Читать книгу A Kiss In The Dark - Jenna Mills - Страница 10

Something inside Dylan snapped.

He stared at Bethany’s wrists, at the smears of blue and black circling pale flesh like violent bracelets. She said she’d been hit on the head and the gash there bore testimony to her claim, but clearly she’d been grabbed by the wrists, as well. Grabbed hard. Crushed with more than casual force.

The picture formed before he could stop it, heinous, damning. Bethany as a cold-blooded murderer he couldn’t see. But crimes of passion required neither forethought, nor intent. They simply exploded, destroying everything in their path.

Dylan knew that well.

“Did he do this to you?” he demanded, taking her cold hands and turning them palm up. Deep, crescent-shaped gouges in the fleshy part of her palm told him just how tight she was holding on. The discolored thumbprints on the inside of her wrists turned his blood to ice. “Did he hurt you?”

She gazed up at him, her eyes cloudy and confused, her mouth slightly open. She looked lost and alone standing there in nothing but the pale silk robe, like she’d just rolled from bed and found that while she slept, the whole world had slipped away.

“W-what?”

The thought of anyone getting rough with her, hurting her, chased everything else to the background.

“Lance. Did Lance put these bruises around your wrists?”

Slowly, she looked down, as though just now noticing the discoloration. But she said nothing.

His mind worked fast, reenacting the crime with a brutal precision learned from years as a private investigator. He could almost hear Lance and Bethany arguing, the elevated voices, the desperation. Hear her telling him to leave. See his cousin grabbing her wrists and squeezing. Hurting.

“Bethany.” His voice broke on her name. “Did Lance do this to you?” Tell me no, he thought savagely. Tell me no!

She blinked at him. “Would you care if he did?”

Once, he would have killed. “Answer me, damn it!”

“Let go.” The words were soft, but carried unmistakable strength. Strength the girl she’d been had not possessed. Strength that would have threatened the St. Croix prince.

“Maybe the two of you were arguing,” he theorized ruthlessly. He needed to crack through her control, and a toothpick wouldn’t cut it. “Things got out of hand and Lance lost his cool, got rough. Maybe he even found out about—”

“No!” She jerked her hands from his and backed away. “That’s not how it happened.” The wind whipped long locks of hair against her mouth, but this time neither of them moved to slide the silky strands back. “I told you—someone knocked me out when I walked in the door.”

Dylan studied her standing there against the darkness, that skimpy robe falling open at the chest and revealing too much cleavage. He didn’t need to be a seasoned detective to see the secrets in her eyes. The fear. He didn’t need to be a man practiced in seeing through pretenses to notice how badly she trembled.

But he did need Herculean strength to keep his hands off her.

Too damn well, too intimately, he knew how passion could blind and distort, make even the most rational person snap like a sapling in a gale force wind.

He’d just never thought passion played a role in Bethany and Lance’s relationship. The thought, the reality that it might have, made him a little crazy.

“If it was self-defense, you need to tell me.” He tried to speak casually now, to match calm with calm, but the horror was like a rusty stake driven through his core. “If he grabbed you, tossed you around—”

“No—”

“You wanted him to leave,” he pushed on, needing to hear her denial as badly as he’d ever needed anything. Even her. “He wouldn’t. Maybe he grabbed you. You only picked up the fire poker to protect yourself. You never meant to hurt—”

“Stop!” she shouted, lifting a hand as though to physically destroy his nasty scenario.

He caught her wrist, just barely resisting the crazy desire to pull her into his arms. He knew better than putting a snub-nose to his temple.

“I wish I could stop,” he said as levelly as he could. “But I can’t. Don’t you understand what’s going on here? Lance is dead and his blood is on your hands.”

The change came over her visibly, the glacierlike wall she used to separate herself from the world slipping into place with eerie precision. “I don’t owe you any explanations.”

