Extreme Danger (McClouds & Friends #5)(156)

Some things could not be forgiven. Ever.

She would always have that darkness in the back of her mind now. She would always be hearing the rustling of the rats, feeling that shrinking helplessness, the rage, the hurt, the horrible fear.

She shook her head. “No, Nick. I can’t do it,” she whispered. “I cannot risk you. You are too dangerous for me.”

“No, I’m not,” he said. “I would die for you. I tried to.”

Her belly contracted in pain. “Oh, God. Stop. Don’t do this to me.”

“I know you’re angry.” His voice was low, careful. “Try to see it from my point of view.”

“No.” She took her hands away from her wet eyes and glared at him. “I’ve given that up. This isn’t about me being angry. This is about me surviving. I have to put my own damn point of view first for that. My point of view wasn’t pretty. I still feel the rats nibbling my shoes.”

A muscle pulsed in his tight jaw. “Jesus, Becca. I’m sorry.”

“You should be.” She turned her back on him.

She didn’t hear him move, but she felt that hot force field buzzing around her, making her hyperaware of his nearness.

“A very wise, kind person gave me a lecture once,” he said quietly. “She told me that deceiving and betraying are sins, but that being deceived and being betrayed were mistakes. Bad breaks.”

“Maybe. I was the one who was betrayed, though,” she said.

“Not by me,” he said. “I did the best I could with the information I had. But like you said yourself. I’m not God. And I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sure you did do the best you could, Nick,” she said stiffly. “It’s not your fault your best just wasn’t good enough.”

She could feel the silent hurt she’d caused radiating off him.

He stepped back. The silence yawned, creating a distance that widened, deepened, making her heart burn, ache. Break.

“OK,” he said flatly. “I hear you. I won’t bother you again.”

The warped door scraped open, and clicked shut after him. She heard his boots descending on the creaking stairs.

Grief roared up, and morphed unexpectedly into fury. Why her? Why should she suffer like this? What had she done to deserve it?

Ping, something pulled too tight and snapped inside her like piano wire. She lunged for the door and yanked it open.

“Goddamn you, Nick Ward,” she yelled.

He turned at the foot of the stairs, and stared up, startled. “Huh?”

“Do I mean so little to you? Is it that easy to walk away?” she raged. “Say ‘I’m sorry’ and slink off, telling me you won’t bother me again. Hah! Bother me? To hell with you! Sniveling goddamn coward!”

“Uh, whoa.” He looked nervous, but intrigued. “I thought you wanted me to…well, shit, Becca. What do you want me to do?”

“Use your tiny, shriveled pea brain, and figure it out!” she yelled. “Can you handle how pissed off I am at you, Nick? Because I am so pissed. I am royally, severely pissed, and that won’t just go away just because you say you’re sorry! So forget it!”

His lips twitched, but he wisely suppressed the smile. “I’m one tough son of a bitch,” he said. He took a step up the stairs. “I can take a whole lot of abuse.”

“Oh yeah? But can you take me, Nick?” Her voice shook with emotion. “Do you have the guts for that?”

He climbed the stairs, staring intently into her face. “I can take you,” he said. “Hell yes. It’s giving you up that I can’t take.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, let’s just see.” She gestured imperiously for him to get back into the office. She slammed the door shut, crossed her arms over her chest and barred the exit with her body. No way was he getting away from her before she got her ya-yas out.

“What’s with the screaming harpy act?” His eyes were wary.

“News flash, Nick,” she said. “It’s not an act. I am a screaming harpy. What you see is what you get. So cope.”

An appreciative grin spread over his face. “You’re hot when you’re feisty,” he said. “I f*cking love that.”

She shoved at his hard midriff, but did not succeed in budging him. “Only an idiot would say that to a woman as pissed as me.”

“I never claimed to be a rocket scientist,” Nick admitted. “You know me. Mouth opens, truth falls out. Plop. Whether it’s in my best interests or not.”

“Then I suggest you keep your big mouth shut,” she snapped. “Let me see your scar.”

He looked startled, but pulled up his navy T-shirt over his lean torso obligingly enough. She kept her face impassive as she looked at the long, jagged, angry weal, the marks of the clamps and the stitches. It made her heart hurt. She wanted to press her lips against it.

But he wasn’t getting off that easy. She brushed her fingertips over it. He sucked in a harsh breath.

She whipped her hand back, alarmed. “Did I hurt you?”

He shook his head. That hot glow in his eyes was all too familiar. She let her eyes roam over his body, lingering on the thick bulge in his jeans. His eyes followed her gaze. With one swift gesture, he peeled the T-shirt right off, letting it drop from his wrist to the scarred linoleum.