Page 3 of Edge of Darkness (Night Prowler 4)
“I understand. Shall I leave a deposit?”
He hadn’t even waited for her to say the price. He didn’t seem the least bit interested in the price. Ember didn’t know if he was being arrogant, or if he actually was one of those people who never had to ask the cost of anything. Fascinated in spite of herself, she wondered what that would be like. Awesome, no doubt. Completely awesome.
And she could barely pay the rent.
Her dislike took a sharp turn toward envy. Then she was irritated with herself for being so petty, and even more annoyed with him for making her mad at herself.
Before she could even open her mouth to answer him, his eyes had narrowed again. But he didn’t seem angry, only bemused. “Whatever it is I’m doing to annoy you, I sincerely apologize. It’s not intentional.”
Her “interested professional” expression vanished, replaced, she was sure, by one of obvious shock. Face flaming, she stammered, “No… it’s…I’m not…I’m the one who should apologize. I’m being rude.”
Inside, she was being rude. But how the hell did he know that?
Bedroom Eyes Assassin had officially creeped her out.
He reached out a hand toward her, but then seemed to think better of it as he abruptly lifted it to his head and ran it through his hair, rumpling the artfully arranged dark strands. He sighed, let his hand drop back to his side. “I’ll just leave my information then, yes?” Without waiting fo
r an answer, he reached for the cup of pens on the counter beside the register. On the white notepad next to the collection of pens, he wrote something in swift, precise strokes. “Call me when it arrives. I’m leaving my credit card information as well; charge whatever deposit you feel is fair.”
He straightened and held out the paper. Ember took it between her fingers.
Christian McLoughlin, it read, followed by a series of numbers, credit card and telephone.
Christian. She wondered if his friends called him Chris for short, then immediately dismissed it. No nicknames, she was sure of it. No informalities. His own mother probably called him Mr. McLoughlin. Or possibly sir.
She wiped the thought away, worried he might guess it again, and tucked the paper into the back pocket of her jeans. “A deposit isn’t necessary.”
He waited silently, watching her with those preternatural eyes. A passing car’s headlights slanted through the front windows and reflected off the long mirror behind the counter, and a sliver of light caught his eyes. She imagined for a moment that something in those green depths changed. Something tangible went aqueous and ephemeral, as if she were looking at the surface of the sea.
A tingle of fear raised the hair on the back of her neck.
“You should see what you’re paying for,” she explained, lifting her hand to the delicate chain she always wore around her neck.
It was an unconscious habit, something she did when preoccupied or upset, and one his sharp eyes didn’t miss. He watched her twist the two gold rings on the chain between her fingers and his face softened. He nodded, as if he’d made up his mind about something.
“I’m not the kind of man who has to see things to believe in them,” he said, still watching her twist the necklace.
This flew in the face of the opinion she’d formed of him in the few short moments since he’d approached the counter. He looked like a man who wouldn’t believe anything that wasn’t written in a contract, visible to the naked eye, or otherwise provable beyond a shadow of a doubt.
His gaze found its way back to hers. Keen and penetrating, it fixed her in place, made her forget her wariness her dislike, her distrust of strangers. She said impulsively, “The only things worth believing in are things you can see. Anything else is just self-delusion.”
He seemed to take that as some kind of challenge, because his eyes flashed, then a slow smile spread across his face. “Hold out your hand and close your eyes.”
“What?” Startled, Ember took a step back.
He chuckled, then said, “I don’t bite. Unless, that is, you want me to.”
That brought the blood back to her cheeks. Was he flirting with her?
No, men like him didn’t flirt with girls like her. Plain girls. Ruined girls. Girls with one good hand and two left feet and a lifetime of could-have-beens choking their throats until they wanted to scream.
“Just hold out your hand,” he insisted, his voice low and persuasive. “Trust me.”
He said those last two words as if they were a dare, and he looked at her that way, too.
Trust you? Ha. As if.
However, because he was in possession of what was apparently a bottomless bank account and she needed the sale, Ember silently proffered her right hand, palm up.