Come back, he wanted to shout, but for the first time Dylan could remember, he envied her the ability to isolate herself from what she felt. He wanted to do that now, to shut himself off from the horror and the rage and the fractured grief that splattered through him like vivid splashes of color all mixed together until nothing was discernable except for dark, jagged smudges.

But lack of feeling was her specialty, not his.

“You may not owe me anything,” he said, “but the cops are a different story.” He glanced toward the door, where Zito stood watching. “And their questions are going to be a hell of a lot harder.”

She lifted her chin in a masterful gesture of cool defiance that was pure Bethany. “If you’re trying to reenact the crime, it’s not going to work. The fire poker is inside.”

The words were soft, but they landed like crashing boulders. He looked down at his big hand manacling her slender wrist, the nasty bruises completely hidden. It was a miracle whoever roughed her up hadn’t snapped the small bone in two. It wouldn’t have taken much extra effort. Just a little pressure—

He let go abruptly and stepped back.

Slowly, Bethany lifted her eyes to his. “Do you really think I’m capable of murder?”

The night fell quiet, so silent he would have sworn he heard the pounding of his heart, the rasp of his breathing. Or maybe that was hers. Theirs.

Everything else faded to the background, Zito waiting in the wings, the ugliness inside. There was no horror or blind rage, no stabbing grief, no crime to be solved, no betrayal to be forgotten. There was only a man and woman, a silent communion he neither understood nor wanted.

He drank in the sight of her standing there, finally allowing himself to look into eyes he’d relegated to the darkest, coldest hours of the night. They were deep and heavy-lidded, fathomless, liquid sapphire framed by full dark lashes. A man could lose himself in those eyes, swirling and serene, but somehow, always, always, lost.

But they were dull now, huge and unfocused, her pupils dilated. Long, tangled brown hair concealed a portion of her face, but not the smear of blood on her left cheekbone. Nor the fact that no tear tracks marred her features.

Because he didn’t want her to see how badly they’d started to shake, Dylan shoved his hands into his pockets. He tore his gaze from hers and let it slide lower, to the silk garment gaping to reveal the swell of her breasts, the indentation of her waist, the curve of her hips. He couldn’t help but wonder about the negligee beneath, whether it would be pristine, as well, or if at least in the bedroom, she’d displayed a little warmth and creativity.

Like she had with him.

Before.

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, “you’re capable of anything you put your mind to.”

Beth curled her fingers into her palms, digging deep. The lingering smell of stale cigarette smoke and scorched coffee burned her eyes and throat; the gash at the back of her head throbbed with every beat of her heart. She wasn’t going to wake up. Two detectives really did sit across from her in the small interrogation room, tossing out one nasty scenario after another, as they’d been doing for over an hour.

“So you invited him over, slipped into that skimpy negligee, and tried to seduce him back into your bed.”

“No.”

“You didn’t like being divorced. You wanted your fancy life back. You were a little desperate. Didn’t enjoy being a has-been, the butt of town gossip, like your mama, is that it?”

“No!” The word burst from her with the force of a bullet. The fact they’d finally thrown her mother into the fray pushed Beth dangerously close to the edge. One way or another, everything always circled back to the notorious Sierra Rae.

They were trying to break her, she knew, rattle her, find some way to make her trip. It was their job.

Dylan didn’t have the same excuse.

“This has nothing to do with Mrs. St. Croix’s mother,” Janine White bit out. A longtime friend of Lance’s, then of Beth’s, the attorney had met her at the station without hesitation. The women who’d laughed over martinis sat side by side in the small room, cups of bitter coffee and a tape recorder separating them from detectives Paul Zito and Harry Livingston.

Detective Zito picked up his pencil. “Just trying to establish motivation.”

“There is no motivation,” Janine shot back, “because you’re talking to an innocent woman. Beth did not kill Lance.”

