Page 16 of Danger Close
“Princess?” I felt the soft graze of a warm hand on my skin, gently tracing along my cheek. “Why are you crying?”
I quickly wiped at my face, trying to save my dignity. “I didn’t realize that I was.”
I grabbed the seatbelt, tugging on it so quickly that it locked. I had to let it go and pull it three more times, before Cobra reached over, took the belt from my hands, and patiently pulled it over me, clicking it into place.
I waited, looking out the window, expecting the scenery to move as he drove. When it didn’t, I turned to Cobra. He was staring at me, his face somber. His hair was streaked with white, his beard trim. More like a few days of stubble than a full beard. It looked good on him.
He lifted his brow, as if waiting for me to respond to something.
“What?” I asked, wiping my cheeks, wondering if there were other tears I hadn’t caught.
“I asked you a question.” His hand came off the gear shift and rested on my thigh. His sharp piercing, observant gaze bounced from my eyes, to my lips, and back.
“I’m sorry.” My voice wavered, flustered. “I don’t remember the question.”
“Why are you crying?”
I swallowed. What could I tell him?
How could I explain the misery of my existence? I moved through life in a fog, drowning in loneliness. Other times, I would be determined, sure that I could defend myself from Ray, who I knew would come for me, striking at the moment when I thought I could find happiness. When my hope was at its highest was when he would crush me beneath his boot. So I'd learned to stop hoping.
But in all of that darkness, there was a glimmer of a memory that kept me alive. Living in the past, in Paris, with his interesting colored eyes, staring at me like I was something that could be loved. As though I was someone worth treasuring.
It was that memory that kept me breathing through my worst days. It was in his arms that my mind retreated.
“I don’t know,” I finally said. A non-answer answer. One I hoped he’d take at face value.
His brows furrowed. His hand squeezed my thigh before he leaned away, his eyes facing forward. I missed the warmth of his eyes, and the way they traced my features. I liked it. I liked his attention. I always had.
He took the car from park to drive. The wheels turned, crushing over gravel as he took us down the long drive flanked by animmaculately manicured lawn. A gate opened automatically at the end, and we turned into a narrow, winding street.
My eyes darted around when other cars merged into traffic in front and behind us. My heartbeat was in my ears as I searched every driver’s face for a familiar blond head and ice blue eyes. He could be anywhere at any time.
“What are you looking for?” Cobra asked, his question taking me by surprise. “Or is it a ‘who’?”
I didn’t answer, pulling his jacket tighter around me. The heater was blasting, but the cold outside still stiffened my joints.
“Should I be worried about a boyfriend on my tail?” The muscle in Cobra’s cheek ticked.
When he had been a clean-shaven youth, I had relied on that little muscle to tell me how he felt. He wore his joy on his sleeve, but all other emotions he kept in the tension of his jaw. It warmed my heart to see the familiar expression on his face.
“Joaquin Guerro,” I purred, surprised at how lighthearted I could feel. “If you keep grinding your molars like that, you’ll end up with no teeth.”
He smiled a sweet, lopsided grin that lifted one side of his shadow of a beard.
I let out a long sigh, bringing the sleeves of his jacket to my nose, taking another deep inhale of his amber and leather scent. The whole time, I didn’t have that prickling sensation. I didn’t feel as though someone was breathing down my neck.
He took his hand off the gear shift, and casually lay it on my leg, his body relaxing as though he and I were on nothing but a leisurely drive. Like we were going on a date. I bit my lip, smiling as the warmth of his hand went through my jeans, seeped into my skin. I loved the feel of him. Of this.
I smiled as I watched the red barns and small farm houses rush by the window. We turned at a mountain crossroads, where a blue barn, tilted, broken, and neglected, came into view. The paint looked new, but the building was old.
“That barn’s the same color as your eyes,” he casually mentioned, lifting his free hand to run his knuckle under my eye.
“A faded, old, neglected shade of blue?” I wasn’t fishing for compliments. Self-deprecation was how I dealt with aging.
“Neglected, maybe,” Cobra chuckled. “Old? You’re still younger than me.” He gave me a wink. “But faded? No. Right now, your eyes are as vibrant as ever.”
My eyes had been the thing that got me into modeling. Asian features from my mother, mixed with my father’s striking Nordic eyes, and had translated well in photographs. I blushed at his compliment. When he put his hand back down on my leg, my hand instinctively covered his.
