“I doubt he can. This man is obsessed with protecting you from violent clients. Most people in the grip of an obsession can’t simply walk away. Still, I’d call it a red flag if one of your regulars suddenly stops showing up, or one of the long-term employees gives notice.”
His explanation troubled her on several levels. Obviously, the notion of an obsessed killer disturbed her. But his unconscious slips upset her, too. The killer was obsessed with Stacy, not her. Likewise, the regulars weren’t hers, they were Stacy’s. His failure to draw the distinction substantiated her original fear about his feelings all too well—at best, Trevor was attracted to a woman who didn’t really exist—Kylie playing Stacy. At worst, he wanted Stacy, but just didn’t know it yet.
Not his fault, her conscience reminded her, even as her heart bled from the realization. How could he want Kylie? You never showed him the real you—you were always trying to convince him you were Stacy.
Not that it mattered, really. Her plans at this point in life didn’t include romantic complications. She had too much to accomplish first—build up her yoga practice, open her own studio, prove to everyone in Two Trout she could amount to something. Her mother had shown her time and time again how easily an attachment to a man disrupted the best-laid plans.
She had to get out of there before she did something stupid—like give in to this self-defeating compulsion to cling to him. God, deep down she really was just like her mom. And if that thought didn’t get her moving, nothing would. She scooted to the edge of the bed. With her back to him, she said, “Ian’s going to be here soon. I have to go.”
Silence greeted her announcement, and then the sheets rustled as he sat up. His hand settled on her shoulder.
“Stay. I’ll call Ian and tell him not to bother.”
“No, don’t.” Uncomfortably vulnerable, she reached down and grabbed the towel she’d borrowed earlier. Wrapping it around her body, she tried for a teasing tone. “The doctor instructed you to rest. Based on what I’ve seen so far, you have a better shot at following his orders if I don’t stick around. Besides, Stacy might need me.”
“She’s a big girl. She knows how to dial a phone if she needs you.” He trailed his hand down her arm and threaded his fingers through hers. “You take care of Stacy. You’re here, looking after me. I’m wondering, do you ever let anyone take care of you?”
His words, the thumb slowly stroking her palm, made her want to curl into his big, warm body and beg him to hold her for hours, days…forever. And there was the problem. If she gave in to this urge to feel sheltered, and protected, and yes, taken care of, would she ever want to stand on her own two feet again? Would she toss her goals aside in order to hold on to those feelings?
Alarmed at her faltering resolve, she stood and plastered a smile on her face. “I have things to do at home, and I have early classes tomorrow. The last thing you need is me waking you up when I crawl out of bed at 5:00 a.m.” Turning, she hurried down the hall to the laundry room, where her clothes were sitting in the dryer. She’d gotten her bra and top on, but her jeans were still around her knees when he sauntered into the small room, naked save for a towel slung low around his hips. His presence stole all the space…and all the air.
She yanked her jeans up, zipped and buttoned them, and took a step toward the door, hoping he’d move. No such luck. He held his ground.
“Stay,” he said again, and touched his mouth to hers.
The world tilted, and she really didn’t have a choice
but to flatten her palms against his wide, warm chest and use him for support. He cradled the back of her head and took them both deeper into the kiss. Logic and self-protective instincts sifted through her brain like sand. With the last of her rational mind, she pulled back just enough to look into his unfairly beautiful face and whispered, “Why?”
“Because I need you,” he murmured. “I’m falling for you. And whether you care to admit it or not, you’re falling for me, too.” Pressing his forehead to hers when she would have pulled away, he stared straight into her eyes.
Panicked, she lowered her gaze and shook her head. “You’re not, Trevor. You don’t even know me.” Even as she said the words, her soul ached for him to say something—what exactly, she didn’t know—to prove her wrong. Prove he knew her. Wanted her.
He drew away, his lips pressing together in a line of frustration. “We’re back to that again? I know you,” he said firmly. “No matter which name you used when we first met, it was still you. Maybe other people in your life have had a hard time seeing a difference, but not me. I’m drawn to your bravery, your calm, your humor, and deep down, you damn well know it, Stacy… Fuck!”
Clapping a hand to his forehead, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again. “Kylie,” he said calmly. “I meant Kylie. That was a slip of the tongue. The one slip I told myself never, ever to make, so naturally, it tumbles out at the worst possible moment.”
He looked so stricken, so appalled, she couldn’t help but push the scraps of her annihilated heart off to a corner to be picked through later. Forcing an I told you so smile to her stiff lips, she said, “Sounds like you’re working way too hard at keeping us separate in your mind. I don’t think it’s supposed to be quite so hard. We had great sex. Don’t try to turn it into anything more.”
When she moved to slip past him, he shifted and blocked her way. “Nice speech, but I call bullshit.” His eyes narrowed. “This isn’t about identity at all, is it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You told me a while back a relationship between a cop and a stripper would never work. But we could replace stripper with any vocation, couldn’t we? The cop part is your problem, despite what you said before. Maybe a little Stacy rubbed off on you in one respect. You don’t completely trust authority, or me.”
Knee-jerk denial had her shaking her head, even as a small voice at the very back of her mind questioned, Could he be right?
“No,” she insisted, both to him and herself. “This isn’t an authority issue or a trust issue.”
“Prove it.” Backing her up against the washer, he flattened his hands on the top on either side of her and leaned in. “Stay.”
He brought his mouth down on hers, but while she expected, even braced for, aggression, he used slow, gentle persuasion. She wasn’t braced for that. Her mind clouded. Her body melted. His fingertips brushed her cheek with infinite tenderness and she felt herself going under for what might be the final time. With one last burst of conviction—or fear—she broke away and ducked under his arm. He let her.
“I can’t,” she said through a painfully tight throat.
His reply—a long look from those all-seeing eyes—kicked her flight instinct into high gear. “I have to go,” she choked out, and fled.
She stayed in high gear all the way home. In the feeble sanctuary of the Bug, compromised as it was by Trevor’s scent, her mind raced through his accusations. Did she doubt his feelings for her because cold, hard reality dictated that he didn’t really know her, or did she distrust him because Stacy’s and her mom’s experiences—and opinions—had subconsciously convinced her to be wary of not just cops, as Trevor believed, but all men?