Page 22 of Ruthless Creatures
“And you?”
“I’m a collector.”
That surprises me. He could’ve said “contract killer” and I would’ve just nodded. “Oh. Like antiques or something?”
His pressure on my hand is firm and steady. His gaze is also steady as he looks into my eyes and answers.
“No. Like debts.”
SIX
NAT
It’s obvious there’s some hidden meaning behind his words. This isn’t a man who sits behind a desk in a call center wearing a headset and harassing debtors over the phone to pay their past-due credit card bills.
I withdraw my hand from his but maintain eye contact, feeling curious and uncomfortable and extremely turned on. It’s a confusing combination.
Aiming for nonchalant, I say, “A debt collector. That’s an interesting line of work. Is that why you moved to Lake Tahoe? For work?”
Sitting back in his chair, he picks up his cigar and thoughtfully puffs for a moment, gazing at me as if carefully choosing his words.
Finally he says, “It was supposed to be for work.”
“But now it isn’t?”
His gaze drops to my mouth again. His voice comes out husky. “I don’t know what it is now.”
I’m electrified. Every one of my nerves is standing on end,screaming, and all it took is this dark-eyed stranger looking at me in a certain way.
A certain hungry, ambivalent way. The way a starving man would look at a steak he desperately wanted to eat but also knew was filled with poison.
I recall my first impression of him when I saw him at the bar last night, how I told Sloane he looked like he walked off the set ofSons of Anarchy, and understand on a cellular level that the man sitting across from me is someone for whom the normal rules of society don’t apply.
I also understand that he’s dangerous.
And that he wants me but doesn’t want to.
And that I want him, too, but shouldn’t.
Because people who stick a hand too close to a lion’s mouth will come away with a bloody stump where that hand used to be.
The waiter arrives. Kage sends him away with a royally dismissive flick of his fingers, never taking his gaze off me.
When he’s gone, Kage says, “So your fiancé disappeared. And for the next five years, on every anniversary of what would’ve been your wedding day, you get drunk.”
“It sounds worse when you say it out loud. Do I need to be afraid of you?”
We stare at each other across the table. The silence is electric. If he’s surprised by my question, it doesn’t show.
He says softly, “What if I said yes?”
“Then I’d take you at your word and drive straight to the nearest police station. Are you saying yes?”
He hesitates. “Most people who know me are.”
My heart pounds so hard, I’m surprised he can’t hear it. “I want a yes or a no.”
“Would you believe me if I said no?”
