Lover at Last (Black Dagger Brotherhood #11) - J.R. Ward Page 0,212

reaction.

Except he was talking about his name, wasn’t he? Yes, that was it. “It’s…unexpected.”

“Give me yours.” He issued the command without letting go. “Please.”

As he waited, as he held her hand, as they breathed together, she realized that sometimes there were things even more intimate than sex.

“Marisol. But people call me Sola.”

He purred. Purred. “I shall call you Marisol.”

And didn’t that fit. God, in that accent…he turned what she had been called all her life into a poem.

Sola pulled her hand out of his and put it in her lap. But her eyes stayed right on him: His expression was one of arrogance, and she got the impression that that was an unconscious default, not anything to do with her. His hair seemed impossibly thick, and undoubtedly styled with product—nothing merely human could keep that perfect wave off his forehead like that. And his cologne? Forget about it. Whatever the hell it was, she was nearly getting high off the incredible scent.

Between those good looks, that body, and all his brains? She was willing to bet the house on the fact that his life was one big world-is-my-oyster sport.

“So tell me about this visitor of yours,” he said.

As he waited, his chin lowered, and he stared at her from under his lids.

So not a surprise he had killed someone.

She shrugged. “I have no idea. My grandmother just said the man had dark hair and deep-set eyes….” She frowned, noticing that his irises were as always that moonlight color—the kind of thing that just didn’t seem possible in nature. Contacts? she wondered. “She—ah, she didn’t mention a name, but he must have been polite—if he hadn’t been, I would have heard about it and then some. Oh—and he spoke to her in Spanish.”

“Is there anyone who would be looking for you?”

Sola shook her head. “I don’t talk about this house—ever. Most people don’t even know my real name. That’s why I thought it was you—who else…I mean, nobody else has ever come here but you.”

“There is no one in your past?”

Exhaling, she glanced around the kitchen; then scooped the napkins out of the caddy and rearranged them. “I don’t know….”

With the life she led? It could be any number of people.

“Do you have a security alarm here?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You should assume he is dangerous until proven otherwise.”

“I agree.” As the man—Assail, that was, reached into his coat, she shook her head. “No cigars. I told you—”

He made an exaggerated show of extracting a gold pen and holding it up. Then he took one of the napkins she’d just fiddled with and wrote down a seven-digit phone number.

“You will call me if he comes again.” He slid the flat square across the table, but kept his forefinger right by the numerals. “And I shall take care of it.”

Sola got up too fast, her chair squeaking. Instantly, she froze and looked to the ceiling. When there were no sounds from above, she reminded herself to keep it down.

She paced over to the stove quietly. Came back again. Paid a visit to the back door onto the porch. Came back again. “Look, I don’t need your help. I appreciate it—”

As she turned around to take the route to the stove again, he was right in front of her. Gasping, she jumped—she hadn’t even heard him move—

His chair was in the same position it had been when he’d sat in it.

Not like hers, pushed aside.

“What…” She fell silent, her mind spinning. Surely, she was not about to ask him what he was—

As he reached out and cupped her face, she knew she would have had trouble saying no to anything he suggested.

“You will call me,” he commanded, “and I shall come to you.”

The words were so low they nearly warped, his voice deep…so very deep.

Pride formed a protest in her brain, but her mouth refused to speak it. “All right,” she said.

Now he smiled, his lips curling upward. God, his canines were sharp, and longer than she remembered.

“Marisol,” he purred. “A beautiful name.”

As he started to lean in to her, subtle pressure on her jaw lifted her chin. Oh, no, hell, no, she should not be doing this. Not in this house. Not with a man like him…

Screw it. With a sigh of surrender, she closed her eyes and lifted her mouth to accept his—

“Sola! Sola, what you doing down there!”

They both froze—and instantly, Sola regressed to the age of thirteen.

“Nothing!” she called out.

“Who is with you?”

“No one—it’s the television!”

Three…two…one…“That does not sound like no