Lethal (Lee Coburn)

“I will. After.”

Her expression went slack with fear. “After?”

“After.”

Chapter 9

He nudged her toward the bedroom. Her heart was hammering, and as she entered the room, she frantically looked about for a possible weapon.

“Sit on the bed.”

There was nothing she could reach and utilize before he shot her, but the least she could do was to make a stand. She turned to face him and defiantly asked, “Why?”

He’d removed the pistol from the waistband of his jeans. He wasn’t pointing it at her, but even holding it down at his side and lightly tapping his thigh with the barrel was threat enough. “Sit down on the end of the bed.”

She did as told but with attitude.

He backed up through the doorway and into the hall. Keeping his eyes on her, he used his foot to push the opened box of clothing from the hallway into the bedroom, moving it along the hardwood floor until it was within her reach.

“Pick out some clothes I can wear. It makes no difference to me what it is, but it might to you. I don’t want to defile some sacred garment.”

It took her a moment to comprehend that she wasn’t about to be raped, and that all he wanted from her was a change of clothing. But not mere clothing. Clothes that Eddie had worn.

She started to tell him that he could rot in his bloodstained clothes for all she cared. But he would only take something from the box himself, so what would be the point?

She knelt beside the box and rifled through the garments, choosing a worn pair of jeans and an LSU Tigers T-shirt. She held them up for his inspection.

“Underwear? Socks?”

“I didn’t keep any.”

“Okay, bring the clothes with you into the bathroom.”

“Into the bathroom? What for?”

“A shower. I’m sick of my own stink.”

She looked through the connecting door into the bathroom, then came back to him. “Leave the door open. You can see me from here.”

“Not an option.” He flicked the barrel of the pistol toward the bathroom.

Slowly she stood up and walked toward it. He motioned for her to sit on the lowered commode lid, which she did, watching with dread as he closed the door and flipped the lock.

He opened the shower stall door and turned on the water, then, after setting the pistol on a decorative shelf well out of her reach, he tugged off his cowboy boots one at a time. Socks came next. He whipped off his T-shirt and tossed it to the floor.

She stared at intersecting lines of grout on the tile floor, but within her peripheral vision she could see a lean torso with a fan of hair over the pectorals. A barbed-wire tattoo banded the left biceps.

She had hoped he would forget the cell phones in his jeans pockets, but she saw him take them out and set them on the shelf beside the pistol. He also took from his pockets a wad of currency and a piece of paper that had been folded into a tight rectangle about the size of a playing card. These, too, went onto the shelf.

Then his hands moved to the fly of his jeans and deftly worked the metal rivets from their well-worn holes. Without the least compunction, he pushed the jeans down his legs and stepped out of them, kicking them aside. Last came a pair of undershorts.

Honor’s heart was thudding so hard she felt each pulse against her eardrums. She’d forgotten, or rather hadn’t allowed herself to remember, the particular essence of a naked man, the shape of the male body, the intriguing textures.

Perhaps because she feared Coburn, because he posed a physical threat, she was acutely aware of his nakedness as he stood only inches from her emanating a very real, dominant, primitive masculinity.

Beneath Eddie’s clothes that were lying in her lap, her hands curled into fists. Despite her determination not to be cowed, she’d kept her eyes open. But now they seemed to shut tightly of their own volition.

After what seemed like an eternity, she sensed him moving away from her and stepping into the shower stall. He didn’t close the door. When the spray of hot water hit him, he actually sighed with pleasure.