She shook her head and turned away. Even after a shower, her shoulder muscles still felt bunched together, as if she held the weight of her entire world there. She had no desire to argue with him. All she wanted was for him to leave.
“Are you okay?”
Kira looked up, startled. She resented the kindness in his voice. His eyes, clear blue and way too sexy for his own good, were almost compassionate. “I’m fine.” She put her hands on her hips. “Don’t stand there and try to figure me out. I’m not going to give you some kind of meltdown for your damn paper.”
“No offense, but I sort of doubt you’re fine. I mean, with everything going on. I’d be a fucking nut job if my dad was kidnapped.”
Kira laced both hands at the base of her neck. Her hair, still damp, brushed her fingertips. She hadn’t put any gel in it after her shower, and now it lay flat against her skull. No makeup either. What was the point, when she was just locked up in this place? But now she wished she had. She didn’t like the way Steele was looking at her. She needed the protection of a layer or two of cosmetics.
“I have to be fine. There’s nothing I can do from here. I have to trust that people are doing everything they can.” She left the parlor and headed for the kitchen.
The sooner this guy left, the better. Then she could talk to Francesca. She could call Carl and ask what the hell was taking so long. Edoardo had more money than he knew what to do with. Buy off the terrorists, that’s all they had to do. She knew they wanted prisoners, but if they could get millions instead, wouldn’t they take the offer? People would agree to anything for the right amount of money.
To her dismay, Steele followed her into the kitchen. “I thought I told you to leave. I could have Simon remove you, you know. Have you arrested for trespassing.”
“Like I said before, Francesca asked me to stay. Last time I checked, she was the one who owned this place.”
Something hit Kira in the gut. More than you realize. She took an apple from a basket on the counter, turned her back and sat in the far corner of the breakfast nook. Outside, rain fell in sheets, slicking the glass.
“That’s all you’re eating?”
“Now you’re worried about my diet?”
“No.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. The heat of his fingers pressed into her bare skin. “Well, maybe a little. You could afford to put on some weight.”
She shrugged off his touch. “Is that how you warm up to all the women you meet?”
He slid into the chair opposite her and smiled. She didn’t like the open, confident expression on his face. She didn’t trust it. This guy was bad news.
“Here.” He’d opened the refrigerator and pulled out a basket of something; now he pushed it across the table. Pieces of cold barbequed chicken. Her stomach rumbled. “Eat.” He handed her a stack of paper napkins. “Before you waste away.”
Kira glared at him, meaning to say you haven’t won, and this won’t convince me to like you, but her mouth watered. She wrapped her fingers around a chicken leg and bit into it. She closed her eyes. Heaven.
“Pinot?” He held up a wine bottle.
“I guess.”
He opened it and poured them each a glass. Great. Now she had a dinner companion. She refused to meet his gaze. Instead, she focused on the spot where the corner of his shoulder met the window frame, just inside her peripheral vision. He didn’t say anything, didn’t question her or try to make a stupid joke, and though she tried to stay annoyed, it didn’t work. To be honest, the only thing she felt was a tinge of relief. She’d dreaded every moment of coming back to this house. Somehow, sitting inside it with a stranger made her feel like less of one.
She gnawed the chicken leg down to the bone almost without realizing it. Oh, well. At least her stomach wasn’t threatening revolt any more. What did she care, anyway? He’d surely watched his share of women chow down. He probably had his share of women, period. She knew men who looked like Steele. They had more notches on their bedpost than there were fish in the sea. He oozed sex. Even being this close to him set her hormones on edge, and she found herself wondering what he thought of her. What he might do to her.
Kira shook her head. Stop thinking like that. What the hell was wrong with her? She pulled her phone from the pocket of the fleecy sweats she’d changed into.
“You got a signal?”
She nodded and kept her eyes on her phone. The wine was slipping into her veins oh so smoothly, and she could feel her defenses lowering. She focused on the screen. One text from Scotty. Another from Isha. She checked the major news sites for anything about her father. Nothing new. No updates on any of Edoardo’s fan sites, either, besides the original announcement of his disappearance and pages of weepy posts and comments.
“What the hell’s happening?” She couldn’t stand not knowing.
“Try Al Jazeera.” Steele had worked his chair around the table and now sat less than six inches from her elbow.
Kira glanced up. She didn’t like him sitting so close to her. She typed the letters into a search engine with trembling fingers. They waited. And then—
A video, grainy but decipherable. A dark-haired man spoke in a foreign language and pointed to a map of Saudi Arabia and its cluster of smaller neighbors. Steele inched his chair closer. Kira didn’t move, even when his leg brushed hers and sent a jolt of electricity through her.
“Does this go any louder?” He reached over to adjust the volume. For an instant, his thumb rested on the back of her hand. Then it moved away again. When she stole a glance at him, he smiled, and she fell.
Rain began to patter harder against the windows. A shard of lightning slashed the darkness outside. Kira shivered and wished she’d thought to bring a hoodie, a sweater, something to wrap herself in. Instead she sat here in a lousy tank top, forgetting that inside this house the temperature dropped quickly once the sun went down. Darkness brought a chill. Always.
