“Who’s there?”
No answer in English, French, Italian, or otherwise. No surprise there.
That was when I picked up a hint of cologne.Hiscologne. Now I could feel his eyes on me.
Lovely, round two then.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” Quiet. “How long have you been watching me?”
The rustling, crackling, and scratching picked back up. “Long enough.”
Those two words in English were enough to ramp up the tension a hundredfold while making me feel like he’d wrapped me in a protective cocoon at the same time. If our interaction the day before was anything to go by, that was laughable. His presence was so oppressive, I couldn’t believe I’d missed him before.
“Enjoy the show?”
“You did look rather ridiculous getting up.”
Was that me, or did I catch an edge of humor in his tone? Nope, definitely had to be my imagination. This man didn’t seem to be the type to have even the smallest laugh lines.
“You couldn’t have helped me?”
“You didn’t want my help.”
Right. My cheeks heated. Yesterday, I hated having to rely on the nurses and maids to help me up when I pushed the call button because I was too weak. I didn’t think I’d ever live it down if I asked for help from the man who attacked me. It was bad enough he got to witness my floundering and squirming like a fish out of water, but now he also called me out on my small triumph.
“You’re not very aware when you sleep,” he said softly, though his voice was so gruff and deep, it sounded more like a threat than a simple statement.
“I doubt many people are.”
“I am.”
Again, not surprising. He probably believed everyone was out to get him.
“It leaves you vulnerable,” he added.
“Ah. This your way of telling me that trying to choke me to death yesterday wasn’t a one-off?”
“I had a hunting knife at your throat. You never even noticed.”
Jesus, this guy was certifiable. I had to stop my hand from reflexively reaching for my throat. I was still alive. I was going to take that as a win. “Not sure you’re going to kill me?”
“I’m weighing the pros and cons.”
I chewed on the corner of my lower lip and nodded. I couldn’t explain why that word hurt, but it did.
“Why?”
He didn’t say anything for a few beats, and when he did, it sounded far too casual. “Not sure about the mess.”
“I meant—You know what? Never mind.”Why do you want to kill me? I almost asked, but maybe that just made me sound a tad too desperate. I faked a yawn. “It’s too early for this conversation. How about you really think about it and decide after I get out of the bathroom, okay?”
I was a flipping idiot, memories or not. What was it about me that he so inherently hated when everything about him drew me in? His scent. His voice. His presence. The care he’d shown me on his boat. The ice chips he’d given me for my throat. Except then he ruined the slightest bit of comfort I felt with his threats and general assholery. That was more aggravating than the constant itchiness around the scar on my temple.
I lumbered ahead, arms extended, feet prodding forward before every step. My foot caught on the edge of a furniture leg, and I tripped, stumbling a few steps before catching myself against the wall. Sudden throbbing pain radiated from my side, and I hissed air through my clenched teeth.
His chair creaked, then an arm wrapped around my waist, forcing my back straight to avoid touching his front. His hand settled on my left hip, far enough below the healing gunshot wound that it had to be intentional. His breath feathered against my nape.
“Careful. Or you’ll do the job for me.”
