Susan Kearney - Hidden Hearts

“First of all, I didn’t have time to write down anything.” Her hopes plummeted. With his free hand, he pointed to his temple. “I memorized the number and letter combination. And second, you have unfounded faith in a police department that’s overworked and underpaid. Have you ever reported a crime?”

“My car was stolen once.” It had taken the officers hours to come out and take her statement.

“And?”

“They found it.”

“How long did it take?”

“Three months,” she admitted, wondering how else she could stall. “If my brother Jake really hired you, tell me what he looks like.”

Roarke couldn’t know she’d never seen a picture of Jake.

“I accepted the job over the telephone.”

Damn! He had an answer for everything. Maybe he was telling the truth. He had fought off that other man. He had placed his body between her and the gun aimed at her. Yet, wouldn’t a bodyguard welcome help from the local authorities, not avoid it?

When he’d offered her back her blueprints, her suspicions had abated. She knew such a small gesture shouldn’t weigh so heavily in his favor. And yet, a criminal wouldn’t be so considerate, would he? Would a criminal have stopped and explained as Roarke had just done?

Maybe—if her cooperation would make it easier for him to get her back into her apartment…where she would be alone with him.

She couldn’t make up her mind. If Roarke Stone was really a bodyguard, why would he want her to return to her apartment where she could so easily be found? She shook her head as once again he tugged her toward the stairs leading to her back terrace.

Again she halted. “Why are you so insistent on taking me back to my apartment?”

“You need a shower.”

“A shower?”

No way was she about to take off her clothes with him around. Not in a million years. She wouldn’t trust a locked door. With shoulders like his, he could break through in an instant. And she just knew from the determined look in those baby blues glinting with amusement that he had no intention of leaving her alone.

“Lady, you reek.”

She’d always objected to being called lady, or woman. As though she wasn’t an individual with her own name. Besides she wanted this man to think of her as a person with her own life. He might be less inclined to hurt her if she didn’t act like a nameless victim.

“My name’s Alexandra.”

“Fine, Alexandra. You stink, and client or not, I refuse to be around anyone who smells as bad as you do.”

While she couldn’t refute the truth of his statement, she hesitated. Removing her clothes while he stood outside her door still wasn’t a viable option. She’d be way too vulnerable.

Pretending she believed his story about being there to protect her was the best way to deal with Roarke. She tried to calm her leaping nerves. “We shouldn’t go back up there. He might have left, but he could return.”

“I won’t leave you alone.”

“He might bring a friend.”

“I’m prepared for that contingency.”

Always prepared—just like a Boy Scout. Except he didn’t look at her like any boy she’d ever known. He focused on her with an unnerving intensity that made her shiver. Exactly what she’d been afraid of.

She needed to come up with an alternative plan. No way was she going to suggest getting into a car with this stranger. If he insisted on holding her captive, she was better off where someone might hear her scream. Such a sobering thought gave her the confidence to look him straight in the eye with a boldness she was far from feeling.

“You can’t expect me to shower with a strange man in my home.”

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t.”

“Lady—”

“Alexandra.”

“Alexandra, do you like the way you smell?”

Of course she didn’t. But that was the point. As long as she wore garbage like perfume, no man would find her attractive. Not even a criminal. The stench protected her. The stench protected her from him.

She cocked her head to the side, pretending to be puzzled and hurt by his accusation. “What smell?”

Roarke’s very male, very hard lower jaw dropped in astonishment and then he chuckled again, the same deep chuckle that had thawed her before and made her consider whether she could trust him.

“Nice try, la—Alexandra,” he corrected himself, definite amusement lighting up his face. “You will take a shower. But I’ll give you a choice.”

She didn’t like the sound of his statement since it sounded too much like an ultimatum. Then again, she had little alternative but to stand here and listen while his hand manacled her wrist like steel.

“You either shower by yourself, or, I’ll climb in with you and do the honors myself.”

ALEXANDRA HAD NEVER heard such a harsh ultimatum sugar-coated with such silky seductive charm. What kind of man was Roarke Stone? Obviously one who didn’t take no for an answer. Obviously one used to women giving in to his every whim. Obviously one who believed she should obey his every command.

As she trudged beside him up to her apartment, she didn’t bother wasting her energy trying to fight him again. He’d disabled an opponent much stronger than her in less than sixty seconds, and all she would accomplish by using the few basic self-defense skills she knew was to hurt herself.

Although Roarke hadn’t struck her when she’d attacked him the first time but had simply overpowered her with brute force, she couldn’t take a chance that he might lose his temper and knock her out if she defied him again. While he didn’t seem the type to strike a woman, he certainly had demonstrated his ability to boss her around.

He was arrogant. Conceited. And he wanted her to get naked while he was in her apartment.

Patience. She needed to wait for a better opportunity to escape. Besides, she’d think better and move more quickly if she remained uninjured.

The hard part was going to be matching wits with her captor. He’d not only shown her that he commanded great strength, but he possessed a remarkable memory for details. And he had an uncanny ability to anticipate what she was about to do before she did it—as when he’d moved his thigh to prevent her landing a knee to his groin and when he’d plucked her cell phone from the cradle in her car.

He’d also come up with a rational explanation for her every objection. And he’d carefully told her things she couldn’t check out while he remained with her. With incredible perception, he’d known exactly what to say to make her doubt her doubts about him. If she wasn’t careful to guard her thoughts, she’d start exhibiting that Stockholm syndrome where a kidnap victim begins to identify with her captor.

Luckily she knew she could never again fall for this type of charm or lies. Let him do his worst. He could turn up the heat all he wanted and she wouldn’t respond. After being struck once by his particular kind of good looks and charm, she was now immune.

But if she wasn’t careful, she’d soon have herself believing he could read her mind. While he wasn’t all-knowing and all-powerful, he clearly was a man used to giving orders and getting his own way.

She had no doubt he would follow her into the shower if she protested again. So she didn’t.

When he pulled out a shiny black gun, she restrained a gasp and managed to remain quiet as he pointed it toward her apartment—not her. Clearly the weapon was a precaution to ensure their safety as he checked every room and closet to make sure they were alone.

He moved quickly, quietly, seemingly taking no interest in her pictures of family in the dining room. Likewise, he spent no time looking at her framed design awards hanging in the hall. He didn’t slow as they passed her expensive computer or stereo system. Roarke seemed solely focused on places where someone could hide, but whether his desire was to protect her or himself, she had no way of guessing.