The video screen flickered, went black, then grew bright with the faraway picture of a man. Kira and Steele leaned closer. She could feel his breath on her cheek. On the screen, two soldiers held a man’s arms. As the camera neared, Kira made out the face of her father. Though blurry, the picture revealed tired eyes above the grimace of pain. Kira’s stomach clenched and she pressed the back of her hand against her mouth.
“Oh, God.” She hadn’t spoken to him in so long. For seven years she’d pretended she didn’t need him, didn’t want to know or belong to him. But what if she never got a chance to say goodbye to him, either?
After a few seconds, the camera pulled away again, and Edoardo’s face was replaced by that of a bearded man wearing dark glasses and a white turban. He spoke in guttural utterances Kira couldn’t decipher; cold, hard words, machine-gun in cadence. They broke her heart. Her shoulders began to shake, and the chill in the kitchen set into her bones. After a minute, the reporter came on again. In broken English, he translated.
“A terrorist group has taken responsibility for the kidnapping of international film star Edoardo Morelli. They are demanding the immediate release of twelve prisoners currently held by the United States of America...”
“Twelve?” One man in exchange for a dozen? What kind of trade was that? “He’s just one person. How is that fair?” She dropped her phone on the table, pushed her chair away and left Steele sitting behind her. All the years she’d been gone. All the things she’d said. Horrible, hateful things she could never take back if her father died tonight.
Tears blinded her, and she stood in the middle of the kitchen without moving. She’d been so hurtful. So unforgiving. She’d almost turned the scissors on him, after standing in the hallway upstairs and slicing off ten inches of her own hair. Here, she’d screamed, thinking that ripping out pieces of herself would turn her into someone else, someone who didn’t belong to him. As if the mistake Edoardo had made all those years ago needed to be thrown back in his face with the cruelest words she could summon.
“Isabella.” Steele placed one ha
nd on the small of her back.
She almost fell into the circle of his arms. She swiped the back of her hand against her nose and gulped. “I don’t go by that name anymore.” She tried to say something else but couldn’t get the words out.
He nodded anyway, as if he understood what she was trying to say, as if he understood the torment that had led her to the decision to change her name, though there was no way he could. Look at him. Probably never suffered a day in his life. Grew up knowing exactly who he was and who his parents were. Like every other normal person in the world. She tried to resent him. She couldn’t. All she could drum up was emptiness in the space that used to belong to her father and Francesca.
“So what I should call you? If it isn’t Isabella. I’d kind of like to use your real name.”
She took a deep breath, fighting for control. “It’s Kira now.”
“Kira.” He said it quietly, as if sifting the syllables over his tongue. “Okay, then. Nice.” He smiled, and she noticed that his shirttails had come untucked. He looked rumpled and worn, and she felt better.
“So, Kira,” he began.
“No.” She held up a palm. “I know where you’re going, and the answer is still no. I’m not answering any questions.”
“Man, they did a number on you, huh?”
“They?”
“The media,” he clarified.
“What do you think? You’re one of them. You know the routine. You’ll do anything for a story. Doesn’t even matter if it’s true.” The electricity jumping between them unnerved her, and she backed away. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been alone with a guy that wasn’t Scotty. This was risky. No telling what might happen.
She inched away until she reached the island in the middle of the kitchen. Then she hopped up on the granite countertop and dangled her legs off the edge. From here, she could look Steele in the eye and keep him at a distance.
“Fair enough. But you gotta know by now I’m not really a bad guy. Not like some of ’em. We shared a meal, after all. That must count for something.”
“I wouldn’t call you watching me eat sharing a meal.”
He didn’t respond, just kept flashing her that high-wattage smile, which she wanted to knock off his face because it was getting under her skin.
“You know, I’d be hugely grateful if I could just ask you a couple of things.”
“Forget it. Hand me that bottle of Pinot, would you?” Outside, the rain had picked up, and it pelted the windows with a steady rhythm. Funny, but she almost didn’t mind. She would never use the word “cozy” to describe this monstrosity of a house. But it didn’t feel particularly dreary now either, and she guessed that had something to do with Steele. Or the wine.
He picked up the bottle and eyed it. “It’s almost empty.”
“Really? Well there’s enough here.” Francesca had always made sure of that.
He’d already pulled another one out of the refrigerator and proceeded to pop the cork. Ten seconds later, he handed her a fresh glass. After filling his own, he lifted it and touched the rim to hers.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers? I don’t think there’s much to celebrate.” She could barely keep track of her emotions, which had been boomeranging all over the place since the moment she’d stepped back inside the house.
“How about our meeting?”
She raised an eyebrow. “You think that’s important enough to drink to?”
“Why not? Can’t say much else has gone right today for either one of us.”
Kira thought about asking this pretty boy what had happened to him that might compare to having one’s father taken prisoner—a hangover? dealing with a traffic jam on the way to work?—but she kept her mouth shut. She didn’t care. She didn’t want to get to know him that well.
