Wicked Torture (Stark World 3)

I hear a clatter behind me, and spin around in time to see a mangy orange cat streak behind a trash bin. I bend over to catch my breath, shocked at how hard my pulse is pounding and how loud the roar of blood is in my ears. I'm on edge, plain and simple, and if I were smart, I'd give it up, go home, and worry about Noah Carter tomorrow.

Or never. Never would be even better.

It's a good plan. A sane plan. And I stand up straight, fully intending to shed my momentary foolishness and walk back the way I came. Then I can cut diagonally to the lot where I parked my car, go home, and fall into blissful oblivion until my alarm clock wakes me at six, and I dive into prep for my afternoon meeting.

Having made what I consider the wise decision, I take a single step forward. But that's as far as I get. Because the moment I take the second step, the shadows on my left shift, and before my mind even has time to tell my mouth to scream, Noah is standing in front of me.

My heart twists as my brain catches up to reality. It really is him.

Even in the dark, I can see the planes and angles of his face, the strength of his jaw. His wide mouth, usually curved up in humor, but right now set in a thin line that suggests a frown.

He's only a few feet away, but the distance between us is vast. He moves tentatively toward me, as if mere proximity can somehow breech the gap. It can't, of course. But though I want to back away--to regain my ability to think rational thoughts--my feet seem glued to the asphalt. I'm trapped here, as enchanted as if I was a princess in a fairy tale.

"Kiki," he says, and the sound of my name on his lips breaks the spell. Before I even realize what I'm doing, I raise my hand and slap him hard across the face.

I gasp. Not from the pain--though my palm does sting--but from the shock of what I've done. I stand frozen, my hand still only inches from his face, as my mind churns with indecision. Do I apologize? Or do I tell him that he deserved the slap, and I hope his face stings just as much as my hand?

But it's all happening too fast, and I don't have time to reach a decision before he catches my wrist and yanks me toward him so quickly that I let out an involuntary yelp.

"Dammit, Noah, let me go. We both know you deserved that."

He's pulled me close, so that my arm is bent at the elbow, my upper arm pressed against my chest. His hand is still closed around my wrist, and because of the way he's holding me, his fingers brush against the V-neck of my T-shirt, as well as a bit of bare skin.

My head is tilted back, and he's looking right at my face. I have no idea if he realizes how intimate his touch is. But it doesn't matter. I realize it, and the more I try not to focus on the way his skin feels against mine, the more I find it difficult to focus on anything else at all.

"I do deserve it," he says agreeably, "but don't even think about doing it again."

"Then let me go," I snap. "Or are you going to hold me here all night just so you can protect your stupid face?" I glance down. I sound ridiculous, and I know it, and I have no desire to see amusement in his eyes.

I want to sound clever and sharp and righteous. But I can't seem to conjure the words. Hell, I can't seem to concentrate on anything except the way his skin feels against mine. Just the tiniest of touches, and yet it is both wildly obvious and disturbingly intimate. And to make it worse, my heart is beating so fast and so hard that I'm sure he can tell. More than that, I'm sure he realizes he's the reason.

The thought gives me strength, and I jerk myself free, then step back. It's only a few inches, but it does me a world of good. I can practically feel common sense flooding back into me. "Why are you here?" I demand.

"I'm working in Austin now," he says. "I'm heading up a division at--"

"Not here," I say, waving my hand to encompass the entire town. I'm irritated by his easy answer. By the fact that he doesn't seem to be rattled at all, and I'm close to losing it. "Here. In this alley. Behind The Fix. Why are you lurking back here instead of inside talking to me like any sane man would be doing? Why did you scurry out the back door like you'd walked into a nightmare and couldn't wait to get away from a demon that haunts you?"

I take another step back, then realize that my cheeks are wet. I hadn't meant for all of that to spill out of me any more than I'd meant to cry. "Dammit," I say as I scrub my palms over my face.

"Here." He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and hands it to me. "It's clean," he adds with a ghost of a smile.

"Of course it is." I take it gratefully, then dab my eyes, wishing I didn't care that I now probably look like a raccoon. Because why should I care what I look like around Noah?

I draw a breath. "Thanks."

"Any time," he says, and this time the smile is more than a ghost. There's a definite up-curve to his lips, and I have to work to fight my own smile. Because Noah Carter wasn't a handkerchief-carrying kind of guy until he met me. But I've always been a crier. Not in a bad way, just in all the ways. I cry at happy movies; I cry at sad movies. I cry at sentimental commercials. And, sometimes, I even cry at the stupid ones.

Honestly, it's a wonder I ever manage to get a song down on paper, because while I'm composing, I can barely see through the tears.

About the only time I don't cry is when I'm performing. Then, the emotion comes out through my voice, not my tear ducts.

Now the smile has reached his eyes, and I bite back a laugh. That's how it always was with us. One minute I'd be sniffling over something sentimental, the next minute we'd be laughing and racing down the beach, hand in hand, until we fell together in the surf, lost in the wonder that was each other and the world.

With Noah, the world was always wide and wonderful, beautiful and mysterious. Mostly, though, it was full of delight. He could make a drive to the grocery store as much of an adventure as a hike in the mountains.

"You still carry them," I say, passing it back to him.

He nods, then tucks it back into his pocket without quite meeting my eyes. My stomach twists, and I wish I hadn't said anything. Now I'm picturing him passing one to his wife as they sit in a darkened theater watching a sappy movie. Or wiping the nose of a small child. A little boy, maybe, who's fallen and scraped his knee, but is trying so hard to be brave.