I pulled off my silver and dropped it on the dressing table, unbuckled and flipped off my shoes, yanked the scarf out of my belt loops and pulled off my t-shirt. I took out my barrette and arranged my hair up in a messy bunch on top of my head.
I didn’t know how long it took to “scan the neighborhood” and park the Porsche but, considering Luke was likely thorough in his job, I figured it would take awhile. Therefore, I thought I was safe (and alone) in the house for that while.
What could I say? I’d just been kidnapped by beefy, Italian, bad guys. I wasn’t thinking clearly.
I walked barefoot in my jeans and teddy-type-thing to the bathroom, stood at the sink and looked in the mirror.
“Fuck,” I said to myself.
You can say that again, Bad Ava agreed.
You shouldn’t curse, even if you have been kidnapped. It isn’t very ladylike, Good Ava chastised.
I ignored both of them, pulled open my medicine cabinet and got my contact solution. I had just readied the case with solution when I saw a movement at the bathroom door.
I whirled and shrieked (yes, girlie shrieked), my hand coming up to my chest.
Luke stood there.
Okay, so, maybe it didn’t take long to scan the neighborhood. And I was seeing that I should have probably closed the bathroom door.
Luke’s eyes were on my torso and, even standing all the way across the bathroom, I could tell they were ink.
Ho-ly shit.
I turned back to the sink, trying to be cool. It wasn’t like I was na**d or anything. In fact, I had dresses that I wore out in public that showed more skin.
I leaned into the mirror and pulled open an eye with one hand, my index finger of the other up and at the ready to take out the contact.
Luke materialized behind me in the mirror. Close behind me.
I poked myself in the eye.
After I quit blinking, I glared at him. I was certain he’d be laughing or at least giving me a half-grin.
He was not. His mind was clearly on other things. I knew this when his hand, fingers splayed, hit my side and slid around my midriff. His eyes watched its movement in the mirror.
My knees did a little wobble.
“We need to make up the futon,” I told him, deciding to pretend the wobble didn’t happen.
“Why?” he asked.
“So you can sleep there,” I replied and successfully (thank God) pulled out the contact.
“I’m sleepin’ with you,” he said, his hand sliding further across my midriff toward my other side, which meant to accommodate its motion, my body moved back into his.
“No you aren’t.”
“Yes I am.”
“Luke, I don’t want to argue about this.”
His eyes moved to mine in the mirror. “Then don’t.”
Shit. How did you respond to that?
My head dropped and I started cleaning my contact in my palm and widened my net to try and pretend everything else that was happening to my body wasn’t happening (rapid heartbeat, blood warming, ni**les hardening). Not just the knee wobble.