Page 17 of Fall
“I don’t want you anymore. It’s totally wrong. Especially after what you did to me out there,” I murmur, casting my mind back to the look of concern in his face as I fell from the sky.
His eyes cloud. “I have your parents' home address stored away in here.” He raises a cup in the direction of his brain. “I have my fingertips on the pulse of the world, beija flor. It’s not meant as a threat, more like a friendly warning. If I can trust you to leave here with my secrets, then you can trust me to watch over your family––I’ll keep them safe.”
“Blackmail?” I hiss out. “You’re actually blackmailing me?”
He stares at me without wavering. “I’m telling you how it is. I have no reason to cause them harm. I’d rather not involve innocent people. It’s your choice.” A rogue droplet trails the length of his temple and slips into the bristles decorating his cheek. “If you talk to the police or even breathe my name, I’ll know. Your parents aren’t my enemy.”
“And I am?” I slam my hands on my hips. “Why did you come back for me?” He holds his tongue as if the answer would rip him apart.
The short distance separating us vanishes. He stops within range of a possible hard swat. The instinct to lash out forces me backwards. I gasp when my ass hits the beam.
His face is expressionless. Quietly observing my unease as he offers me the drink. “I was too hasty earlier.” My eyes roam over every inch of his face, and his dally on my mouth. “I’m sorry.”
My rage simmers, swirling with the regret behind his eyes. “Hasty!” I cross my arms and pout. “How sorry are you exactly?”
“Enough to value your life and gift you with a first-class ticket out of Brazil.” My pulse jumps when he brushes the scar on my cheek. “What did you find in the jungle that was so special?”
I bite my lip, recalling the hasty scrawl to Emmie. “Lots of things,” I reply with a tart grimace. “It’s not important now.”
Snatching the booze, I swill the spirit inside and take a much-needed numbing sip. Vanilla and spice burn my gullet. I cough and clear my throat. “I’ll take that shower now.”
Something occurs to me in the peaceful moment between us. While he stands before me with a shot of white rum and dripping jet-black shaggy hair, utterly exposed—I’m in his private quarters in possession of a firearm and booze while he’s semi-naked offering me freedom.
He’s sending me home.
He’s not really my enemy.
He doesn’t want me.
“Be my guest,” he replies, pinning me to the spot with a wry smile.
My stomach burns. Not from the astringent alcohol, but from his impromptu decision. The man before me has the demons to physically end my life. He could blow a hole in my heart on a whim, drop me from the sky without a parachute or wrestle with me on the jungle floor and crush my windpipe if he deemed it to be a fitting punishment.
Yet, I’m alive and left wondering why his announcement bangs louder than a gunshot.
A corrosive wrench of bitterness seeps through me. In a quick gulp, I knock back the rum and suck in through my teeth when it fails to appease his abrupt dismissal.
I wander away, leaving the physique I crave, but won’t admit it. His dominant aura glows with the natural habitat suited to his character. Unpredictable and complex.
Something has changed.
For the first time in weeks, I’m questioning my future. Not apprehensive about death or a life of servitude. But for the barbed wire spikes needling my heart, telling me I’m not ready to part ways with Brazil.
I hunker down and place the gun by my feet then kick out of my clunky boots. The unflattering slacks are next to come off, except for my panties. I refuse to offer a private peep show, even if that idea stupidly thrills me.
Shrugging off the man-sized jacket, I opt to keep on the boxy shirt. I leave the gun at my toes and flick the copper lever. Powerful jets drench my clammy skin and pummel the crown of my head. Thundering water pressure doesn’t calm my speeding pulse. It feeds the adrenaline. I pause under a wave of hot water and turbulent emotions. I’m a mess caught between what I should do and what I want to do.
When I peek over my shoulder, he’s propped against a vertical beam. One arm folds across his ribcage; his opposite hand tenses around the liquor held to his lips. Dark eyes root me to the wet boards. His form is primed and preparing to detonate.
I don’t know why his silent assessment spears my skin with millions of goosebumps or why I fully rotate to face him. A realization that he can look but can’t touch zaps me with electricity.
My gaze leaves his idle observation and tilts to the rafters. Water gushes. My pulse erupts. Grateful for the unseen white flag waving between us, I drift into a fragile daze of lust. A sensation that lives and breathes in every cell when this man is around me. Destructive excitement that I have no right to enjoy.
Sensing his approach, my chin drops, and I find his blank expression. Eyes narrowed. Nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply and lips squeezing together in a tight line. A bare hand snares my throat, elongating the contour of my neck. It’s not rough or brutal. Oddly, it’s gently controlled with calmness.
“Why are you teasing me, beija flor?” My lashes flutter wildly, sprinkling beads of water. He sweeps his thumb along my jawline. “Tell me what you found in the jungle that’s so special?” His pulse thrums in tandem with his breathing. “Remember how I feel about honesty.”
I laugh with an unstable huff. Like he doesn't know what we shared. The disease that hypnotized us both. My blood catches fire, exploding in sparks beneath his touch. “I found Dante.” I try to pull away. “And ended up with you instead.” Instantly, his grip weakens, but his hand remains in place.
