Page 39 of The Survivor
“That’s exactly the point.” She blew out a frustrated breath. “You were going to kiss me last night.”
He fixed that familiar steady gaze on her. “It would have been a mistake.”
She sagged against the doorframe, fighting the urge to yell at him. Though there was a good five feet between them, she could feel the heat emanating from his body. The spicy, male scent of him teased her senses and made her want to close the distance. But she knew he’d only shut down if she pushed him too far.
Taking a deep breath, she played with the hem of her sweater, gathered up bits and pieces of the courage she’d once possessed but lost after the attack. “Blake…I’m attracted to you.”
He blinked in surprise. Even from where she stood she could see his pulse thudding in his throat.
“You want me to take you to bed, is that it?” His voice was low with both challenge and hesitation.
She swallowed. “Yes.”
CHAPTER 9
Her answer surprised even her, but the second she said it Sam knew she meant it. She wanted her life back, and in order to do that she needed to stop letting fear rule her. She didn’t know why Blake had gotten under her skin like this, but he had, and either she could hide from her desire or she could face it head-on.
She glimpsed the brief flash of lust in Blake’s eyes, but to her disappointment his expression quickly sobered. “It doesn’t bother you that you don’t know a thing about the man you want to go to bed with?” he said coolly.
“I know I trust you. I know you’ll do anything you can to protect me.”
He gave a sarcastic laugh. “The last woman I promised to protect wound up dead, Samantha.”
She swallowed. Startling as his admission was, at least they were getting somewhere here. “What was her name?”
His features twisted with pain. “Kate.” He cleared his throat. “Her name was Kate.”
“Tell me what happened to her.” She knew from the bare details Mel provided that Kate had been shot, but she found herself needing to hear it from Blake. Needing to understand the pain that had driven him to decide he didn’t “do” relationships anymore.
His handsome face donned a faraway expression. “That’s another story for another day.”
A frown tugged her mouth down. “Fine. But what about today, what about right now? What about this—whateverthisis between us? You can’t run away from it, Blake.”
He rubbed his temples, a gesture she now associated with frustration. “What I don’t get is whyyou’renot running away, Sam. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’d be the first man you were with since the attack.”
“Yes.”
“So why push it? Why do you want me?” He let out a heavy breath. “Is this one of those extreme circumstance syndromes? I’ve seen it happen before, you know. People caught up in dangerous, stressful situations, needing to get physical in order to feel alive.”
She stared at him, incredulous. How wonderful. Here she was practically propositioning this man, and he was accusing her of having asyndrome.
“Trust me,” she said in a dry voice. “It’s not that. Remind me to tell you about the time I was shooting a bikini layout in the dead of winter in Alaska. That was pretty stressful and I don’t recall jumping the photographer to make myself feel alive.”
Amusement flickered in his eyes, but it was short-lived. “Why do you want me, Sam?”
“Because…” Her voice drifted.
A wave of restlessness washed over her, driving her toward the window. Outside the blizzard grew stronger, piling the street with mounds of blinding-white snow. The wind rattled the house, howling like the crack of a whip against the thick window of Blake’s living room.
It was the kind of storm that brought lovers together, sent them rushing to a big warm bed to lose themselves in each other’s arms. Not her and Blake, though. No, they had to dig up old wounds and revisit raw memories.
She turned to face him, leaning against the cool glass, shutting out the powerful display of winter behind her. “I’m going to tell you exactly why I want you, Blake. I’m going to pour my heart out to you. And then,thenyou can decide if you want to go forward.” She faltered. “Or if you still want to push me away.”
She moved back to the center of the room, this time sitting at the edge of the large glass coffee table in front of the couch. She heard his intake of breath at her nearness but he said nothing. Just looked at her with unreadable eyes.
“I know you saw the crime-scene photos from my house,” she began, trying to ignore the fingers of bitterness clawing up her throat. “But those were just pictures, words compiled to form a tidy little report for your profilers to analyze.”
As if he sensed where she was going, he said, “Sam, you don’t have to—”
