Page 19 of Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games 2)
I’m comfortable with silence, but her silence is so loud, it screams. She’s furious about that kiss, but it goes deeper than that. I took something from her when I didn’t give her a choice. Worse, I suspect, is the way she feels about her own reaction to having my mouth on hers.
She liked it, which makes her hate me even more.
Women.
“Are we driving straight through to LA?”
Startled, I glance over at her. She’s staring out the window of the car, refusing to meet my eyes, the question asked in a tone that suggests she doesn’t care one way or another.
Her choice of travel wear raised my brows when I returned to her place after making a quick trip home to pack my bags, and I let my gaze rake over it once again, if only to satisfy my growing need to look at her. Tight black leather everything, including gloves, motorcycle jacket zipped up to her chin, and combat boots. The only thing she’s missing is a helmet. Except for her face, not an inch of skin is showing.
I recognize this outfit for what it is. Armor.
It’s a good thing it’s only March and the weather is cool, because August in that getup would be murder.
“No. Wanted to get into Tulsa before we stopped for the night.”
We’ve had three short stops so far at gas stations along the interstate, just long enough to hit the head and refill the tank. If I were alone, I’d push straight through, but then again, if I were alone, I wouldn’t be driving.
I know from my research that her parents were killed in an airplane crash when she was eight and wonder how much of her avoidance of flying is based on that.
I also wonder how much of who she’s become is based on those deaths, and the death of the uncle she went to live with after the loss of her parents. By eighteen, she was all alone in the world.
Except for Søren Killgaard, whose relationship to her remains a mystery.
For now.
Suddenly she mutters, “I’m so fucking pissed off at you!”
I stare straight ahead at the twin beams of the headlights illuminating the highway and wait.
After a moment, she says, “I can’t think whe
n I’m mad. When I can’t think, I feel out of control. When I feel out of control, I panic. Are you seeing the pattern here?”
I keep my voice low and calm, nonthreatening. “It won’t happen again.”
“You said that before,” she says crossly, “but the problem is that I think I want it to.”
I nearly drive off the road. This kind of straightforward admission is the last thing I expected, and I’m totally unprepared for it. I quickly decide the only way to handle it is in kind.
“I’m not sure how to respond to that.”
She sighs, pulls the elastic out of her ponytail, and drags her hands through her hair. “Forget it. Tell me a story.”
Hello, fly ball out of left field.
“Sure.” I think for a moment, and then my brain presents me with a sly idea I have to admit I find totally genius, even if I did think of it myself. Well, probably especially since I thought of it myself.
“Once upon a time, there was a boy and a girl.”
She looks over at me sharply.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist, sweetheart. Am I telling this story or not?”
She leans her head against the headrest and closes her eyes. “Yes. Make it good.”
“I will if you’d shut up long enough to let me talk.”