Gratitude squeezed through the icy tightness in Beth’s chest. Janine’s sleek white evening gown made her look more like an Amazon priestess than a savvy attorney, but she had a reputation for being as tough as nails. Even now she appeared amazingly composed, the red rimming her eyes the only evidence of tears Beth knew she’d shed.

“Did you and Mr. St. Croix have intercourse today?”

The question might as well have been a knife. It sliced deep, robbing Beth of breath. Disgust bled through.

Janine recovered first. “This woman’s ex-husband has been murdered!” she said, surging up and slamming her palms down on the table. “What the hell are you trying to prove?”

“You know damn well what I’m trying to do,” Detective Livingston drawled, turning his stony eyes to Beth. “Did he take what you offered and walk away? You felt used and hurt and ran after him—”

“That’s disgusting,” Beth bit out.

The balding detective frowned. “Murder is.”

Beth sucked in a sharp breath, trying not to splinter despite how effectively the detectives thrust the battering ram. For nine years she’d done her best to live a quiet, simple life. She didn’t want the spotlight Lance had developed a fondness for. She didn’t want the passion that propelled her mother from marriage to affair to marriage. To affair. She didn’t want the chaos Dylan created without even trying.

“A husband who loves me and a couple of kids, that’s all I want.”

“That’s all?”

“Well, maybe a house in the mountains, a couple of dogs and cats, some goldfish.”

The innocence of that long ago day burned. At the time, she would never have imagined how quickly things could fall apart, that within a month she’d tell Dylan that she’d never loved him, never wanted to see him again. That she would lay her hand against the tiniest casket she’d ever seen. That Lance would sit quietly beside her hour after hour, listening to her cry her heart out. That Dylan would leave town, but Lance would stay. That she wouldn’t see Dylan again for three long years, until the day she pledged her life to his cousin.

That Lance would become blinded by ambition.

That she would be sterile.

That the marriage she’d been so determined to make work would crumble.

That Dylan would suddenly reappear in her life.

That Lance would one day lie dead on the living room floor.

That the fire poker would be in her hands.

“Beth?” Janine asked, touching her hand. “Are you okay?”

She blinked, a steely resolve spreading through her. Slowly, she looked up, meeting Detective Livingston’s hard gaze. “I didn’t have sex with him today, this week, this month, or even this year. And I didn’t kill him.”

The older man leaned forward and steepled his fingers. “Then maybe you’d like to tell me why you were in a negligee.”

“She’s already told you she doesn’t know,” Janine reminded.

“So she’s said.” This from Detective Zito, the tall, strikingly handsome man who’d stood in the shadows with Dylan.

“What about your wrists?” he asked, flipping through the pages of his small notebook. “Who put those bracelets there?”

Beth looked at the nasty purplish bruises, but saw only Dylan’s hands curled around her flesh. “I don’t know.” The claim sounded weak, but she spoke the truth. “I had no reason to kill him. We were divorced. There were no hard feelings.”

“You wouldn’t be the first woman to strike out at the man who walked out on her,” Livingston pointed out.

The pale green walls of the cramped room pushed closer. “That’s not how it happened.”

“Refill anyone?” Detective Zito asked, crossing to pick up the coffeepot.

Beth looked at the paper cup sitting in front of her, its contents long cold. She’d barely taken a sip. The mere smell of the burned coffee made her gag.

“Guess not.” He filled his cup and returned to the table. “Did your husband have any enemies?”

“He worked for the district attorney’s office,” Janine answered for her, practically snarling at Zito. “You know that. He was a prosecutor.” Just like Janine was. If Beth was arrested, Janine would be unable to help in an official capacity. “We all have enemies. It’s a hazard of the job.”

“Anyone in particular? Had he received any threatening phone calls or letters?”

“Not that I know of,” Beth said, but then, she and Lance had rarely spoken of that kind of thing. Toward the end, they’d barely spoken at all. She’d lost herself in her work at Girls Unlimited, a center for underprivileged teenage girls, and Lance had worked ungodly hours as one of Portland’s leading prosecutors. His political future had never burned brighter.

