He was going to take her.
10
Nate wasn’t quite sure when he decided to kill Jamie. Was it when he’d first seen her trudging down the snow-covered road to Dillon’s garage? He told himself she’d come for revenge, but he knew better than that. Jamie was incapable of anything as elemental as revenge, as passionate as murder. Besides, she’d had a crush on Dillon from the time she was an impressionable teenager. She’d thought Nate hadn’t noticed, but he had. And enjoyed throwing the two of them together, just to watch them squirm. It had been one of his favorite pastimes back then.
He’d thought about killing her the night of her prom. She looked like hell once Paul got through with her, sobbing uncontrollably, and he hated to think what Aunt Isobel and Uncle Victor would say. Aunt Isobel would turn a blind eye, of course. She adored him, for all the wrong reasons, and she wouldn’t hear a word against him. It amused him to see how far he could go without Uncle Victor exploding.
That night he’d probably gone too far. Uncle Victor was protective of sweet little Jamie, and he’d have held Nate responsible for not looking out for her.
A tragic car accident would have put a stop to that. It would have been easy enough—he could have broken her neck and then run the car off the road, giving himself a few colorful bumps and bruises. Uncle Victor would have been devastated. Aunt Isobel would only be thinking of Nate.
Even better, Dillon would have hated it.
But he didn’t do it. The police had picked them up for speeding before he could make up his mind, and in the short run it had worked out well.
Still, he’d forgotten how Dillon felt. Stupid of him to have overlooked that little fact, but it had been so long since Dillon had seen Jamie he thought his friend would have gotten over it. Particularly since he’d never admitted it in the first place.
But he’d heard it in Dillon’s voice as he floated overhead, listening.