Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [51]
And he knew he wasn’t going to do it. Some latent sense of decency had cropped up at the sound of her crying. He was a fool and a half, when he finally had gotten her where he’d wanted her for far too long. Shaken, trembling and willing, and it wouldn’t take much to get her that way again. And he wasn’t going to do it.
He was about to hang the discarded T-shirt on the doorknob, but he hesitated, bringing it to his face, breathing in the scent of her. And he moved down the hall, the shirt still in his hand.
Mouser shook his head ruefully. Killer had it bad, and he didn’t even realize it. Far be it for his old friend Mouser to point out that the poor bastard was in love. Killer didn’t believe in love, certainly not the romantic kind. He’d chalk it up to simple lust. But Dillon was way past anything as simple as lust when it came to Nate’s cousin.
She was bringing out the worst in him, that was for sure. Dillon could be utterly ruthless, but he didn’t usually take it out on the helpless. It wasn’t like him, and he’d hate himself for doing it.
The best thing a friend could do for him was to get the woman out, before Dillon made a mistake that he couldn’t fix. A light snow was falling, and Dillon had locked the door after shoving Mouser out into the snow. But the door to the alleyway didn’t have a lock. He figured he’d managed to ruin the mood for at least the time being, long enough to get Jamie out of there. But he couldn’t afford to wait.
The grim alleyway looked almost pretty beneath the thin layer of snow. Only a trail of footsteps marred the pristine white, and he frowned, trying to figure out who the hell had come in the back entrance. The prints were too small to be Dillon’s feet, too big to be Jamie’s.
He opened the door. The hallway was warm and shadowy, and he closed the door behind him, moving into the darkness.
And then he stopped, staring into the shadows in disbelief. “You’re dead,” he said in a choked voice.
“No. You are.”
12
It took her too damned long to stop crying. All she could do was thank God he’d left her alone for a moment, so she could run. Because if she’d stayed, it would have been even worse. She might have grown to like it.
There was rape and there was rape. Dillon Gaynor could force her just by looking at her. For twelve years she’d kept her distance from men, only to come face-to-face with the worst of all of them. The only one who could get through to her.
She thought she’d been safe. He’d touched her. Kissed her. Slid his hands beneath her clothing and felt her breasts, he’d stretched her across the kitchen table and covered her body with his. He’d done almost everything she’d been terrified of, and she’d survived.
Until this afternoon, when he’d pushed her down on the battered old sofa and came inside her. He hadn’t kissed her, caressed her, barely touched her. And he still almost made her want it.
She could hear the noise of his infernal music beneath her, the rumble of a car engine and the metal sound of tools. She needed to get clean, to get the feel of his hands, his body, off her, and then she needed to get the hell out of there. She sprinted down the hall, taking the fastest shower imaginable, but when she emerged the noise was still coming from beneath her.
His bedroom door stood ajar—at least, she assumed it was his. She pushed it open—if she could find anything at all to put on her feet she could get out of there before he even realized she was gone.
There wasn’t much in the room. A big bed, unmade, sheets in a tangle. She stared at it a long moment, unnerved. She couldn’t really look at that bed without thinking of Dillon. Lying in it. And her. Beneath him.
There was a splash of color against the white sheets, and she recognized one of the T-shirts she’d put on earlier. She must have dropped it in her flight. Typical of him to have taken it. If she was around for much longer she’d end up with nothing at all.
She