The Woman Who Couldn't Scream by Christina Dodd

Author:Christina Dodd
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Benedict stared out the windshield at the dark, windy coastal road lit only by the sweep of the headlights. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a woman buy dinner for me before.”

Merida was driving; she had limited herself to one glass of that very fine wine, so she couldn’t blame the alcohol. But without thinking, she lifted one hand from the wheel and signed, “Yes, you have. Remember—” Horrified, she caught herself.

“Remember what?” His head turned toward her and he stared.

Remember when I dragged you to the Hickory Barn for barbecue and I paid? “Nothing. I was thinking of … nothing.” She put her hand back on the wheel before she blurted out another word.

The trouble with using Benedict as protection was that, other than the fact he had tried to kill her, she liked him. Tonight, as before, they talked, they argued, they laughed. Her hands hurt from signing so much.

He looked back at the road. “I still believe we’ve met. But how could I have forgotten you?”

They were coming into town, thank God. She could drop him off at his coach house, park the car and get herself inside where she was safe. Safe from the killer. Safe from him. Not safe from herself, though. She’d just proved that.

“Maybe when I was young, before my parents died? We traveled all over the world. That way you wouldn’t remember, because I was eight when they were killed and you’re younger than me.”

She shook her head.

“According to your online bio, you grew up in Nepal. I don’t remember Nepal, but I do remember India.”

She shrugged.

He pressed her. “Your parents were missionaries?”

As she turned into the driveway, she gestured noncommittally. Damn it. He knew the story Nauplius had concocted to give her a personal history. Should she admit it was all a fabrication? No, if she did that, he’d want to know her real background. If she didn’t answer, he would research her, or think more deeply about where they could have met … He was suspicious already, of course. He was too intelligent not to be.

In a reflective voice, he said, “We have a lot in common.”

She wanted to snort. They had nothing in common. They never had.

He continued, “Our parents were killed and our young lives both altered beyond all recognition. Do you want to come into my cottage for a drink and more conversation?”

She shook her head. Most definitely not. Not if she wanted to keep her cover story. Not if she wanted to stay out of his bed—and stay alive.

“I’m not a rapist,” he said.

She shook her head again, quickly, in surprise.

“I thought that a woman who can’t scream for help might worry about that.”

He was the second man in twenty-four hours to worry that she couldn’t scream. Which wasn’t something she had worried about … before.

She pulled up beside the B and B carriage house.

He gestured toward her designated parking space. “If you won’t come in, fine, but I’m still going to walk you to your door.

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