Mean Streak(15)

“Yeah, I should. But I didn’t want to breach the wall of Jericho over there to get into the bathroom.” He tilted his head toward the screen. “I was afraid of being set upon again.”

“I didn’t hurt you that badly.”

“I wasn’t afraid of you hurting me. I was afraid of hurting you.” At her shocked expression, he clarified. “Not on purpose. But if I have to defend myself from you, you could wind up hurt because I’m so much bigger than you are.”

His size would have been intimidating if she’d been standing behind him in the checkout line at the supermarket, or sharing an elevator, or sitting beside him on an airplane. He didn’t have to work at being imposing, his height was sufficient. Today’s cream-colored cable-knit sweater was form fitting and emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and chest.

His hands, folded around the earthenware coffee mug, made it look as delicate as a cup from the china tea service she’d played with when she was a little girl. Even dormant, his hands intimidated her. From the knob of his wrist bone to the tips of his long fingers, they looked capable of doing…

Lots of things.

She remembered how gently those fingers had explored the skin on the back of her neck. You’re sopping wet. Her cheeks grew hot over the thoughts that flickered through her mind. She drank from her glass of water, then picked up her interrogation where she’d left off. “Were you in the military?”

“What makes you ask?”

“Your tidiness. Everything folded uniformly, stored neatly. Boots lined up in pairs.”

“You must’ve given the place a thorough search.”

“Didn’t you expect me to?”

“Yeah.” He stretched his long legs out in front of him, at an angle to the table. “I knew you’d snoop.”

“So what did you hide in advance of my search? Handcuffs? Leather straps?”

“Only my laptop. Not well enough, as it turns out. But I didn’t think you’d have the strength to move the locker out from under the bed.”

“It took every ounce of energy I had.”

“You had enough to pounce on me.”

“But not enough to hold on.”

“You should have thought of that.”

“I did.”

“Oh, right. The butcher knife.”

“Little good that did me.”

“It poked a hole in my best scarf.”

He had the gall to look amused, which irked her. She tried to catch him off guard. “Tell me about the war.”

Her probe had found a sore spot. He pulled his legs in, sat up straighter, took a sip of coffee. Normal, inconsequential actions, but in this case, revealing.

“Well?” she said.

“What do you want to know?”

“What branch of the service were you in?”

Nothing.

“When did you serve?”

Nothing.

“Where?” When he didn’t answer that, she said, “Nothing to say on the topic of warfare?”

“Only that I don’t recommend it.”

They eyed each other across the table. In his steady gaze she read a warning that he wanted the discussion to end there. She didn’t press her luck. “The boxes of bullets on the shelf in the bathroom…”

“I thought they’d be out of your reach.”

“I had to stretch on tiptoe. If you have bullets, you must have guns.”

“My arsenal didn’t turn up during your search?”

She shook her head.

“Too bad. Otherwise you could have shot me instead of attacking with your fingernail and a butcher knife. It would have taken less energy.”

Again, he was making fun of her. She struck back. “Was yours a violent crime?”

His grin dissolved. No, not dissolved, because that denoted a gradual fade. His levity vanished in an instant, that corner of his mouth dropping back into place to form the firm line it usually was. “Extremely.”

His blunt reply filled her with desperation and a wrenching sense of despair. She wished he had denied or mitigated it. Still clinging to a vain hope, she said, “If it was something you did during wartime—”

“It wasn’t.”

“I see.”

He gave a harsh laugh. “You don’t see a bloody thing.”

He stood up so suddenly, she nearly jumped out of her skin. In reaction, she shot to her feet, sending her chair over backward. When it crashed to the floor, she cringed.

He stepped around the table, picked up her chair, and set it upright with angry emphasis, banging the legs against the floor. “Stop jumping every time I move.”

“Then stop scaring me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are!”

“I don’t mean to.”

“But you do anyway.”

“Why? I’m not going to hurt you.”

“If that’s true, then let me call my husband—”

“No.”

“—and tell him that I’m all right.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“We’ve been through this. I’m tired of talking about it. I’m also tired of going outside to pee against a damn tree, which I’ve been doing all afternoon so I wouldn’t disturb your rest. But now I’m going into the bathroom to use the commode and grab a shower. Make yourself at home. Snoop to your heart’s content,” he said, spreading his arms wide at his sides. “The place is all yours.”