Page 82 of Sexy as Sin
About sharks. “They’re talking shark nets,” he said, which was the truth. He wouldn’t be saying how he knew, or what a great white looked like with its mouth open, preparing to take a bite out of a redheaded mermaid, until she fought it off with her bare hands.
The meeting devolved into finances, then ended at last. The sky outside was dark, the rain had started, pelting the windows with icy droplets, and Brett was shaking hands, inclining his head, and listening with seventy-five percent of his energy. He couldn’t make it to a hundred, but it didn’t matter. Gathering up his notes, his laptop, and heading out with the team, climbing into another waiting SUV and headed back to the office, grateful to be using a cane instead of crutches.
And knowing that he absolutely had to get home, the need pulling at him like something physical. “Postmortem and next steps on both projects tomorrow at eight-thirty,” he told the others just before they climbed out of the car. “Please be ready to discuss.”
Rose looked at him with surprise and asked, “Is your leg still bad, then? You could’ve said.”
“No,” he said, even though it wasn’t true. His leg and back ached from shoulder to toe, and he felt a hundred years old. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Never complain, never explain.The door shut behind them, and he told Ed, the driver, “Home, please,” and allowed himself the blessing of silence.
He was going to have to say something to her. He had no idea what.
Normally, his steps would have been slowing in the hallway outside the loft door, once he was out of public view. Today, he was moving faster despite his fatigue. He should have texted between meetings, at least, he realized now.A little late, Hunter.
He typed the code into the door and shoved it open, to be met by empty air. He called, “Willow?” and knew as he did it that she wasn’t there.
He checked anyway. Her phone sat on the countertop, its glittery pink flowers-and-unicorn case a mockery of the way he suspected she was feeling. She wasn’t in the living room or the family room, and she wasn’t in his office or the downstairs bedroom, either. He headed upstairs, forcing himself to ignore the protest from his leg, and checked the master bedroom and bath. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t even been into them. The bed was made and her things put away in the bathroom cabinet, but there wasn’t a drop of water in either sink, and the towels on the heated rack were bone-dry.
Downstairs again. The pizza was in the fridge in its box, three lonely pieces gone, same as it had been when he’d last seen it, and so was a bottle of white wine, a new carton of milk, a dozen eggs, and a plastic bag of fresh fish, shoved onto a shelf like she’d done it in a hurry.
Five-thirty. He’d said home at six, hadn’t he? He couldn’t remember.
She was probably swimming. That was it. In fifteen minutes, or in thirty, she’d show up in a rush, her hair still wet, wearing his robe, because she hadn’t bought one yet for herself, and underneath it, the new white bikini with the ruffled bottom she’d shown him, teasingly, after their day out in Brisbane. Deceptively innocent, and all the way sexy.
He got a hard rush at the thought of it. He wasn’t good at explaining how he felt. As often as not, he didn’tknowhow he felt. He knew how to show her he wanted her, though. And his leg was better. They wouldn’t make it to the bedroom, and that suited him fine. Bent over his dining-room table? Oh, yeah. They could talk afterwards. Right now, he needed to be inside her.
Except that he was probably supposed to be tender. He didn’t feel tender. He felt hot, and urgent. He needed to grab her andholdher here.
All of that would have been fine if she’d shown up. It was six, and then it was six-fifteen. He’d have texted her, but her phone was here. He went upstairs again on the thought, his heart beating like thunder, and checked for what he’d missed. Her suitcase was in the dressing room, and her clothes were in the chest of drawers. A pair of jeans and three sweaters, everything she’d bought except what she’d be wearing now. A few thongs, two bras, some socks, and the white bikini. Her clothes took up half of two drawers, and that was all. They looked lonely in there. Temporary.
She was taking a walk. Having a drink.
Relax.
He finally remembered to change his clothes. You didn’t look cool pacing the floor, still in your suit and tie, with sweat on your upper lip. Jeans were better. Shirt in a muted blue plaid. No shoes. Calm.
His phone rang, and he grabbed for it on the center cabinet of his dressing room, and watched it slip through his fingers. It bounced off the gray carpet, and he got down there, somehow, and picked it up.
It had stopped ringing. A number he didn’t recognize, and not a Portland area code. Somebody else, then. Not her.
A buzz as the voicemail came in, and he clicked on it. Just in case.
It’s Rafe,he read.Just heard from Willow. You need to go get her.
He didn’t keep reading. He just punched the button to call back.
She was socold.
She’d been well and truly lost since darkness had fallen. It wasn’t that she hadn’t paid attention, because she had, at least at first. She’d started out walking southwest, because the courthouse was to the east, and she couldn’t bear to walk that way. She’d huddled into her new red coat, turned her face into the freezing wind, and kept walking until she’d made it to some streets that curved, to hills that headed straight up and allowed her legs and her lungs to push out the anxiety.
The problem was, though, that hills and curves messed with your sense of direction, and so did darkness. She turned downhill, but three streets later, the slope changed to uphill. Which way was toward the Pearl District, and the river? She couldn’t tell.
When the rain began, she started to run. It wasn’t easy in the new boots, which were more decorative than they were comfortable, but at least it warmed you up.
Finally, she was on level ground again, so that was something. The center of the city was flatter than the area to the west, right? At least, that was what she’d seen from the plane. And the river would always be the lowest point. The street signs didn’t tell her much. Southwest 18th. The loft was on Ninth, but was it southwest? She didn’t think so.
Keep going. There has to besomewhereyou can ask for directions.She was so wet, though, and it was so cold, and she had a blister on her upper toes that rubbed every time she put her left foot down. It was raining hard enough that she was having trouble seeing, and she was having more trouble thinking.
