Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [55]
It was easy enough to turn off her brain, to move on autopilot. What she was doing made no sense, therefore she didn’t have to think about it. She stripped off the clothes she’d put on after her hasty shower—the jeans and T-shirt, the plain white cotton underwear.
Maybe she’d known ahead of time. The pink silk bra and panties were tucked in a corner of her suitcase. They were even more risqué than the lavender ensemble she wore earlier—these consisted of nothing more than a few strategic scraps of cloth and silk ribbon.
The dress still fit, though it hugged her riper curves more tightly than it had her coltish fifteen-year-old body. There was no mirror in her room, but she didn’t want one. She knew what she looked like. Too pale, tangled hair, eyes too big in her face. All the strain and exhaustion of the last few days coming due. If she saw herself she’d probably chicken out. And this was her last chance.
If she was going to sleep with anyone on this earth it would be Dillon Gaynor. He wanted her—there was no question of that any longer. He wouldn’t have held on to her dress, wouldn’t have kept her trapped there. Hell, he wouldn’t have kissed her, wouldn’t have pushed her down on the sofa and had sex with her if he didn’t want her. Unless it was some twisted score he had to settle against Nate. And against her.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore, but finishing what he’d started. Walking down that hallway and opening the door.
The bedroom was dark, lit only by the flicker of the television screen. He was stretched out on the bed, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, and he turned his head to look at her. At the dress she was wearing.
He was very still. He moved his arm, and she realized he’d muted the noise of the television, so that there was only silence in the room. She licked her lips, nervous.
“I thought you wanted to leave.”
“I did.”
“I thought you were afraid of me.”
“I am,” she said. He made no move to come toward her, to get off the bed. He simply lay back against the pillows, his smooth skin against the whiteness of the sheets, and watched her.
“So what are you doing here?” There was no sultry welcome in his voice. Just cool suspicion, enough to make her want to turn around and run. Instead she closed the door, leaning against it. Her hand behind her back, still on the old iron door handle if she had to run.
“You said we should finish what we started.” Her voice came out a little shaky, and she cleared her throat. “I’m not sure if I consider that a proper finish. If it was that disastrous you ought to give me a chance to improve.” She couldn’t believe she’d just said that. She couldn’t believe she was here in the darkened bedroom with him.
There was only a flicker of reaction on his shadowed face. “You weren’t the one who was a disaster. Besides, you’ve never paid attention to what I’ve said before. Why now?”
She let go of the doorknob. He didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in keeping her there—escape would be easy. And probably a very good idea.
“I thought you wanted me. Apparently you’ve changed your mind, seen the error of your ways. Maybe once was enough. Too bad Nate isn’t around to see it—he’d be proud of you.”
“Nate would never be proud of a noble gesture.” The reflection of the TV screen flickered over his chest. He was just as beautiful as he’d been twelve years ago, just as far out of reach.
“All right,” she said. “Maybe I’ve just come to say goodbye.”
He hesitated for just a moment, and then he seemed to come to a decision. “Then you ought to do it properly. Come here, Jamie.”
“No.”
The tiny smile at the corner of his mouth was the first expression to break through his distant, enigmatic look. “You started this. You came this far. Come over here and get on the bed.”
For a moment she didn’t move, paralyzed. And then she took a step toward him.
13
He probably expected her to run. She probably should run. Instead she took the first step toward