“That’s quite a security system you’ve got at the house,” Zito went on. “Was he worried about someone coming after him?”

Obviously, the detective hadn’t known the man whose murder he investigated. “Lance wasn’t scared of anything or anyone. He was born a St. Croix. It never occurred to him that something bad could happen to him.”

“And you?” Zito asked. “Did the thought occur to you?”

Icy fingers of certainty curled through her. “Bad times don’t discriminate. They touch us all.”

“Even the St. Croixs?”

“Yes, even the St. Croixs.” Especially one in particular. But then, Dylan preferred it that way. He’d caused an uproar by dropping out of law school six months before graduation, opting for private investigations rather over the formal justice system. His grandfather the judge had been furious, and while Lance had put on a good show, she knew he’d secretly embraced the opportunity to outshine his black sheep cousin.

Beth stiffened, shaken by the direction of her thoughts. She had no business thinking of Dylan now. No business remembering. He was a living, breathing reminder of mistakes she’d give almost anything to erase. Fire burned. Fire always, always burned.

“I’ve told you everything I know,” she said, and stood. The room spun like a tilt-a-whirl, prompting her to brace a hand against the chair. The two detectives looked at her oddly, Janine in concern.

“It’s late, I’m tired and my head is pounding.” And she was afraid she was going to be sick. Gingerly, she lifted a hand to the gash at the back of her head, but rather than feeling her fingers, she felt Dylan’s. Gentle. Disturbing. “I’d like to go now.”

“We’re not done—” Livingston started, but Zito cut him off.

“Don’t leave town without letting me know first.”

She hardly recognized the woman in the mirror. Beth stared at the pale mouth and dark eyes in the reflection, and felt her throat tighten. Cupping her hands, she returned them to the stream of cold water running from the faucet, then lifted them to her face. Over. And over. Only when two female patrol officers strolled into the bathroom, laughing, did she stop.

Very quietly, very deliberately, she patted her face dry and slung her purse over her shoulder, walked out the door.

She saw him the second she stepped from the elevator. He stood not ten feet away, talking on his mobile phone and slicing a hand violently through the air. He had his back to her, but she didn’t need to see the hard lines of his face to recognize him. She always felt him first, that low hum deep inside, followed by a tightening of her chest.

Somehow, she kept walking.

“No, damn it,” she heard him bark. “Let me handle this.”

Her heart revved and stalled. Handle what?, she couldn’t help wondering. Her? It didn’t matter. She’d—

“Beth, wait!”

She stiffened and, though she wanted to keep going, had no choice but to stop. “Janey,” she said, turning to her friend. “I appreciate all you did for me. I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything important.”

“Don’t think twice about it.” Janine took Beth’s hands and squeezed. “How are you holding up? I know things weren’t great between the two of you, but this has to be hard.”

Her throat tightened. Janine was Lance’s friend first, but in her soft voice and expressive brown eyes, Beth found a concern that almost undid her. “I didn’t do it,” she whispered.

“Of course you didn’t,” came a rough masculine voice.

Beth barely had time to turn before the man was beside her, pulling her into his arms. “I just heard, Beth. I’m so sorry.”

The hug caught her off guard. As district attorney, Kent English had been both Lance’s mentor and friend. And though she and Kent had been cordial, the man whose place the media had speculated Lance would soon take had never touched her beyond a handshake. Now the embattled D.A. skimmed a hand along her back in a gesture that should have been comforting.

But wasn’t.

Instantly, she looked across the hall and found Dylan watching her through the most scorched-earth eyes she’d ever seen. Her chest tightened, and her heart started to thrum. The breath stalled in her throat. The truth disturbed.

This hug. This embrace. It was what she’d wanted from Dylan the second she’d seen him standing on the patio, to feel his arms around her, his body against hers. To just lean against him and be held.

