Strong Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #1)(15)

“Now that I know you’re okay,” I begin, backing up a step and sticking my gun in my shorts, at the curve of my lower back. “I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

“H-how did you get in here?” she asks again, stepping toward me as I head for the door.

“A key. They gave you two. I kept one.”

“Wow. Thanks for asking.”

“I don’t often ask permission for anything I do. I hope that doesn’t offend you.”

“And if it does?”

I shrug. “Then this isn’t going to be a particularly pleasant trip for you.”

I reach for the door handle.

“Wait.” I pause. “You can stay, you know.”

“Are you asking me to stay?”

She moves back toward the bed, fiddling with her fingers as she goes. “I’m just saying that I trust you not to do anything. I mean, it’s not like you can’t just come in here whenever you want anyway.”

I consider it. It would be so easy . . .

“We both need sleep.”

She tilts her head to one side, her long, fiery hair falling over one breast. It’s a sexy pose. She probably has no idea just how sexy.

“I promise not to keep you awake.”

“I can’t sleep in the room with someone else.”

“Oh,” she says again.

“I’m close if you need me, though.”

I open the door and walk out. I hear a soft “good night” just as I close it behind me. I get the feeling that it’s going to be a long night, but not necessarily a good one.





NINE


Muse

When dawn slices through the clouds, I’m still awake, staring at the ceiling. My body only stopped tingling about an hour ago. For the longest time after Jasper left, I could feel every solid muscle, every warm plane as though my front was still pressed to his back. That’s never happened to me before, so I just lay, spread eagle, on top of the covers for the rest of the night. I took turns reveling in the sensation and marveling over what an awful person I am for wanting Jasper so much when my father could be in danger.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so conflicted. I don’t want to want Jasper. I want to find my father. I want for this whole mess to resolve so I can go back home. To my real home. I want a lot of other things, too, but Jasper shouldn’t be one of them. He’s wrong for me in practically every possible way. He’s aloof and stoic, he’s a veritable drifter with a dangerous job, he’s vague and barely even friendly. He all but admitted to being only one-night-stand material. I mean, could he be a worse fit for me?

Probably not.

But still . . . even considering all those cons . . . I want him. God, how I want him! He does something to me. Something powerful and visceral and irresistible. I can feel the heat beneath his cool exterior as vividly as if I were standing in front of a fire, warming my hands.

Not to mention that he’s brave and protective. I never expected that. Well the bravery, maybe, but not the protectiveness. I mean, he ran to my rescue when he heard that gunshot, like some kind of hero might. My knees get weak just thinking about him standing in front of me, so tall and fearless, tucking me safely behind him while he faced what could’ve been a killer or a madman. But he didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think twice about putting himself between me and danger.

He’d probably laugh if he knew that the only thing about this situation that is offending me is my own reaction to him. It’s very much against my will, but that doesn’t make it any less fierce.

At just before six, I drag myself from the non-comfort of my bed and set about getting ready to leave. He said seven sharp and I plan to be ready.

—

Fifteen hours. We’ve traveled fifteen hours . . . hundreds of miles . . . and exchanged little more than a few polite words. The car has been full of silence since we left. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it empty. Quite the opposite, actually. It’s full, brimming with a sensual undercurrent. It’s bubbling with want and can’t-have, and churning with I-wish and I-wish-I-didn’t. Or at least that’s how it feels to me.

Dozens of times I’ve caught myself watching the way Jasper so casually yet so competently grips the steering wheel. I’ve caught myself studying his long fingers, admiring his thick veins. Even more often, though, I’ve found myself sneaking glances at his strong profile, following it down the sinew of his throat to his chest, to the wide expanse wrapped to perfection in soft black cotton.

Several times, when I haven’t been surreptitiously stalking him with my eyes, I’ve detected movement in my peripheral vision. I’ve noticed him glancing my way. Each time, he pauses for a few seconds and then looks away. But that hasn’t been the bothersome part. The bothersome part has been that I could feel the intensity of his stare. I could feel the communication of it as clearly as though words were spoken aloud. It’s been unnerving. Maddening. Worse, it’s been titillating. It brings the want back tenfold.

All day, I’ve teetered between obsessive thoughts of the man next to me—what he’s thinking, who he really is, what it would feel like to have his lips on my skin—and guilt-ridden thoughts of my father.

I did everything I could to keep him safe, the Colonel, but it’s possible that wasn’t enough. I reason, however, that if he were dead, I’d have been notified. He had measures in place in the event of his death. At the time, I thought it was excessively morbid, but now . . . now I’m glad he did it. It brings me some small amount of peace in an otherwise gut-wrenching time of worry.