I hear a thud from somewhere in the rooms behind us, and my heart stops. All the blood must leave my head, because the living room careens around me. Am I busted? I can’t breathe. I jerk against his hands, around my wrists, because I want to grab my throat. He lets me go abruptly, but before I can regain my balance, he scoops me up and throws me over his back.
He stalks toward some built-in bookshelves, then cuts between a wing-backed chair and a pretty, stone fireplace. Stairs. There’s another staircase here at the back of the house. Kellan seems to be taking the stairs two at a time.
A frenzied sob bursts from my throat. “This is a set up!”
“Calm down,” he snaps.
My mind races as my cheek slaps the fabric of his shirt. I get a bird’s eye-view of the living area below and marvel at how extravagant it is, even as I wonder: where is Matt, did Matt sell me out, what will Kellan do to me? And why the hell did I say ‘this is a set up?’ That was fucking stupid.
The bounce of Kellan’s footsteps levels off, and the dark wood staircase with its plush, green runner morphs into the flat plane of a hall.
I take in the décor—wine-colored walls that stretch to tall ceilings, framed by elaborate crown molding; contemporary abstract landscape paintings mounted between doors; a table with a lamp and palm tree beside a large bay window—while my arms flail in the air. I don’t want to grasp his back despite my need for balance.
Fucking Matt. My stomach clenches as I question Lora, too. I’m feeling about three strides from barfing when he curves slightly to the right, pushes one of those schmancy wood doors open, and steps inside... a bedroom. My heartbeat throbs in my eyes as I blink at a plush, tan rug, and the bottom half of a dresser. I struggle to lift my head, catching a glimpse of tall, plum-colored walls, a giant Monet reprod, and the top half of a burly oak dresser.
I’m filled with what-the-fuck as Kellan lowers me onto the rug. It’s a big bedroom, dominated by an enormous canopy bed, but that’s all I note before my eyes are glued to him. He’s standing right in front of me with his arms folded, his face set in a stern, avenging look. With his well-built body clad in a pale blue button-up, dark jeans, and brown leather boots, he looks as righteous as ever: Chattahoochee College’s very own morality enforcer.
He also looks pissed off to behold me. Like I’ve wronged him. This makes me feel both angry and breathlessly afraid. “Why’d you bring me up here?” I manage in a froggy voice.
I glance again around the bedroom.
The wall in front of me is nothing but a sheet of glass, offering a stunning view of the tops of pines, and the river rushing over rocks below them. Above the treetops, the pale sky stretches on and on, broken only by a soaring hawk.
I roll my gaze around the room, taking in its deep plum walls, the high ceilings. There’s even a fancy indention at the center of the ceiling, something that looks right out of a home and garden magazine. And to my left is the bed: a deliciously masculine oak monstrosity, with tree-trunk posts, a deep green duvet, and curtains that drop down around it.
A bed for fucking.
I’m still shaking slightly, so I fold my own arms, mirroring his stance. “I want my gun back.” I wait a beat for him to speak, and when he doesn’t, I scoff, as if all I feel right now is irritation. “Where is Matt?”
My eyes flick to the window-wall. I notice there’s a balcony outside it. Something about the balcony makes my knees wobble. Or maybe it’s that bad look on his face.
Shit—I’m starting to feel faint.
His jaw flexes, and I may be going insane, because I think I see some of the hardness melt off his features.
“Matt’s not here right now.”
“He set me up.” There’s no way around that fact, although I wish there was. I pulled a gun on Kellan Walsh. I’m at his fucking house, loaded down with wads of cash. A horrible thought steamrolls me. “Are you a secret agent? Like an... FBI?”
He laughs at that. The asshole actually laughs. He takes a small step closer to me, his eyes never leaving mine. “You think I am?”
“God, just fucking tell me. Don’t keep playing games.”
He’s close enough to touch me now. His arms uncross. His face goes calmly neutral as he shifts his gaze around the room. It pauses on a wing-backed chair in a corner on the opposite side of the bed. I freeze as Kellan steps toward me. He steps around me. He strides over to the wing-backed chair, hefts it over his shoulder, and brings it to me.
He sets it near the foot of the bed and waves at it. “Sit down.”
I shake my head. Out of nowhere, tears spring into my eyes. “Don’t drag this out. It’s cruel.”
I grit my teeth as hot saliva pools in my mouth—as if my tears are being redirected.
“Sit down,” he says, more sharply.
I do. I don’t know why. I tuck my arms around myself and fix my gaze on the glass wall. The balcony is stone—expensive-looking, as if gargoyles ought to perch on its stone railing. I can see the river gleam between the pines. I’m so damn fucked. I’m so stupid. I drop my head into my hands, because the tears are falling and I hate to
be caught crying.
“Cleo?” He sighs, as if he’s irritated. I feel his hand close on my shoulder. “Look at me.”