Still Lake - Anne Stuart [77]
She stared at him. “How do you know that?”
He shrugged. “St. Johnsbury’s a small city with a lot of poor people….”
“No, I mean how did you know about the police coverage? For that matter, how do you know so much about St. Johnsbury?”
Shit. “I thought you’d already figured out I was a reporter. I would have done research.”
“You’re not a writer,” she said flatly. “I was wrong.”
“Glad you figured that out,” he said affably.
“You’re a cop.”
He blew out a disgusted breath. “Are you sure you don’t write fiction?” he said. “Why don’t you just accept the fact that I am who I say I am?”
“John Smith? Yeah, right. You have something to do with those old murders, I know you do, and it’s a waste of time trying to deny it. Maybe you were a young cop here at the time, and you’ve always been bothered that the killer got off on a technicality. Maybe you’re looking for proof that he really did it.”
“And exactly what good would that do? God knows where the poor kid is now. If he really did it, then I’d think he’d be suffering enough for what he did.”
“Well, that proves you’re not a lawyer,” she said. “You’d be more interested in justice.”
“It proves nothing but that you’re as innocent as a lamb about the way the world works,” he drawled. “Lawyers don’t care about justice, they care about money.”
He knew he was annoying her by harping on her innocence. Too damned bad. He was still reeling from the fact that she was a gorgeous, thirty-year-old virgin. Or had been, until he got his hands on her. Hell, it had been almost as traumatic for him. He’d made an effort to keep his distance from vulnerable young women, preferring experience and emotional detachment. Somehow Sophie had managed to get beneath his skin.
“I need to get home,” she said.
“It’s still raining.”
“That’s all right. I’m already soaking wet.”
“I could dry you off.”
She moved then, fast enough so that she was at the door before he reached her. She opened it, but he pushed it closed, and she turned.
“I want to go home,” she said in a shaking voice.
“Then I’ll take you home. If that’s what you want. What did you think I was going to do?”
“It’s what I want.” She didn’t answer his other question; she didn’t need to. They both knew exactly what he wanted to do. What she wanted him to do.
But she’d said no. And as far as he could remember, there was never a time when he hadn’t taken no for an answer. Unless maybe on a dark night twenty years ago. “Let me get my keys.”
“I can walk…”
“It’s pouring rain, and I don’t let women wander around in the woods alone at night, remember? Not unless they walk out on me when my back is turned, and I’m not turning my back on you again. I’ll drive you. The more you argue, the longer it will take. And I might try to make you change your mind.”
She shut her mouth at that, no more objections. He would have been amused if he wasn’t so frustrated.
No reason for him to be so edgy, he reminded himself, pulling his wet raincoat back on. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t gotten laid the night before, and very nicely, too, despite her inexperience. It wasn’t as if he was insatiable.
Except when he looked at Sophie, and he felt damned near voracious.
There was a hooded sweatshirt hanging on a peg, and he handed it to her. “Put this on. It might keep away some of the chill.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. Smart of her. He would have stopped her mouth with his, just to see if she wanted to change her mind.
He half expected her to take off and try to make it through the woods on her own, but she dutifully ran from the porch to his car, ducking inside.
It started on the first try, damn it, and he put it into gear, backing out into the rain-swept night. She sat beside him on the seat, muddy feet pressed demurely together, hands tucked in her lap, her bedraggled skirt around her ankles, and all he could think of was how much he wanted to see her in something skimpy and slinky and sexy. She shouldn’t cover up all that lovely flesh with goddamned