She’d be safer dancing naked in a bonfire.

“Thank you,” she said against Kent’s chest, struggling to free herself. His arms suddenly felt like a net, sending panic twisting through her. She needed to get away. Not from the cops or Kent, but from Dylan and those hard, penetrating eyes.

Kent, a shrewd politician with a well-earned reputation for cutting throats and breaking hearts, didn’t try to stop her, just stepped back and frowned. For a man rumored to be on his way out, he still held himself with commanding presence.

“I’ll have Livingston’s badge for putting you through this. Anyone who knows you knows you couldn’t hurt a flea.”

Involuntarily, Beth looked toward the end of the hall, only to find Dylan gone.

“Thanks for coming down,” she said, turning back to Lance’s colleagues. “It means a lot to me.”

Kent pulled her in for another quick hug and Janine did her best to smile. Beth bade them good-night, then crossed the lobby to the front door. A few uniformed cops lingered by a counter, talking in loud tones. A woman rushed inside, demanding to know where her Donny was. Across the room, a young girl with ratty hair and torn clothes yelled to anyone who would listen.

Pushing open the glass door, Beth welcomed the blast of cool night air.

“Mrs. St. Croix!” came a shouted voice, as a crowd of reporters rushed up the steps. “Mrs. St. Croix, can you tell us what happened?”

Flashbulbs exploded around her. Microphones were jammed toward her. “Do they have any suspects?”

“Was the murder weapon really a fire poker?”

Beth tried to turn away, but the swarm had circled her.

“Did you really find his body?”

Revulsion surged through her. She saw the collective gleam in the eyes of the reporters, the thirst for a story with no regard for the fact that the roadkill they picked apart was someone’s world. She’d worked hard to keep her personal life private, but when Lance went to work for the district attorney’s office, anonymity became a luxury of the past. He’d thrived on the adulation, fed off it. And the press had fallen in love. He was the grandson of a wealthy state judge, he was handsome, and everyone believed it only a matter of time before he capitalized on his popularity and ran for public office, starting with D.A. The press had been having a field day with rumors about English stepping down, Lance taking over.

No one was quite sure why.

But now the golden boy was dead; murdered, she thought with a sharp stab, and the media he’d used so shamelessly wanted to know why.

“I have no comment,” Beth said. No intention of telling them anything. Even words of innocence could be twisted into stones of condemnation.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, trying to push through the tight circle of reporters.

“Did you kill him?”

The question stopped Beth cold. Yvonne Kelly, an investigative reporter whose love of going for the jugular Lance had always admired, pushed her way to the front. The wind blew pale hair into her face. Her eyes glittered.

“Was it a crime of passion?” she asked icily. “Is that how you ended up with blood on your hands?”

Control shattered. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you—” she started, but the crowd erupted into a frenzy of shouts and curses and shoving before she could finish. Someone screamed. Flashes of light ricocheted through the darkness. She heard a low roar, then the sound of something smashing violently to the concrete.

“You can’t do that!” a reporter shouted.

“Watch me.” Dylan broke from the throng and pushed to her side, hooked an arm around her waist without breaking his stride. “Sorry, folks, but this feeding frenzy is over. Ms. St. Croix has no comment.”

Disappointment tittered through the reporters, but the swarm instantly loosened, obeying Dylan’s command like he was some fallen deity and the price of going against him was eternal damnation. He led her down the steps, his stride long and purposeful. Determined. She almost had to run to keep up with him. He never looked back, just kept his arm around her waist and guided her to the dark SUV at the curb.

He opened the passenger door and grabbed a bulging file from the bucket seat. “Get in.”

Beth hesitated. The interior of the black Bronco looked as dark and isolating as a cave, and once inside, they’d be completely alone. Just the two of them. No outside interference. Just like that cold night at the cabin, the terrible mistake that still had her jerking awake in the middle of the night, heart hammering, chest tight, body burning from his touch.

