Thrill Ride (Black Knights Inc. #4)(90)
For a split second, she debated disturbing him. Then decided to hell with it.
“Thanks!” she yelled at Becky before lifting the floor-length skirt on the purple, sequined halter dress Becky and Eve had chosen for her during their madcap dash to Neiman Marcus. She padded up the metal stairs to the third floor on bare feet—she wasn’t going to slip into her heels until she absolutely had to. When she reached the landing, she dug a finger in her ear just to make sure it didn’t come away bloody.
Ozzie had his stereo system volume level set to rock concert, and she was amazed he didn’t suffer perforated eardrums. And though she could still hear good ol’ Jon wailing away about being a cowboy and riding on a steel horse—huh, kind of appropriate—at least she wasn’t pushing up against a wall of sound, which meant she could hear herself think.
And what was she thinking, do you suppose?
Well, nothing new there. She was still thinking about Rock. About that hint of uncertainty she’d seen in his eyes out in the courtyard when they came up with the plan to have him interrogate Donna Ward…
The last thing he needed right now was to be second-guessing himself and his abilities. And she was nothing if not good at pep talks. After all, she’d been giving herself pep talks regarding him for months now.
Knocking on his door, she waited until she heard him murmur, “Oui? Come in,” before turning the knob and pushing into his bedroom. And there he was, doing nothing more than softly strumming his guitar as he sat on the edge of his bed—that big, messy bed with the sage-green comforter they’d done so many fantastically naughty things in—and her heart nearly leapt out of her chest at the sight of him.
He looked so good, so handsome and delicious and downright wholesome. And maybe it was the jeans and the boots and the big, shiny belt buckle, or maybe it was the sweat-stained John Deer ball cap he had turned around backward. But looking at him, she thought he belonged out on a tractor somewhere or sipping iced-tea while rocking slowly in a porch swing. Looking at him she was reminded of a song by Waylon Jennings her father used to play on vinyl. Something about a rambling man and standing too close to the flame. Something about once the rambling man messes with your mind, your little heart not beating the same…
Holy cow, Waylon. You were sure right about that.
Because ever since she’d met Rock, her heart had certainly taken up a new rhythm. One that flitted and fluttered like a drunken bird most days.
“You look beautiful,” he said, letting his gaze run down the length of her purple-sequin-encased body. She felt the path of his eyes like a physical touch.
“Thank you,” she whispered, suddenly hoarse. “So do you.”
He lifted a brow, one corner of his mouth quirking. And, yeah, that sounded really lame. “So, what’s up, ma petite?” he asked, dragging her wayward mind back to the situation and the reason she’d barged in on him.
“I…uh…I just,” she cleared her throat and wrung her hands together. Now that she was here, about to offer him what she hoped would be a little reassurance, she felt silly.
Rock had come by his nickname naturally, because he was so solid, so dependable and unfaltering. Which meant the last thing he probably needed or wanted was affirmations and platitudes from her. Undoubtedly, he only craved a little peace and quiet to strum his guitar and mentally go over the strategy he wanted to use on Rwanda Don…er…Donna Ward.
And here she was disturbing him.
Still, she had to say something, because she could tell by the way he squinted up at her that he was beginning to think she might be going just a little batty. And, the truth was, when it came to him? He was probably right. As he’d say, she was crazier than a road-runnin’ lizard.
Geez, Van. Get it together.
“I just wanted you to know that you’re going to get that confession,” she blurted and fought the urge to roll her eyes even as she pressed doggedly ahead. “You’re going to get her to admit to being part of The Project. You’re going to find out who she’s working with. You’re going to find out why they burned you. And you’re going to clear your name.”
“I know I will,” he nodded, grabbing his hat brim and yanking it around until it faced forward. “I’ve been studyin’ all the information we found on her, and besides havin’ a pretty substantial God complex, the woman seems obsessed with the notion of beating the bad guys, of doin’ good and leavin’ her mark on the world. When I confront her with the true evil of what she’s done, she’s gonna wanna defend herself. Pretty vociferously, I would imagine. Still…” he cocked his head, then narrowed his gaze, for all the world looking like he could see inside of her, “I don’t think that’s really why you came up here, now is it?”
And, holy crap! He wasn’t just mucking around in Donna Ward’s head; he was mucking around in Vanessa’s as well. How did he do that?
And until he called her on it, she hadn’t really been aware the true reason she sought him out was because she needed a little reassurance. Some sort of sign from him that last night meant something. That regardless of what he claimed, there was something more between them than a big, heaping helping of red-hot lust.
“A-about last night…” she began hesitantly.
“What about it?” he asked, and for the first time in her life she couldn’t read what emotion lay behind his tone. Probably because his voice was flat. Flat like a pancake, flat like a fritter. Flat, flat, flat.