Extreme Danger (McClouds & Friends #5)(63)

“Good God, Becky. Why the hell not?”

Becca floundered for a credible explanation, but she found herself mired in unspeakable memories instead. Gunshots, pools of blood, slashed throats, the Spider’s wet smile and glittering eyes, it was all far too close to her, too real. The toxic vibe infected the very air she breathed. She didn’t want Carrie and Josh anywhere near it.

And she couldn’t do anything crazy, like disrupting their lives by taking out a loan and sending them both to Argentina without telling them everything. Telling them struck her as even more dangerous.

“But I’m worried about you,” Carrie said plaintively. “It’s not like you, Becca. Not answering your phone, forgetting to go to work, picking up dangerous strangers and having wild sex with them…it’s weird. I think you need some serious, heavy-duty, industrial strength cuddling.”

Her heart squeezed, and tears rushed into her eyes. “You’re a sweetie, honey, and I appreciate the concern, but I don’t want to interrupt your studies. You can’t lose your scholarship. I can’t—”

“Yes, yes. I know. You can’t help me with rent and tuition both. I know, we’ve been through it.”

“Please,” Becca pleaded. “I can’t handle a visit now. I’m just not presentable. I need to lick my wounds alone for a while, OK? And oh, before I forget. I lost my cell phone. Here’s my new number. Got a pen?”

“Go ahead,” Carrie said.

Becca recited the new number to her. “Could you give it to Josh? And as soon as things calm down, I’ll come down to see you. I promise.”

“Hmm. We’ll see,” Carrie hedged. “I’ll talk to Josh.”

“Carrie, I’m serious,” she said, edging on desperation. “Please—”

“Talk to you soon, Becky. Big, smoochy kisses, OK? Bye.”

The connection broke. Becca stared at the phone in her hand, silently cursing her stubborn little sister. She flung the phone in the direction of the table and missed. It tumbled to the floor and began to beep forlornly.

Just as well. She didn’t want to get an angry phone call from Gilda, the manager of DeLillo’s Fine Gourmet Catering, Becca’s off-and-on night job. She didn’t want to grope for lies, excuses, justifications, for feeling so bad. She just wanted to stare at the sky through the window as it turned from cobalt blue to black.

It got so terribly quiet. She pushed the button of the TV remote, did a desultory surf, and settled on a channel with Friends reruns. That was the only thing that felt safe and bland enough to watch.

The doorbell rang, and the illusory sense of safety dissolved like smoke. In an instant, she went from feeling limp to feeling every muscle go rigid, with terror.

Who…? The Spider had found her already?

She got up, stumbling down onto one wobbly knee and kept herself bent over in the dark so no one looking in the windows would see any moving shadows as she crept towards the door. Kicking herself for not thinking to turn on the porch light before. Turning it on now would announce her presence behind the door like a trumpet fanfare.

Oh, hell, her security was useless anyway, so Nick said. And the Spider’s guys could shoot her right through the freaking walls, if they felt like it. They probably had thermal imaging devices on their damn guns. She should get over herself. She forced herself to stand up.

She put her eye to the peephole. There was enough light from the streetlamps to see the tall, broad silhouette. Those night-dark eyes.

Nick. Oh, God. It was Nick.

A wobbly rush of fresh feelings went through her. A thrill of excitement, mixed with shame and fury, and a sharp tang of fear.

And a hot, sweet twist of awareness between her legs.

No way. Not in a million years would she let that bastard get that close to her again. No matter what pulsed and throbbed inside her.

She put her hand up to the mass of curly hair that swung a couple inches below her chin. She still couldn’t get used to all that volume the shorter length created around her face, but she was past the worst of the shock, at this point, and the hairdresser had done a nice job in shaping it, so she was coping with the hair trauma. No thanks to him, though. She shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and squinted through the peephole.

Wow. He’d cut his hair too, just as he’d threatened. He looked very different. The spiky brush of hair stuck out every which way. The bruise under his eye had faded to a purplish line slashing downwards diagonally, from the inside corner of his eye to under his cheekbone.

He wore black leather. She was not one bit surprised.

His dark eyes stared into hers, unwavering. It was like the door didn’t exist at all. He knew perfectly well she was there. Staring at him. Cowering behind the door like a goddamn mouse. Whiskers trembling.

She undid the old lock, the new lock, the deadbolt, the chain, and pried out the kitchen chair she’d wedged under the knob. She yanked the door open, and gave him her coldest frigid bitch look.

“You,” she said. “What do you want?”

He didn’t answer. Seconds crept by, stretched into minutes.

She realized, at length, that being cold and mean would have no effect on this guy. He wouldn’t get the subliminal message. Nor would he get embarrassed or flustered, or feel in any way at a disadvantage. Why should he? Mean and cold was his normal default setting. It probably made him feel right at home. Comfortably familiar. God only knew, tenderness and intimacy had scared him half to death.