She didn’t want that. Lance was dead. She was a suspect. There was no room for the chaos that was Dylan in her world. Hadn’t been for a long time. She’d worked hard to carve him from her life, her dreams. But God help her, because of one mindless slip, he’d stepped out of those shadowy, forbidden images and into the worst nightmare of her life.

And Yvonne Kelly was closing in fast.

“We don’t have all night,” Dylan prompted.

Beth cut him a sharp look then slipped into the Bronco. In a heartbeat he had the door closed and was sliding into the driver’s seat, effectively shutting them off from the world. Through the tinted windows, Beth saw Yvonne Kelly hit the sidewalk at a run, but the engine purred to life and they tore from the curb with a shriek of tires.

Her heart raced as fast as the blur of buildings and cars they passed. He took a right curve too fast, then another, then swerved onto the side of the deserted road and threw the gear into park. A few cars lined the street, but no activity, and very little light. They were behind the police station, she realized. Not far away, but completely out of sight.

“You sure do know how to attract a crowd, sweetheart.”

The insolent words brought her back to familiar territory. Or at least, remembered territory. For a few dizzying minutes, Dylan had seemed more stranger than one-man wrecking crew. In his touch, she’d felt a protectiveness she didn’t remember. In his rough-hewn voice, she’d heard a strain she hadn’t understood. This bold, in-your-face proclamation was much more suited to the man she’d foolishly given her heart so long ago.

Little light made its way from the street lamp through the tinted windows, leaving only the blue glow from the dashboard to cast his face in shadow. He watched her intently, his six-foot-two frame dominating the front seat. She could hardly move without touching him.

She didn’t want to touch him.

She hadn’t wanted to spend the night at the cabin with him, either. She’d driven to the mountains after an emotional appointment with her doctor, in search of peace and quiet, to clear her mind. Instead, she’d found Dylan. She hadn’t realized he spent weekends there, at the St. Croix retreat. She hadn’t known the snow would make the roads impassable. She hadn’t anticipated all the memories closing in on her, the nightmare that had pinned her to the bed, waking up to find Dylan by her side, so big and strong, so…gentle. That had been new. Or maybe just an illusion. A dream. A wish. Regardless, it had shredded every remaining particle of her defenses.

Until she’d awoken just before sunrise, sprawled over his big hot body, their legs tangled, his arm draped possessively over her waist.

She’d wanted to cry.

Even now, weeks later, she could hardly believe the gravity of her mistake. She should have been able to tell him no. Tell herself no. She should have been able to resist that keening deep inside, the acute longing to feel his arms around her. It was tempting to make up some excuse like she’d been confused, hadn’t realized what she was doing. But that was a lie, and she knew it. She’d known. And she’d wanted. Badly. That was the problem. Being with Dylan went against everything she believed in, violated the life she’d built. And still, she’d given herself to him.

Still, she’d given.

Never again, she’d promised herself on the cold, slick drive down the mountain. Never, never again would she let herself give in to the kind of desire that burned everything in its path. Passion was intoxicating, but it never, never lasted.

Believing otherwise only led to pain.

She had to focus on Lance now, couldn’t let her irrational reaction to Dylan blur her focus all over again.

“Thirsty?” he asked.

She blinked. “What?”

“Good old-fashioned H₂O,” he said, offering her the plastic bottle from his cup holder. “It’s nothing fancy and a little warm now, but it’s better than you passing out on me.”

She stared at his big, scarred hand, but rather than seeing those capable fingers wrapped around clear plastic, she saw them closed around her wrist. She’d felt the strength of his grip, but an unmistakable tenderness, as well.

It had been the tenderness that made her lash out.

Now she forced herself to look from the hand that could play her body like a song, to the hard line of his mouth and those eyes so deep and dark. And for a shattering moment, she didn’t see the uncompromising man who wanted to know if she’d killed the cousin who shared his last name but not his life.

