Page 23 of The Plunge

Chapter 11

Libby

We haven't spoken much since he led me inside the house. I'm torn between being terrified, annoyed, and... weirdly attracted to him.

Given the circumstances, I can probably count my blessings that I was taken by a man like Keane. A man whose sexual appeal is undeniable, a man who drew my attention right from the start. It feels like fate is playing a cruel little game with me by sending this man to confuse me with a blend of attraction and terror.

He insists he wasn't the one who took the shot that ruined my shoulder, and I believe him even though it wasn't as easy to believe as the fact that the bullet that hit me in front of the elevator was meant for my uncle and not me.

But if neither of those bullets was meant to hit me, why does he say that he fears for my life?

"You're here because I don't want to see you dead."

Our conversation ended with that simple and shocking sentence because I was too dumbfounded to come up with a reply before he turned away and led the way into the little cottage. It's a small two-story house with thick stone walls painted in white and dark roofing tiles. The first floor consists of one big living room with an open kitchen tucked beneath the stairs that lead up to the second floor.

He told me to sit on the sofa so he can keep an eye on me while he prepares us something to eat. So I'm sitting at the far end of the room, awkwardly hugging myself with one arm while I watch him make sandwiches for us.

As if we were a couple on a weekend getaway.

He was adamant about me not lifting a finger, insisting I was useless anyway. That's not entirely true because I was lucky enough to be shot in my left shoulder, leaving my strong side totally intact and capable. But I'm not unhappy about having a moment to sit and relax. The drive wore me out even though I wasn't the one driving. And I can feel the pain medication wearing off, reminding me that—despite the obvious improvement I've managed over just a couple of days—my shoulder is still in pretty bad shape.

"You said you don't want to see me dead," I say, my voice barely strong enough to carry across the room. "How do you feel about seeing me in pain?"

He glances at me while adding cheese to the slices of wheat bread he's laid out. "Is that your way of asking me for some pain meds?"

He sounds annoyed but only slightly so.

"Are you in pain?" he asks.

Something else is marking his voice this time, something that warms my heart in a way that it shouldn't.

Worry. He worries about me. His words aren't the only hint in that direction.

But why?

I nod. "The meds from the IV are starting to wear off."

He nods, lowering his gaze back to the task at hand.

"I have some stuff here," he says. "I’ll get it for you after we eat."

"What is this place?"

I know that posing this question to him usually doesn't get me anywhere, but it's worth a try. Always. He'll have to talk to me eventually, and I know he will.

Either that, or he'll find another way to shut me up.

"It's mine," he simply responds without looking up. "No one knows we're here."

"Is that supposed to scare me or make me feel better?"

I'm surprised at his reaction when he lets out a little chuckle instead of becoming angry with me.

He's shaking his head, adding some mustard on the sandwiches before he says, "I don't know, Libby. I guess I was going for the latter here."

"Because you don't want to see me dead," I repeat his former statement. "But other people do?"

The expression on his face tightens when he nods. "Yes."

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