Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [62]
She couldn’t believe she’d heard him right. “You’re letting me go?” she echoed, waiting for a burst of elation to replace the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Then would you hand me my purse and suitcase? I really don’t want to go back into that room.”
“Certainly.” He disappeared into the bedroom, coming back with her possessions. “You want me to carry them down for you?”
Now, why in hell did she want to cry? “I can manage,” she said, yanking them out of his hands. She spun around and started down the stairs, for once grateful for the darkness. She felt an odd stinging in her eyes, and the last thing in the world she wanted was for him to see them.
He followed her, of course, keeping a safe distance. She couldn’t even remember if she’d brought a coat, but at least the heater in her car was a powerful one, built for Scandinavian winters. Once she got the car warmed up it would be fine.
The kitchen was as cosy as usual, a deceptively welcoming space, and she set her suitcase down, steeling herself for a polite goodbye. But Dillon walked right past her to the back door onto the alleyway, a red-streaked sheet in his hands, and she knew he carried the dead rat.
He tossed it out into the back alley, sheet and all, then stood there staring for a moment, down at the snow at his feet, at the alleyway that led out to the main street. And then he turned back, momentarily lost in thought, shutting the door behind him.
“The car’s in the garage,” he said absently. “Don’t worry about closing the door after you drive out—I’ll take care of it.”
It had all taken on a tinge of unreality. She couldn’t believe it could be that simple, that after all that had happened he’d simply let her take her car and drive away from here, without a word. It was exactly what she wanted, of course, but it felt almost surreal.
She plastered her best social smile on her face, the one that her mother had drilled into her. “Well…” she said.
“Well,” he said finally, turning his attention back to her. “You’ve got that Duchess look on your face. Sorry you had to pick that up. Next thing I know you’re going to want to shake hands with me and thank me for a lovely time.”
Jamie dropped her hand surreptitiously behind her back. “Of course not,” she said in a frosty voice.
“So what do you want to say?”
“That’s easy enough. Goodbye.” She picked up her suitcase and purse before he could and walked into the garage.
Her Volvo was there, all right, parked in a corner, snow melting off the roof. It also had at least two flat tires.
She put her suitcase and purse down, just staring at it, as Dillon came up behind her. “What happened to the tires?”
“Beats me,” he said, clearly untroubled by this latest development. “You must have run over something when you went off the road.”
“And you didn’t notice when you were working on it?”
“They hadn’t gone flat when I was working on it.”
She turned to look up at him. “Did you have anything to do with it?”
“I fixed your car.”
“Anything to do with the flat tires. Did you let the air out of them?” It was a stupid thing to ask. Of course he hadn’t—he was more than happy to get rid of her at this point.
“Yes.”
“We could…yes?” she echoed in sudden shock, realizing what he’d said.
“Yes. I let the air out of your tires. All four of them, as a matter of fact. Just in case you got it in your mind to run away.”
“I thought you were going to let me go.”
“I should.” He was trying to sound diffident, but even she could tell he was uncomfortable with the admission.
“But you’re not.” It should have been anger, fear flooding her body. Not relief.
“No, I’m not.”
She set down her things on the cement floor, then turned to look at him. He frightened her—there was no question about that. But he was also nothing more than human, a bad boy who’d gotten his way for too long.
“Then convince me to stay,” she said, pushing her hair away from her face and watching him