Deadly Silence (Blood Brothers #1)(4)

She nodded, her throat closing. He was every vision of a badass bad boy she’d ever fantasized about. His thick black hair curled over the collar of a battered leather jacket that covered a broad, well-muscled chest. Long legs, encased in faded jeans, led to motorcycle boots. His face had been shaped with strong lines and powerful strokes, and a shadow lined his cut jaw. But those eyes. Greenish blue and fierce, they changed shades with his mood.

As she watched, those odd eyes narrowed. “What the fuck?”

She self-consciously fingered the slash of a bruise across her right cheekbone. Cover-up had concealed it well enough all day, but leave it to Ryker to notice. He didn’t miss anything. God, that intrigued her. His vision was oddly sharp, and once he’d mentioned hearing an argument several doors down. She hadn’t heard a thing. “It’s nothing.” She stepped back to allow him entrance. “I have a lasagna cooking.”

He moved into her, heat and his scent of forest and leather brushing across her skin. One knuckle gently ran across the bruise. “Who hit you?” The tone held an edge of something dark.

She shut the door and moved away from his touch. “What? Who says somebody hit me?” Turning on the heels and barely keeping from landing on her butt, she walked toward the kitchen, remembering to sway her hips before making it past the couch. “I have to get dinner out or it’ll burn.” She kept several frozen dishes ready to go, not knowing when he’d be back in town. The domestication worked well for them both, and she liked cooking for him. Enjoyed taking care of him like that . . . for this brief affair, or whatever it was. “I hope you haven’t eaten.”

“You know I haven’t.” He stopped inside the kitchen. “Zara.”

She gave an involuntary shiver from his low tone and drew the lasagna from the oven and bread from the warmer before turning around to see him lounging against the doorjamb. “Isn’t this when you pour wine?” Her heart fluttered at seeing the contrast between her pretty butter yellow cabinets and the deadly rebel calmly watching her. “I have the beer you like.”

“You always have the beer I like.” He didn’t move a muscle, and this time a warning threaded through his words in a tone like gravel crumbling in a crusher. “I asked you a question.”

She forced a smile and carried the dishes to the breakfast nook, which she’d already set with her favorite Apple-patterned dinnerware and bright aqua linens. “And I asked you one.” Trying to ignore the tension vibrating from him, she grasped a lighter for the candles.

A hand on her arm spun her around. She hadn’t heard him move. How did he do that?

He leaned in. “Then I’ll answer yours. I know what a woman looks like who’s been hit. I know by the color and slant of that bruise how much force was used, how tall the guy was, and which hand he used. What I don’t know. . . is the name of the fucker. Yet.”

“How do you know all of that?” she whispered.

He lifted his head, withdrawing. “I just do.”

There it was. He’d share his body and nothing else with her. She didn’t even know where he lived when he wasn’t on a case. From day one he’d been clear that this wasn’t forever, that he wasn’t interested in a future. Neither was she. He was her first purely physical affair, and that’s why he could mind his own business. “Bully for you.” She shoved past him for the wine waiting on the counter and twisted in the corkscrew with a little more force than was necessary. Why was he changing the game on her?

“Are you seeing somebody else?”

She stilled. Hurt, surprising in its sharpness, cut through her. “No.” Yanking out the cork, she turned to face him. “We said we’d be exclusive for however long we, ah, saw each other.”

He rubbed the scruff on his chin, studying her. “Part of exclusivity means nobody hurts what’s mine.”

She blinked twice at the possessive language. “I think we both know I’m not yours.” What was going on with him? She studied him closer. Lines fanned out from his eyes, and a tenseness lived in his broad shoulders. “Are you okay?”

Without moving, he seemed to withdraw. “Yes. Been on a case.”

“Is it finished?”

“No.” A vein stood out along his tough-guy neck.

Ah. Ryker was a private detective who specialized in finding the hard to find. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Yeah, she’d figured. “Then let’s relax.” She poured two glasses of Cabernet and took a seat, carefully unfolding her napkin. Her toes ached in the sexy shoes, and for the first time, she wondered if all the effort was worth it. “We can have a nice dinner.”

Slowly, he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it on his chair, drawing the chair out to sit, his movements controlled and with a hint of something. . . violent.

Her breath caught, and she filled their plates.

“I like your hair down,” he rumbled, reaching for his napkin.

“Yet I kept it up,” she said primly. They were on even footing. This was casual, and apparently they both needed a quick reminder. Sitting back, she took a deep drink of the potent brew, almost humming when it warmed her stomach.

He lifted his chin, amusement partially banishing the irritation in his eyes. “Have I done something to piss you off?”