Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [75]
She didn’t really have much left to throw up. She’d locked the door, and while locked doors didn’t usually stop him, he decided to leave her in privacy, at least for a while. He wasn’t squeamish, but she was, and he could do that much for her.
The garage was icy cold, too, but most of the smell had vanished. He closed the sliding door again, leaving it open just a narrow crack to let the last of the poison escape, and then turned to look at her Volvo.
She hadn’t lied—the front right tire had been slashed. Beyond repair, as a matter of fact, though he had any number of tires hanging around that he could substitute. But if he hadn’t slashed her tire, then that left only Jamie herself. Maybe looking for an excuse to stay?
Wishful thinking. She’d managed to figure out his air compressor enough to fill the other three tires, which certainly suggested she wanted to leave. But who could have slashed the tire?
The logical culprit was Mouser. Loyal, interfering Mouser, who thought he knew what was best for Dillon no matter what Dillon said. And he had the stupid, romantic idea that Jamie was the perfect woman for him.
But Mouser had disappeared, without a word, when he seldom traveled out of their abandoned neighborhood. And Mouser wasn’t the type to destroy, even in the name of true love.
He’d get Jamie settled, then come back and fix the tire. If he couldn’t talk her into going to the hospital, couldn’t club her over the head like a caveman and drag her there, then he’d get her tucked up in bed and then get to work. The question of the hour was, which bed?
It wasn’t a question at all, really. She wouldn’t want to sleep where a dead rat had rested—she’d rather sleep with a live one. And he wasn’t going to be there—he’d keep himself busy in the garage, getting her car in working order, rewiring the cars that had been jump-started, trying to figure out what the hell happened.
She’d emerged from the bathroom and joined him in the garage, looking even paler. As if she’d seen a ghost. “Go on up to bed,” he said. “I’ll get your car running again and you can leave first thing in the morning.”
“And I’m supposed to trust you because…?”
“Because you don’t have any other choice.” At least it was an honest answer, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it.
“The rat bled all over my mattress.”
He cocked his head, looking at her. “You know the answer to that one. You can even lock the door. I’ll sleep down here on the sofa.”
She couldn’t help it—she glanced at the sofa in the corner, and a wash of color flooded her pale face. It fascinated him. How could she still blush after everything he’d talked her into doing?
“All right,” she said. And before he could reply she whirled around and disappeared up the narrow stairs, with more energy than he would have thought possible.
He wanted to follow her, so damned badly. He didn’t want to screw her—he just wanted to lie in bed with his arms around her, just for a short while before she left.
But he wasn’t going to touch her again. He was going to keep his promise, the one he made to himself, not her. The one where he decided she was more trouble than she was worth, that she did him more harm than good. The one where he decided to let her go so he could finally get over her. The one where he decided to let her go because that was the best thing he could do for her.
The garage was cold from having the doors open to the night air, and he was damned tired. It wouldn’t take him long to fix Jamie’s tire, and the other cars could wait until after she left. In the meantime he was going to do what he’d told her. He was going to stretch out on the battered old sofa and sleep for a few hours before he dropped with exhaustion. Nothing was making any sense, and nothing would until he got a little sleep.
The tattered green sofa was faded and lumpy. And the last time he’d stretched on there Jamie had