Rebecca York: Sudden Attraction

She kept her gaze fixed on him as she asked in a hard voice, “Did you do something to me?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Use some kind of voodoo hex?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Okay, maybe not voodoo. What about some kind of hypnosis technique you learned from your vast research?”

He spread his hands. “I don’t have any secret techniques.”

“I’m just trying to figure it out.”

“We both are. And you must know I was as confounded as you by what happened.” He paused a beat before asking, “Did it give you a headache?”

She stared back at him. “Yes. Did it do that to you, too?”

“Yes.”

He wanted to press her for information. No, he wanted to touch her again, badly. And it was almost impossible not to act on the impulse. He pictured himself leaping out of the chair, crossing the room and pulling her into his arms. To get information?

Perhaps, but the sexual component was as strong as the need to explore the psychic link. He had touched her, kissed her, and felt an instant craving like nothing else he had ever experienced. It was as if the two of them had been born to connect.

Well, he might think that, but he didn’t dare say it because he didn’t want to send her running out into the night.

To cool his ardor, he asked, “Did you have trouble making friends with people?”

By the look on her face, he knew the directness of the question had caught her by surprise.

She swallowed. “You know I did. You did, too. We found that out when we touched.”

No use denying it. Most people formed easy relationships. He couldn’t do it because it always seemed that something was missing. Which was probably why he’d chosen his profession. If he couldn’t get close to people on a personal level, he could know more about them than anybody else. Sometimes he dug up secrets that the world needed to know. Or was that putting it in terms that were too grandiose?

“If we have trouble making friends, then what happened tonight?” he challenged.

“I don’t know, but we’re not friends.”

“What are we?”

She moistened her lips, and he had to wrench his gaze away from her mouth. It was more difficult than ever not to cross the room and wrap his arms around her. Something would happen when he did.

“Don’t.”

“You’re reading my mind?”

“Your expression.” She lifted one shoulder as she stared at him.

“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want.”

“Isn’t that a standard male line?”

“Yeah, but in this case it’s true. You could make sure I’m telling the truth by touching me.”

“No, thanks.”

When she stood up abruptly, he knew he had pushed the suggestion too hard.

“Stay here.” The command came out more sharply than he’d intended.

“Why?”

“Someone’s out there,” he said in a harsh voice.

“Back to the stalker?”

“Yeah. You’d better sleep here.”

“So you can …”

“Protect you.”

He held his breath while she considered the advice. If she said no, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do.

Another lie. He would grab her arm to stop her. And then what? Give her another peek into his private fears and longings?

“You were here most of the time. Did you see anyone sneaking around?”

“I was inside most of the time—busy working.”

“But you didn’t see anybody,” she insisted.

“No, but in the absence of proof, I think you have to act cautiously.”

“Like you did when you started writing about Rudy Maglioni?”

“Somebody has to expose him.”

“Why you?”

“Because I’m willing to take the chance.” He could have added that nobody besides his editor would miss him if the mob caught up with him. Changing the subject, he said, “You can have my bed.”

“No, thanks.” She glanced toward the couch. “I’ll stay out here.”

“It’s not all that comfortable.”

“I’ll manage,” she said with an edge in her voice, and he warned himself not to press his luck. She was a woman with a strong will, and he couldn’t force her decision. It had to come from her.

“I’ll get you a blanket.” He hurried into the bedroom and glanced at the bed he hadn’t made in days. Well, maybe her coming in here wasn’t such a good idea.

After pulling the spare blanket from the top of the closet, he returned to the living room. He laid it on the end of the couch and stepped back. He wanted to say that they couldn’t keep from touching each other forever. Sooner or later it was going to happen again.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay?” he asked.

“Yes. Thanks. And …” She paused again. “Thanks for watching out for me.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” he said stiffly, then added, “You can have the bathroom first.”

“Thanks.”

“Your mom put an extra toothbrush in there.”

“Right. She liked to keep the cottages stocked with conveniences.”

“Yes. I appreciated the food in the cabinets.”

They were getting into inane conversation territory again because they still had no idea how to deal with each other.

Before he said any other dumb lines—or did anything else he regretted—he made sure the front door was locked and bolted, then picked up a lamp and entered into the bedroom.

Outside in the darkness, George Camden gritted his teeth. Abandoning the protection of the tree, he’d crossed the weedy lawn and gotten as close as he could to the window. He’d been able to see them, but he hadn’t heard a lot of what they were saying because of the damned rain.

After a half hour out there, he was wet and cold, and he needed a smoke. Bad.

He’d been all set to get his hands on Gabriella Boudreaux tonight. Apparently that wasn’t going to happen. It looked as if she was spending the night in the cottage. But not in Buckley’s bed, for some reason.

So why was she there if they weren’t going to do anything fun?

Maybe because her mom had died today. However, if Buckley was smart, he could have comforted her and then offered more than back patting. Despite how he’d acted outside, Buckley must be too honorable for that.

George’s mind circled back to the earlier question. Why was she staying there? Did Buckley think he was protecting her?

If he was, that meant they were worried about someone snooping around. Or worried about someone causing the mom’s death. Or maybe she was just upset about staying alone after coming home and finding her mother had kicked the bucket.

Yeah, that made sense.

The phone in his pocket vibrated, and he jumped, then cursed under his breath.

The only guy who had this number was the Badger, the one who’d hired him to snoop around Houma and find out about the clinic.

The phone kept vibrating as he stepped far enough away from the cottage to avoid being heard.

“Yeah?” he said as he flipped it open.

“You haven’t reported in,” the curt voice on the other end of the line said.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what?”

“I got a lead on one of the women who was treated at the fertility clinic. I came down to Lafayette to … question her.”

“And?”

He waited a beat before admitting, “She’s dead.”

The curse on the other end of the line had him holding the phone away from his ear.

“I haven’t heard about any murders in the news.”

“Because it wasn’t murder. She fell down the stairs,” he said, stretching the facts. “An old lady tripping and falling isn’t news.”

Again, he waited through a string of curses.

“But she led me to her daughter,” he said, putting the best spin he could on the past few hours.