“Showing you.” She fished through her purse until her fingers lighted on the pen. Why, she wondered again, was it so freaking important to him?
“Here,” she said, thrusting it toward him.
He took the pen, his fingers grazing hers. It was hard to believe that the same hand touched her days ago, making her ache with longing. How could she have been so wrong about him?
For a moment X just stared at the pen. Then, grasping both ends, he tugged until it came apart in two.
Shocked, Kit saw that it wasn’t a pen at all—or at least on the inside it wasn’t. There was a flash drive where the cartridge should have been. So he had broken into her apartment—and snatched the flash drive in her drawer. He’d been looking for the one she’d mistakenly switched with hers. Maybe he used it to keep track of identity data he stole from people.
“So that’s what I’m supposed to buy?” X said, as he thrust the pen back together. “That you picked up my pen out of pure curiosity and accidentally switched it with yours?”
The truth finally hit her. He thought she had targeted him, that she was some kind of con artist herself, and had been after his stash of information. Oh, that was rich, she thought, anger suddenly overriding her fear. The grifter who’d put her through hell over the past few weeks was accusing her of being no better than him.
“You can’t honestly believe that I accepted your dinner invitation so you’d ask me back to your room and I could steal your secret pen? And if I had stolen it, why would I show up for a second date with you?”
“Then what you’re saying is that you’re just a run-of-the-mill busybody?” he said, practically sneering.
“Call it whatever you want. But if you must know, I—I was just struck by the fact that I had the same pen as yours and I took mine out to compare it. Stupidly, I . . .” She let the words trail off.
“What?”
“Stupidly I thought it meant that there was some kind of—I don’t know—connection between the two of us.”
He raised his chin, studying her, weighing her words.
“You don’t look like the type of girl who would bother with a fancy fountain pen,” he said coolly.
She hated the thought of sharing anything personal with him, but she needed him to believe her. That might be the only way to get him to go. “It was a present from my father, years ago. I almost never use it, but I always keep it with me.”
She saw his shoulders release, as if he’d lowered his guard a hair.
“And what about my pen?” she asked. Maybe she was crazy to ask, to rock the boat in any way, but she wanted it back.
“We’ll have to see about that.” He glanced toward the kitchen area behind him. “What have you got to drink around here, in the way of booze?”
Oh no, she thought. This wasn’t over. He had the flash drive, but he wasn’t budging.
“Nothing really.”
“Nothing?”
“Just some white wine—in the fridge. But, please, you have what you want. Can’t you just leave now?”
“In a minute.”
Did he mean it? And would he go without hurting her? She knew more about him now, knew that he was in New York, knew where he stored his information. Surely he would realize she’d share all of it with the cops the moment he departed.
He stepped toward the refrigerator, yanked open the door, and scanned the inside. Then he tugged the bottle of Pinot Grigio from a pocket on the door.
“Corkscrew?” he asked.
“In that drawer,” she said, nodding toward it.
He popped out the cork, drew two glasses from the cabinet, and splashed wine into each. Her anger surged back.
“I don’t want any wine,” she said.
“Well, I hope you don’t mind if I do. It’s been a tough couple of weeks.”
“Would it matter if I minded?” she asked, her voice tinged with resentment. “You thought nothing of taking all my other stuff.”
His expression darkened.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“What do you think I mean? Friday night. When you broke in here.”
“Are you saying you were burglarized?”
“I’m not a fool. I know it was you. And it wasn’t the first time. You snuck around in here a week ago as well, didn’t you?”
“It wasn’t me. I’ve never been inside this place before now.” He swung his gaze around the room, as if the walls could tell him something. “What