Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [49]
Mitch had that aura of a loner that she knew all too well. And for the first time, she wanted to get closer to someone. To really let someone into her heart, not just her bed.
But she also wanted him in her bed. She needed an hour of nothing but a physical connection. She had to clear her mind, to feel something other than pain and confusion.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said, her voice unusually deep.
“Claire—” His voice was thick, eyes searching hers, desire for her as strong as her own.
“Follow me home,” she said, taking his hand.
He sat in his car in the far corner of the parking lot and watched the entrance of the Fox & Goose, waiting. The door opened and he leaned forward in anticipation. It wasn’t Claire.
She’d said she was meeting her boyfriend—Mitch Bianchi—but she’d refused to share any more information. He’d known she was seeing someone—he made it a point to check up on her whenever possible—but she’d sounded enamored with the asshole. And why had she not brought him by the house for the game? Why was she being so secretive about this relationship? He was a writer—a nothing, like all the other losers she picked. He’d never been threatened by any of them. He understood Claire better than she knew herself. He’d made it a point to study her, learn about her, understand her. She dated men who were her intellectual inferiors. She used them for sex and nothing more. And as long as none of them were a threat to him, he could quench his thirst with other women.
His hands clenched the steering wheel. He hated that she slept with men other than him. He’d wanted to be her first and only. But that would have tipped his hand too soon. It was better this way, watching her from afar. Being there for her when she needed him. And then . . . he’d know when the time was right. He’d know when to show her that fate had brought them together. They were meant to be.
He had his girls to keep him from moving on her too soon.
Too soon? It’s been fifteen years!
He didn’t want to kill her. He wanted her, but if he took her he would have to kill her. Instead, he protected her by standing back and not sharing his love. His love would kill Claire, and then he would have nothing left to live for.
She was everything to him.
Until she got serious with another. When she took another man not only to bed, but into her heart, when she opened up her soul . . . that was for him, and him alone.
The door opened again and he saw her. She wore the dark jeans, and had added strappy high-heeled shoes and a lacy black tank top that hugged her breasts like a leather glove. Her fair skin was so white, especially against her shiny black hair. To touch her hair, her skin, her breasts . . .
His eyes whipped to the man with her, his heartbeat quickening. Mitch Bianchi was not like the rest. He had the same good looks, but was taller, more physical, older than other men Claire had dated. He had an air about him . . . a familiar appearance. Did he know this ass-hole? No, he didn’t think so. It was more the way he moved, the way he scanned the parking lot. Maybe he was in security, worked for Rogan-Caruso, though Claire said he was a freelance writer. Odd.
They were talking, then suddenly Claire wrapped her arms around her boyfriend and kissed him. A full-body kiss, up against the side of the building.
No, no, no! This was not good. The jerk had his hands on her ass, then her back, then her hair. What was he going to do? Fuck her right there in public?
He desperately wanted to confront them, arrest them for public indecency, kill them. He should be the one with his hands on Claire, but not up against the wall of some filthy bar. He’d pour rose petals on her bed, treat her like a princess. His princess.
They stopped groping each other and walked—together—toward Claire’s Jeep. She’d been drinking. That’s why she was acting like a slut. She’d been drinking and he was going to take her home. Except that she slid into the driver’s seat. He walked three cars away and got into a rather nondescript American car.
With clenched fists he wrote