The cab finally pulled into the turnabout in front of her building. She paid the driver and rushed out of the car, shoving her wallet back into her purse with frustrated forcefulness. She shivered, realizing she’d never donned her coat. The temperature hovered around freezing, and she was only wearing the finely knit romper without a stitch of underwear. Her legs above her stockings were bare to the frigid lake wind.
Against her will, she recalled her mother’s concerned voice.
“It’s not you, Eleanor.”
Awash with mortification, she hurried into her coat as she approached her building. She glanced up distractedly in the process of pulling the coat around her and froze in her tracks.
Trey Riordan stood outside of her building’s front doors, his hands deep in the pockets of the black wool peacoat he wore. His eyes glittered at her from beneath his lowered brow.
“Do you want to tell me what the hell this is all about?” he asked her coolly.
—
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out but a stupid little squeaking sound. Before she could think of anything remotely plausible to say, he took several steps toward her, his gaze narrowing.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“Ah . . . er . . . Eleanor Briggs,” she managed, her voice sounding thick and husky. Her tongue felt like it was about a foot thick. She swallowed with effort. “Are you all right?”
“What?” he asked distractedly. He was studying her like she was some kind of weird-looking, possibly toxic mold he’d never seen before.
“That man. The guy with the beard,” she said. His stare flickered to her face. Eleanor’s heart jumped. This was the closest she’d ever stood to him. His eyes looked darker beneath the night sky, a midnight blue with shards of light reflecting in them. His mouth was hard, but so sexy. Just looking at it caused a surreal feeling to come over her. “He . . . he didn’t hurt you, did he?” she asked, her gaze scanning his face worriedly and finding only rugged male perfection.
She was talking to Trey Riordan. Well . . . sort of, anyway.
“No,” he said pointedly, his brows arching. “He finally saw the wisdom of walking away. It surprised me, to be honest. You really had him worked up this time.”
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I honestly didn’t mean for that to happen.”
He took another step closer, until less than a foot separated them. Despite the fact that she wore heels, she had to look up to focus on his face.
“You mean you weren’t trying to turn him into a sex-crazed idiot?” he asked, and she saw the hard glitter in his clear eyes. He had been angry at her performance. He still was.
“Of course not. I couldn’t care less about him,” she mumbled, awash in embarrassment. A gust of wind off Lake Michigan lifted several strands of her long hair, spilling it against her burning cheeks. She brushed it aside impatiently.
“I see.”
She started. “You do?”
He nodded, his face completely sober. “You weren’t trying to make him or any other guy in that coffee shop crazy. You were just trying to torture me. Is that right?”
“Yeah,” she blurted out, relieved he understood. Then she saw the furious slant of his mouth and realized how callous her admission had sounded. Her eyes went wide.
“Listen, Trey—”
“How do you know my name?”
She flinched. After a pause, she pointed lamely at their two buildings. “We’re neighbors,” she whispered.
His took another small step toward her, his fierceness palpable. He seemed to tower over her.
“How. Do you know. My name?” he grated out succinctly.
She couldn’t swallow. She couldn’t breathe. It was like she was a cringing little bug and he was a giant about to stomp on her.
“Eleanor?”
Her breath hitched at the sound of him saying her name. Her guilty confession came spilling out of her.