She saw what she’d remembered on the mountain, the reckless boy he’d been, the one who’d coaxed her from her safe little world and made her want to be a little bad. Daring. To take chances she’d never even considered. And from that mirage came the crazy desire to lean closer and soak up the warmth of his body, to feel his arms close around her and hear his rough-hewn voice promise everything would be okay.

But that was impossible, and she knew it.

With Dylan St. Croix, nothing was ever okay.

“No, thanks,” she said, reaching for the door. “I don’t need you charging in and playing hero.” She’d learned the hard way that leaning on Dylan St. Croix was like leaning on a volcano ready to blow. And if she forgot, she had only to drive thirty minutes south of town, where two cold tombstones stood in silent reminder. “I can take care of myself.”

Curling her fingers around the handle, she pulled.

But the door didn’t budge.

“This isn’t a game,” came Dylan’s dangerously quiet voice from behind her. He reached across the passenger’s seat and pulled her hand from the door. “And I’m sure as hell not doing this for fun.”

“Then let me go.”

“I can’t.”

She turned to face him. Only inches separated them, making her painfully aware of the whiskers shadowing the uncompromising line of his mouth. “Yes, you can.”

“Lance is dead, Bethany, and you’re just barely hanging on. Queen Cutthroat was ready to crucify you. What kind of man would I be if I just melted into the shadows?”

The breath stalled in her throat. His words were soft, silky, but the warning rang clear. She sat there crowded against the seat, stunned, struggling to breathe without drawing the drugging scent of sandalwood and clove deep within her. Not only was he still holding her hand, but his body was pressed to hers, seemingly absorbing every heartbeat, every breath.

“It’s a little late,” she said slowly, deliberately, “to pretend you care what anyone else thinks about you.”

The light in his eyes went dark. “I’ll say it one more time.” He let go of her hand, but didn’t ease away. “I don’t do games. I don’t do hero. And I sure as hell don’t pretend. That was always your specialty.”

The pain was swift and immediate, driving home the truth. Dylan St. Croix had a penchant for streaking into her life like a shooting star, big and blazing and beautiful, but he’d never really known her. Never understood her. Never loved her. He’d just wanted her. In his arms and in his bed, but not in his heart.

“No,” she said, hoping he couldn’t hear the ragged edge to her breathing. “You just blaze along seeing how many applecarts you can knock over.”

He didn’t retreat as she’d hoped, didn’t pull back to his side of the car. “Sometimes that’s the only way to separate the good fruit from the bad.”

“And what am I?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“It’s not for me to decide.”

“Then why won’t you let me go?”

His lips thinned. “I’ve already told you, Bethany, I’m not into standing on the sidelines and watching someone get raked over the coals. Not even you. I’m not that cold.”

There was a rough edge to his voice, a hoarseness that hadn’t been there before. “I never thought you were cold.”

“What about Lance?” he asked, leaning closer. “Did you think he was cold?”

The urge to pull away engulfed her, but with her back against the locked door, she had nowhere to go. Instead, she reached for the blanket of numbness.

“I don’t want to talk about Lance.”

Dylan lifted a hand to her face, violating the space she’d put between them by skimming his index finger beneath her eyes. “You haven’t cried.”

She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. No way would she tell him she was all cried out, that before that ill-fated night on the mountain, the last tear had spilled from her eyes the night before she married Lance, when she’d awoken with the remembered touch of Dylan’s hands on her body.

“Crying doesn’t help, Dylan. Crying doesn’t change a damn thing.” She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting Dylan to see truths she couldn’t hide. Not even from herself.

She realized her mistake too late. A woman should never close her eyes on Dylan St. Croix. Never turn her back to him. Never give him an advantage to press. Because he would.

Dylan St. Croix never turned down the killing blow.

Out of the darkness his mouth came down on hers, and just like that explosive, snowbound night in the cabin, the bottom fell out from her world.