too, or I’d have you naked and I’d already be so deep inside you . . .” He raked her skin with his teeth. “It’s going to happen sooner or later anyway, duchess.”
For a minute, she let herself believe him. Let herself believe it could happen. Believe it would.
But then reality came crashing down on her, and she made herself think about what was really going to happen sooner or later. In a matter of weeks, she’d be married to Patrick Whitmore if she didn’t find the proof she needed before then. If she didn’t find it, then she’d marry him and keep on looking until she found it.
Either she’d find it . . . and get away from him.
Or she’d end up dead when he discovered what she was up to.
In all likelihood, the second option was what would happen.
She dreamed too often of her death, death at the hands of a violent, angry man who hated her.
She knew how likely it was if he discovered what she was up to. There was no point in pretending otherwise, and no point in trying to think up other options. Every time she did that, she ended up having to talk herself out of running. She couldn’t run away from this. Too many girls had already died, and if she didn’t do something . . . who would?
Big, strong arms came around her, and a gentle hand stroked her back. She didn’t even realize she’d collapsed against him, her head against his shoulder, gripping him tight and close as though she never wanted him to leave.
She didn’t. This man she’d seen exactly twice.
Yet some part of her felt as though she knew him . . .
Joss.
The dream.
“What’s wrong, duchess?”
She shivered as he whispered it, his lips pressed against her neck as he spoke.
“Whatever is wrong with you, calling me that?” she said, swallowing around the knot that had lodged in her throat. Easing away from him, she eyed him nervously before glancing around. Nobody could see them from here, unless of course Patrick had managed to stash his men in the hotel. Not likely, that.
“I dunno. Seems to suit you. The accent. The way you carry yourself . . . all smooth and elegant.” He touched his finger to her lip. “What scares you?”
“I don’t see how that could suit me,” she said faintly, ignoring the last part of his question as she tugged her tank down.
“Why are you afraid?” he asked, putting himself in her way.
With a brittle smile, she shook her head. “I’m not afraid,” she lied.
“Don’t lie to me. You know as well as I do, it doesn’t work. You’re terrified, damn it. Why?”
Dru shook her head. “It doesn’t do any good to talk about it. You can’t help anyway. I must go.”
Part of her questioned why she wasn’t furious with him—this was a stranger. She didn’t know him. But all she could think about was how much she wished she could stay. How much she longed to go back to him . . . lean against him, touch him. Taste him. Take him.
But when he reached for her, she evaded him.
“Meet me here tomorrow,” he said flatly.
“No.” She continued to back away, glancing around for signs that one of Patrick’s men might have caught up with her. Nothing. There was a shiny black car in the parking lot of the Waffle House across the street, but it wasn’t one of Patrick’s. If it was, she’d know. She’d feel it somehow.
“Dru, talk to me.”
She shot him another look. Then, finally, fury and frustration sparked inside her, and she glared at him as it bubbled over and spilled out. “Stop. Damn you, why couldn’t you have come into my life a year ago? Two years ago? Why now? I can’t have you now.”
Without bothering to explain, she took off running.
She was torn between hoping he’d follow, and praying he wouldn’t.
* * *
I can’t have you now—
The utter heartbreak in her words was enough to gut him.
He went to take off after her, but a strange burning tingle down his spine stopped him. The chiming tone from his phone two seconds later had him swearing.
Now.
Of course, now Jones comes on the scene. Still staring at Dru’s back, he pushed a thought toward her. He didn’t know if it would work—he didn’t know what her skill set was, but Jillian’s was strong enough, he should be able to make a corpse hear him.