Page 80 of Dangerous Secrets

Her eyes widened. She felt it. For a moment, it was as if everything in the world stopped. They even stopped breathing. There wasn’t a sound in the house or from the street outside. Utter silence reigned as he watched her struggle with the concept of a dead man having a hard-on for her.

This could go either way. Sex between them had been more than good, from the first quick kiss in his car on the way to Da Emilio’s to the last time they had made love on Friday morning. Her body was attuned to his. Though she was small, she had been requiring less and less foreplay for him to fit. Sometimes all it took was a kiss, a touch, and she was ready, wet and swollen and hot. As if simply being near him was foreplay for her.

So he had to watch her eyes very carefully, and if she softened, it was entirely possible that he’d start kissing her and one thing would lead to another, maybe right here on this pretty little couch—it wouldn’t be the first time, either—and he’d sayI’m sorry I deceived you,and she’d be looking up at him after coming, all rosy and dewy, and sayI forgive you, Nickand he’d saygood and by the way, don’t even think of going to that fuckhead Worontzoff’s tonightand she’d gowhatever you say, Nickand that would be that.

Charity reared her head back and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t. Don’t even think of going there.”

Then again, maybe not.

“No,” he said. Damn, it would have made things easier, cut through a lot of the crap.

“Who—who did I bury?” Charity whispered.

Nick shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Her mouth tightened and she tried to get out of his arms. No way. She was staying right where she was, with him touching her. He tightened his hold.

“I’m sorry, honey. That’s the honest truth. I don’t know who he was. But he was trying to kill me and I do know who sent him.”

She was barely listening, watching his eyes carefully, as if trying to identify him. She licked dry lips. “Where have you been these past days? After—” She swallowed heavily. “After the funeral?”

“Here,” he said bluntly. “Mainly outside your house. I slept in a motel about twenty miles from here.”

“Here?” she whispered. Her eyes left his face to wander around the living room, as if seeing her house for the first time. Her gaze locked back onto his face.

“You were outside the house while I was crying my eyes out?Grievingfor you? So hard I thought my heart would stop?” She straightened suddenly in his lap and he winced. “You came into the house, didn’t you? You were here. It was real.”

Charity wrenched herself out of his lap and stood, trembling. He’d opened his arms to let her go. Her movements were so violent he’d hurt her if he tried to keep his hold on her.

She was shaking, arms wound tightly around her midriff, gemstone eyes bright in her white face. “I thought I was losing my mind. I felt your presence all the time. I smelled you. I’d walk into a room and expect to find you. I thought I was going crazy.” She glared at him narrow-eyed. “Is this some kind of game for you? Pre—pretending to be dead, letting me think I b—buriedyou, then coming around a few days later? Is this your idea of ajoke? Because if it is, I’m not laughing.”

Nick stood. He moved slowly because she looked like she would bolt—or shatter—at any untoward movement.

“No joke,” he said softly. “No game. And if I could have avoided this, I would have, believe me. It’s just that?—”

Charity went even whiter. “Avoided this?” She brought a shaking hand to her mouth. “You wanted toavoidme? You wanted to just leave me hanging, thinking my husband was dead?” She swallowed heavily. “You’re not Nick,” she whispered, shaking. “You can’t be. He would never do this to me. He’d never leave me mourning him. Whoareyou?”

“No!” God, this was going badly. “I didn’t mean I was avoiding you, it’s just that?—”

But Nick was talking to empty air. With a moan muffled by the hand she clapped to her mouth, Charity bolted for the bathroom, making it barely in time. She slid to the porcelain bowl, slammed both hands on the tiled wall behind the toilet and bowed her head. Nothing came out but tea and vodka. She coughed and retched alcohol-scented brown liquid, eyes streaming.

Nick was right behind her. He ran a small hand towel under the sink faucet and wrung it out. He wrapped one arm around her from behind and gently wiped her face. She was gasping, shaking, sweating, coughing. Her stomach muscles clenched hard under his hand as another bout of retching seized her.

They were dry heaves now, but no less wrenching for the fact that there was nothing was left in her stomach to come up. She made little moves to dislodge Nick’s arm, but he wasn’t having it. She needed his support. She was running on fumes and he was sure she’d fall to the ground without his arm around her.

When a few minutes went by with no more spasms, she finally stepped away, trying to escape his arm. Nick didn’tbudge. He rinsed the towel out again, turned her towards him and wiped her face and neck.

Charity stood meekly, head bowed, eyes closed. He’d seen ice with more color than her face.

She looked so miserable his heart squeezed in his chest.

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “You belong in bed. We can talk about things later, but right now you need to be lying down.” Frowning, he lifted the back of his hand to her brow. She was cool. Still—“You’re probably coming down with something, you’re so run down. We’ll be lucky if it’s just the flu. This is bronchitis or pneumonia weather. I think I’m going to take you to the hospital.”

Good idea. The hell with opsec. He’d drive Charity to the hospital in the next town over, stay in the background. Make sure she checked in, make sure she was all right while Di Stefano and Alexei kept watch over Worontzoff.

“No.” She made an effort and stood up straight, moving away from him. “I’m not sick. I’m grieving.” She glared at him.

“I didn’t know grieving made you throw up a thousand times a day. That’s a new one.”

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