rickety plastic jobbies that you normally found in clinics; it was like something out of Pottery Barn, padded, cozy, and with a nice pattern. As he sat down, he didn’t fit in it, and not because he was overweight. He was too big, his powerful body dwarfing its arms and back, his clothes too black for the pale color—
There were bloodstains on his jacket, brown and dried. And on his shirt. His pants.
“Do not look upon that,” he said softly. “Here. For you, I chose only the best.”
Lifting up the cloche, he revealed …
“Where the hell am I?” she demanded as she leaned in and breathed deep. “Does, like, Jean-Georges have a medical division or something?”
“Who is this Jean-Georges?”
“Some fancy chef in New York City. I heard about him on Food Network.” She sat up, wincing as her thigh let out a hey-girlie. “I don’t even like roast beef—but that looks amazing.”
“I thought the iron would be good for you.”
The slab of beef was beautifully cooked, with a crust that cracked as he cut into it with—
“Are those sterling silver?” she wondered at the fork, the knife—the spoon that was still on a fancy folded napkin.
“Eat.” He brought a precisely cut piece to her mouth. “Eat for me.”
Without any prompting, her mouth opened on its own, like it was going to have none of the I-can-feed-myself delays.
Closing her eyes, she groaned. Yeah, she wasn’t hungry. Not at all.
“This is the single best thing I have ever eaten.”
The smile that lit his face made no sense. It was too bright to be just about her having some grub—and he must have known this, because he turned his head so she only saw a flash of the expression.
For the next fifteen, twenty minutes, the only sounds in the room, apart from the whistling heating vents, was that luxe silverware hitting a porcelain plate. And yup, in spite of her oh-no-I-couldn’t-possiblies, she ate that huge slice of beef, and the scalloped potatoes, and the creamed spinach. As well as the dinner roll that surely was homemade. And the peach cobbler. And she even had some of the chilled bottled water and the coffee that came in a carafe.
She probably would have eaten the napkin, the tray, all that sterling and the rolling table if given the chance.
Collapsing back against the pillow, she put her hand over her belly. “I think I’m going to explode.”
“I shall just put this out in the hall. Pardon me.”
From her vantage point, she measured every move he made: the way he stood up, gripped the sides of the tray in long, elegant hands, turned away, walked smoothly.
Talk about your table manners. He’d handled the silver with a genteel flare, as if he used that kind of thing in his own home. And he hadn’t spilled a drop as he’d poured her coffee. Or missed any food getting into her mouth.
A perfect gentleman.
Hard to reconcile it with what she’d seen as he’d handed her the cell phone to speak with her grandmother. Then, he’d been unhinged, with blood running down his chin as if he’d taken a hunk out of someone. His hands, too, had been red with blood …
Considering she’d killed everyone in that horrible place before she’d left? He’d obviously brought someone up with him.
Oh, God … she was a murderer.
Assail came back in and sat down, crossing his legs at the knee, not ankle to thigh as men usually did. Steepling his hands, he brought them to his mouth and stared at her.
“You killed him, didn’t you,” she said softly.
“Who.”
“Benloise.”
His magnetic gaze drifted elsewhere. “We shall not speak of it. Any of it.”
Sola took elaborate care folding the top edge of the blanket down. “I can’t … I can’t pretend that last night didn’t happen.”
“You’re going to have to.”
“I killed two men.” She flipped her eyes up to his and blinked fast. “I killed … two human beings. Oh, God…”
Covering her face, she tried to keep her head together.
“Marisol…” There was a squeak as if he’d moved that Pottery Barn chair even closer. “Darling, you must put it from your mind.”
“Two men…”
“Animals,” he said sharply. “They were animals who deserved worse. All of them.”
Lowering her hands, she was not surprised that his expression was deadly, but she wasn’t scared of him. She was, however, frightened of what she’d done.
“I can’t get…” She gestured at the side of her head. “I can’t get the pictures out of my—”
“Block them, darling. Just forget it ever happened.”
“I can’t. Ever.