She’d gone off for a week and hadn’t told anyone where she was—least of all him. Nor had she said when she’d gotten back. She’d ignored 90 percent of his texts until he’d said he was worried about her. She’d answered him then. He should have started right there.
“Yeah, babe. Walked right in, just like any fucker could have done. Like that pretend agent, Joseph Arnold, you tangled with. Spotted him at the local coffee shop with your old friend Hank, the guitar player who can’t tune his own guitar. I imagine they’ll be dropping by later for a visit. If not today, then in a couple of days.”
Joseph Arnold had been around the headlands walking with a camera. Standing not far from her cottage, pretending to watch the ocean, but he was more interested in what was going on behind him in the empty house. The supposed music scout hadn’t noticed Savage or any of the Torpedo Ink members, and eventually, after snapping pictures, he had joined Hank back at the coffee shop, acting as if he hadn’t known where Seychelle resided.
Her color changed slightly. If it was possible, she went even more pale than she was naturally. “They don’t know where I live,” she denied. “I was careful.”
She looked scared to him. Her long lashes swept down to veil her eyes. He speared his steak onto a plate and then put her tofu onto a separate plate, turned off the gas to both grills and walked over to her.
“Tell me about Brandon Campbell. What does he look like? Why don’t you like him? What makes you think he’s not a nice man? Because I could tell you thought everything he said to Doris about that woman was pure bullshit.”
She was silent, rubbing her chin on the blanket, a little frown he found adorable on her face while she thought about what she was going to tell him. He liked that she always thought things through.
“He’s extremely good-looking. Dark hair and eyes. Dresses nice but not over the top. He looks like he goes to the gym, keeps himself in shape. He’s the kind of man women would look at when he walks into a room, and he knows it. He’s very confident.” She hesitated.
“Just say it.”
“Do you believe in psychic talents?”
Savage regarded her silently. She was wrapped in her blanket, for the first time looking at him as if she was afraid he might disappoint her.
“Yeah, babe. I know psychic talents are a real thing. I think most people have them, they just don’t develop them. Why?”
She looked relieved. “Because Brandon Campbell has one and uses it as a kind of persuasion, almost, in my opinion, like a date-rape drug. He influences those he talks to, swaying them to do whatever he wants, to believe whatever he wants them to believe. He definitely is capable of controlling someone or taking away their self-esteem. I think he persuades Doris to believe anything he says. I think he’s controlling that woman in his house. He definitely tried to use his voice on me when he asked me out.”
Savage’s gut tightened into a thousand knots. He was capable of controlling with his voice. Persuading. Training. He could use it, and he had. Often. Over and over. He could hear the condemnation in her voice when she talked about Brandon Campbell. What was she going to think about him? He was far, far worse.
“Come on, babe, let’s eat while it’s hot.”
“Do you think Hank and Joseph are going to come by my home this evening?”
“They aren’t here right now, and we’re not going to waste a good meal worrying about them.” But he wasn’t leaving her tonight, no matter what she said. He had a bad feeling she was going to be paid a visit. A third man had been sitting at the coffee shop with Hank and Joseph. He looked like a real charmer to Savage. He looked exactly like the man she’d just described as Brandon Campbell. What were the odds that Campbell would meet up with Arnold and Hank?
Even after Savage had his little “talk” with his sassy little lady, if he had to spend the night outside in the cold, he planned to stay right where he was. He held his hand out to Seychelle. She took it without hesitation and stepped onto her porch with her bare feet. He just shook his head. She was already cold in the foggy air, but she persisted in not wearing shoes.
“It was nice of you to cook dinner,” Seychelle ventured, placing two bowls of salad on the table for them.
He sat down across from her, pissed at her. Pissed at himself. He knew he shouldn’t be there. He’d left determined not to come back. If he stuck around, he wasn’t going to be able to give her up. She was too big of a temptation. He’d lasted twenty-four fuckin’ hours and then he’d come back to her—but she hadn’t been there.