Page 65 of Allure

Which means I was right for it to be once and done.

So why the hell am I tortured almost every night by dream Declan and dream me having sex in new positions and in places all over the world every time I go to bed? It’s like he wormed his way inside me, into my subconscious, and I don’t know how to root him out.

I don’t know how to break free of this hold he has on me.

And I don't know if I can handle our being at an impasse because, honestly, deep down, I hated keeping him at arm's length. It hurt me maybe as much as he's claiming it hurt him.

CHAPTER23

Ihead to the locker room and get changed as quickly as I can. I’m pretty sure the staff has access to a shower, so I’m hoping to leave before Declan does. When I duck out of the locker room, I don’t spy him, and, like a thief in the night, I try to leave without drawing any attention to myself.

Only Declan is waiting outside by the door for me.

“I drove,” I mutter.

“Heading to New Age Grocery?” he asks.

I shake my head.

He snorts. “Am I supposed to believe you?”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you believe.”

His lips almost curl upward. “I’ve always thought that expression was strange. What about. Rat’s head? A rat’s tail? His eyes? His heart? Maybe they taste good with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. What do you think?”

“Go ahead. You first.” I start toward my car.

He follows me.

“Stalker,” I mutter under my breath even though it’s not very funny to joke about such a serious matter, and it is gentlemanly of him to walk me to my car.

But he positions himself to block me from getting inside. “I know Detective Rivera hasn’t had a chance to speak with you.”

“Yeah, at this point, I doubt it’s happening.”

“So talk to me. Tell me anything and everything you can about the mugger.”

“Why? It’s not as if you’re on the case. You work for your father. He’s not assigned to this.” I hesitate. “Or is he?”

“He’s not,” Declan allows, “but I might’ve happened to get my hands on the file and read through it, so I know what the other eyewitnesses had to say.”

“Victims,” I spit out. “We’re victims of a crime, not eyewitnesses.”

“Technically—”

I glower at him, and he wisely shuts up.

“So, what do you recall about him? About the gun? Did you see his vehicle? Car? Truck?”

“He wore a baseball hat,” I say. “It was dark, but he was close enough to me that I could see him. His nose was a bit flat, wide. His eyes were green—”

“Green eyes?” he interrupts.

“I’m certain of it. And he had a mole under his left nostril. I didn’t see the gun, just felt it. He shoved it against my stomach at first, but I didn’t react. Oh, and his exact words to me were, ‘Give me ya purse!’ so his English wasn’t perfect, you know? But I don’t know. I guess I stared at him too hard, too long, trying to memorize his face, and that’s when he moved the gun up to be against my throat.” I swallow hard and rub my arms, trying to ward off a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the warm night air. “He shoved the gun so hard against my throat that I gagged.”

“How dark was it?” Declan asks. “At the time of the attack.”

“As dark as it is now, I guess. Why?”

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