Hell Breaks Loose (Devil's Rock #2)(37)

“Interesting. I make you lose control?” He nodded slowly, thinking God knew what.

“Don’t look so flattered.” She reached for another rock. “It’s not such a leap that I would act out of character around my kidnapper.”

“Maybe you act like the real you with me.”

She froze at that suggestion, clutching the rock in her hand. Could there be some truth to that? Had this scenario forced her to drop all her walls and just be who she truly was? Who even was that? It had been a long time since she did any self-examination. She had simply been living on autopilot. Her gaze narrowed on him, resenting that he was prompting such thoughts. It was tempting to fling that rock at him.

“And last time I checked, I’m not your kidnapper,” he added. “I didn’t abduct you.”

“Maybe not initially, but you can’t claim innocence. You’re holding me captive right now. You’re not letting me go.”

His lips flattened, and she knew he didn’t like the reminder. “I told you. You’ll get home, and I think you can give me a little bit of your trust since I was the one who protected your pretty little neck back there.”

Pretty little neck? A flush of heat washed over her. It was probably just an expression. Still, it felt intimate. She shifted where she sat, glancing around her.

A number of things had been said about Grace in recent (and not so recent) years. Her father had been in the public eye a long time. Even before the presidency. No one had ever described her as pretty. Even her grandmother had bemoaned that she lacked the Artigas beauty. The beauty that her mother possessed had come in very handy to catch her father. She had been a beauty queen. There wasn’t a pageant in South Florida she hadn’t won. The media still loved to flash pictures of the First Lady in a bikini with Miss Miami emblazoned across her chest. When your mother resembled Sofía Vergara it was enough to give you a complex.

She gave herself a swift mental kick. Hey, Stockholm-syndrome-freak-girl, stop getting off on his unlikely and unwanted interest in you. Her appearance didn’t matter. He’d established that she wasn’t his type. And he certainly wasn’t her type.

A sudden splash pulled her attention to the water.

“I got one!”

She jumped to her feet and pranced up and down along the bank excitedly. “What do I do? What do I do?”

“The net!” His biceps bulged as he worked to reel in the fish. For someone who knew nothing about fishing, she thought whatever was on the end of that line was big.

She hopped across the pond, haphazardly using the rocks he had used as a path, but not nearly as skillfully. She slipped several times, sinking to her knees in the freezing water. By the time she reached him, he was reeling in a gorgeous fish, shiny red on the back with a white belly.

“What kind is it?” she asked, as if that would hold any significance to her.

“Red drum, I think.”

It was big, bowing half of his rod. She anxiously stretched out the net. He lowered it inside with a triumphant shout, grinning in a way she had never seen from him. It was a grin of victory. He looked . . . happy, and she couldn’t tear her gaze from him. The grooves along the sides of his face actually looked like dimples.

“Eleven years,” he declared, “but I haven’t forgotten how it’s done.”

“Must be like riding a bike,” she laughed in turn, her cheeks starting to ache from the stretch of her smile as she adjusted her grip on the now heavy net.

He chuckled. “Or f*cking.”

And just like that it got awkward.

Her smile melted. Nervous, she met his stare. He had stopped laughing. His eyes—sweet God, his eyes actually changed color—went from gold to green as they locked on her with laser-hot focus.

“Guess that’s true,” she hedged, floundering. Fucking. She bet with him that’s what it was. Sex wasn’t sex. It was f*cking. Hot and messy and rough. She wouldn’t know anything about that.

They stood close together, but she didn’t take a step back. It would be like calling uncle—or being the first to blink in a staring contest. She didn’t want to be the one to capitulate.

“It’s the kind of thing you never forget how to do,” he added, his voice deep and thick, like the drag of soft fur against her skin.

She fought to swallow the boulder-size lump in her throat, nodding dumbly, still trying to act like everything was normal, like her pulse wasn’t racing and her breasts didn’t feel heavy and achy, straining inside her bra.

“Yeah,” she agreed nervously. As though she did in fact know. As though her relationship with Charles or her college boyfriends had taught her anything about f*cking. She was ignorant when it came to that kind of thing. None of those guys had taught her anything about orgasms either. That remained the stuff of fairy tales.

They remained where they were, connected by the net she was holding with the fish in it that was still hooked to his line. She told herself that was the only thing linking them, the reason she couldn’t break away. The reason she couldn’t stop looking at him . . . stop her heart from pounding in her chest.

“Sometimes it’s even better than you remember,” he uttered, not looking at the fish. Looking only at her.

It didn’t feel like he was talking about the fish at all. Staring at her, she felt stripped naked. His gaze dropped. Was he looking at her mouth now? No, she had to be projecting. Imagining his gaze on her mouth. Imagining he was on the verge of stepping closer and kissing her like this was some old romantic comedy that would end with the two of them together. Nothing about this was funny. It was life and death and she was sitting here acting like she was Meg Ryan.