Black Ice by Stuart Anne

Author:Stuart, Anne [Stuart, Anne]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Romance, Suspense, Fiction
ISBN: 0778321711
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2012-09-17T07:00:00+00:00

He caught the nightgown in one hand while he watched her walk from the room. Her body was pale in the moonlight, and he could see that the gunk had done its work.

He almost could have laughed. She was so offended, with little idea just how desirable she really was. He’d wanted nothing more than to strip off his clothes and crawl beneath the duvet with her, to lose himself in her body, in the darkness. He was tired, so very tired.

But he’d kept his distance, even when he read in her eyes that he could have her. He buried his face in the soft flannel, inhaling the scent of her body, her soap, her skin. She had no idea just how powerfully erotic the juxtaposition of soft, shapeless flannel covering a lithe, sexual body was. And he wasn’t about to tell her.

If he were a man with any softer feelings left inside him he would have taken the nightgown as a souvenir, to remember her by. She was unlike anyone he’d ever dealt with—vulnerable and angry and surprisingly brave. But then, he didn’t need a nightgown to remember her for the rest of his life. It wasn’t going to be that long.

She’d torn the nightgown when she’d yanked it off—he’d been too busy covertly admiring her body to notice. The fabric was old and well laundered and very soft—it must have been in her possession for many years. She’d slept in it since she’d been no more than a girl—she wasn’t that old as it was.

He didn’t know why he did it. But he did. He took the fabric and yanked at the tear, ripping a piece from it. She wouldn’t notice. He wasn’t going to give her the chance to pack anything. He had the piece shoved in his pocket, conveniently forgotten, by the time she emerged from the bathroom, looking just as furious as she had when she went in, though unfortunately more clothed.

Nothing like telling a woman you didn’t want them to really piss them off, he thought. He couldn’t afford to have her start having second thoughts. The sex they’d shared had been nothing but that—short, powerful, even harsh. She belonged in a field of daisies with a tender lover. Not on the run for her life with a murderer.

He’d only begun to think of himself as that, but it fit as well as anything else. He’d killed in self-defense, he’d killed in cold blood, he’d killed by assassination and he’d killed in formal combat. He’d killed women and men, and he hoped to God that he wouldn’t have to kill Chloe. But he would if he had to.

Maybe he’d tell her before she died, if it came to that. He could make it very fast, so she barely knew what was happening, but before he drove the knife up into her heart he could tell her the truth. At least she could die feeling smug.

He was getting ahead of himself. If he was forced to kill her it would be a failure, and he wasn’t a man who considered failure to be an option.

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