Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Her furrowed brows crease more deeply. “The old retreat?”
“I bought it off the Episcopal Church a few years back. Turned it into a quail hunt.” She still looks wary, so I give her a little more. “Just being neighborly.”
Her face is blank—a damn good poker face, if I do say so. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. I wonder at the odds of her having heard about my connection to Sarabelle’s disappearance and decide they’re probably nil.
Next, I think about that night on the bed: her head pressed into a pillow, her hair spread around her face. The memory of it makes my dick twitch, but then I remember how it ended: with Libby seeing me with Priscilla. Impotent anger washes over me, but I’m still hard enough to hurt. I shift my weight, but that just makes it worse.
Libby’s eyes are on mine, thankfully. “Well I’m okay,” she tells me, tucking some hair behind her ear. A tiny pearl gleams from her earlobe, and I have the odd thought that I could buy her something so much bigger.
“I appreciate you stopping in to check on things, and I’m sorry you got an earful of my business.” She waves at the kitchen doorway. “You’re free to go.”
I don’t want to go, though.
“Really, I’m just fine here.” She’s got her hands on her hips, and I notice she’s closer to the parlor door than she was before I looked away. For a fraction of a second, I allow myself to play out a fantasy. Libby runs and I bolt after her, capturing her upper arms and whirling her to face me. I plant my mouth over hers and cup her ass as I press her soft body against mine.
I can’t contain a hungry smile, and Libby side-steps, now even closer to the parlor.
I arch a brow. “I make you nervous?”
She smiles smugly, and the nervousness I thought I saw looks more like impatience. “I have my black belt in Judo. Do you?”
A grin stretches my face, but my lips aren’t sure what to do with it. It falls right off, and I press my mouth into a more familiar solemn line. I adjust the bill of my cap, feeling the weight of the last few months. “You’d be right to be nervous. That’s a good thing. You never know whose room you could be wandering into.”
“So that was your room that night.”
More statement than question, but I say, “Who’s asking?”
She looks at me strangely, and I realize I’ve become too paranoid.
“Sorry.” I rub my brow, feeling frustrated and tired. “It’s been a long...week.”
I’m shifting my weight, telling myself to head for the parlor, when her mouth does something soft. I want to kiss it. My cock throbs as she nods, like she’s looking in a crystal ball and seeing every sleepless night and fucked up, dead end day that’s led me here, to her kitchen. I wanted to play hero for her, and it’s just so stupid. I feel revulsion rise in my chest.
Then she says, “I believe it.” Her words are soft silk, and when they leave her ruby-colored lips, her radiant eyes are on me, gentle and perceptive.
My throat tightens. I remember her that night at the party—the warmth of her, the scent of her. I need to leave, but I’m rooted to the kitchen floor.
Libby’s eyes flicker to my clenched fists, and I imagine what I must look like: two-hundred-twenty pounds of head-fucked male, product of an escort and a professional asshole. But instead of bolting for the Mace, she tilts her head, regarding me like she would a puzzle.
“Do you stay at the vineyard often?” she asks quietly.
“Sometimes.” I’m not sure why she cares.
The corner of her mouth lifts, a lovely little half-smile that makes me wonder if she has any idea what effect she has on me. “I’m sure you don’t remember this, but you helped me fix my car once, years ago.”
I nod, but I don’t return her smile. Even then, when she was just a kid, she captured my attention.
She turns and walks into the parlor, and I follow her into the spacious room, decorated in shades of black and gray and red. She looks over her shoulder as she grabs her keys from a Victorian secretary.
I can tell she’s thinking about something. She hesitates before casting a troubled look into my eyes. “Did you do that to your room?”
“Do what?” I frown, annoyed at how I can’t seem to make myself leave.
“At the party,” she says. “Your room there was a mess.”
I flinch at the memory, debating only briefly whether to be honest. “I was…very angry that night.” My voice is ultra-deep; husky. As I drink in Libby, I go back there.
I remember the sensation of choking—a sensation Priscilla sometimes likes to experience with a collar, or—so much worse—my hands on her throat.