Page 110 of Stalker

Laughing to myself, I grabbed a clean wineglass, almost bristling. Instead of seven in the cabinet, there were six. I pulled one out slowly, glancing over my shoulder as soon as I did. The creepy-crawlies remained.

With the glass on the counter, I shifted to the dishwasher, slowly opening the front. The wineglass from the night before had been carefully placed in the top rack.

But there wasn’t a second.

And I was very careful with my stemware. There was no way I’d broken one and hadn’t remembered. I closed my eyes briefly, trying to calm my nerves. Maybe I’d left the one from last night in my bedroom. That had to be it. I’d been very distraught after chatting with the stranger. The explanation was plausible.

I forced myself to pour a glass, hating the fact my hand was shaking.

Just like Jeanine’s had been the entire time I’d been with her.

My strange thoughts were bordering on ridiculous.

Since leaving her house, I’d had a feeling she hadn’t told me everything. What could she be hiding and more important, why? And who the hell was threatening her now? The kids were grown and successful, the father wallowing away in prison or already dead. Had it been some fuckup in the police department? That I could believe.

After a few seconds of attempting to calm my nerves, I wrapped my hand around the glass, bringing it to my lips.

A strange sense of foreboding settled into the back of my mind. What if Cain Demarco was alive and had been released from prison, killing again? Shit. He’d be in his sixties, if not older.

That didn’t mean anything.

There were killers at every age.

At this point, I needed to settle my nerves and try to put everything into some perspective. As soon as I headed for the living room, a crackle of energy flowed through me.

Stopping short, I listened for any sounds in the house. There were none. Even the traffic noise was muffled given the kitchen was in the back. I continued to remind myself that the last few days had been unnerving as hell. That was the reason for my uneasiness.

I shook my head, angry with falling prey to what I’d called the victim’s syndrome. Once attacked, victims often saw their attacker everywhere, becoming fearful of living their day-to-day lives.

That wasn’t me.

I was far too strong and resilient.

Then I walked into my living room.

There were some things in life that couldn’t be controlled. Tonight, I had to face one of them.

“Wilder.”

The man sat in one of my comfy chairs, one hand wrapped around the missing wineglass. His legs were crossed, his expression serene. He was wearing all black, including combat-style boots. If it were any other man, I’d be terrified, already screaming, but instead of fear I experienced sheer excitement.

“Lady Butterfly.” His deep voice resonated all through me.

“You broke into my house.”

“Yes.”

“You’re drinking my wine.”

He lifted his glass, tilting his head just slightly. His eyes were shining, almost luminous. “A very nice selection, although I must admit I prefer the vintage from my winery.”

He was just as handsome as ever, perhaps even more so. I should feel violated, but the excitement of seeing him again outweighed all common sense.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Is that any way to greet a visitor?”

“Let’s not play any games, Wilder. You need to tell me why you’re here.”

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