They drank in silence for a few minutes. She kept her gaze on her glass.
“You know what I’d really like, more than an interview?” Steele said.
She leaned back. “Oh, I can guess.” Attraction practically sizzled in the air, and she sensed that if he couldn’t get her to commit one way, he’d try another. Fine. Bring it on. She was more than capable of getting a man so twisted up that he’d do or say anything she wanted. Maybe that would prove to her advantage tonight.
Steele tapped one palm on her knee. “Believe it or not, that’s not what I was talking about.” “He gave her a sideways look, burning with all kinds of suggestion. “Though I wouldn’t turn down sex, if you’re offering.”
“I’m not.” Her cheeks warmed. Not yet, anyway. Another few glasses of wine, and anything was possible.
“Ah, well.” He crossed the room to look at the pictures of her father. “I’d love to take your picture.”
She slid to the floor. “Forget it. No way.” She’d spent far too much time in front of a camera. She’d never do that again. She didn’t need anyone exposing her soul. Steele studied the old photos, face bent close to the glass until she was sure he’d read the meaning behind Edoardo’s smile. “Stop looking at those.”
“Why?”
Because then you’ll know.
She set her wine glass in the sink before she dropped it. “Listen, you should go. There’s honestly nothing here. I know you think maybe I’m hiding something, or the house is, but our life really isn’t that exciting.” Lies, her brain screamed. He’ll read them all over your face. “You’ll get more information back at your office,” she babbled on. “I’m sure your father has better sources there, and—”
“It’s pouring outside.”
“So? You won’t melt. I asked you to leave hours ago.” Her voice trembled. “Why are you still here?” After hours of keeping the knot of emotions tied tight, it finally unraveled. She collapsed over the sink as the tears came, hard and strong, in great gulping sobs that shook her chest. Her father. Her mother. Her heart. Her past. Waves of memory came rushing over her until she could barely breathe.
Before she knew what was happening, Steele had crossed the room and wrapped her in his arms. “Hey. Shh. I’m sorry. It’s okay.”
Okay? It’s not okay. It’s not even close. She made fists against his torso and tried to push him away. She wanted to tell him to go to hell and take the rest of the outside world with him. But she couldn’t get the words out. All she could do was weep into his shirtfront and melt into someone stronger than she. She loosened her fingers from their fists and wound them around the fabric of his shirt. She kept her eyes shut and pretended he was someone else, no one special, no one who mattered, just a body holding her up who would dissolve as soon as she pulled herself together. For a few moments, she leaned against the solidness of Steele Walker and let him hold her.
He ran one hand down her spine, over and over again. He brushed the hair at the back of her neck and whispered something into her temple. Lightning exploded up and down her skin. I can’t trust him. He’s an outsider. But damn, this felt good. His arms, his breath, the strength of him beneath her. After a few minutes, her tears quieted, and images of her frightened, exhausted father faded.
She lifted her head. “I’m sorry,” she sniffled. “I don’t usually—” She stopped when she saw the way he was looking at her. “I should probably go upstairs and check on Francesca.” But she didn’t move.
He hadn’t stopped studying her mouth. Or her eyes.
She brushed his shirtfront. “Got some tears on you. Sorry.”
He caught her hand before she could move it away and slipped his fingers through hers. “It’ll wash.”
For a moment they stood there, ten fingers intertwined, and listened to the rain. Her pulse turned into his in the spaces where their skin touched, and she wondered if he could feel the ragged rhythm of her heart, the same way she could feel his. Kiss me, she thought, even though it was crazy to want that. He was danger. He was an outsider. He was also looking at her like he’d never let her go, like the kiss would turn into something much more.
With the last bit of strength
she had left, Kira dropped his hand and walked away, feeling Steele’s gaze on her the entire time.
8:00 p.m.
Steele stuffed both hands into his pockets as she walked away. With every sway of her hips, his throat tightened and his cock hardened, despite his best efforts to get it to behave. In seconds she was gone. She’d flinched with a thunderclap, and the moment between them had vanished. He scrubbed one hand over his face. Probably just as well. He supposed he’d get further with Isabella—or rather, Kira—if he didn’t try to undress her the minute they were alone together.
Not undressing her was easier said than done, though. The intensity of her face stunned him, the intense color of her eyes and the heart-shaped mouth he wanted to taste. Want to taste a lot more than that, actually. He could see up close that cameras hadn’t ever done her justice. This Morelli was beautiful in that exotic, heartbreaking way that made men start wars, fall from grace, sacrifice everything for a single hour of passion.
He sagged against the counter and willed up the image of an icy shower. Didn’t work. He tried reciting baseball stats out loud. Still he wanted to chase her down, kiss her, strip her bare, touch her until she came. He could imagine the sound she’d make, the way she’d feel when she finally let go, and it almost brought him to his knees. He poured a glass of cold water and drank half of it without stopping. I’m a goddamn teenager all over again. A few long minutes passed before he could think straight.
Steele pulled out his notepad and drew circles. For once, he had nothing to write. He didn’t want to put pencil to paper. He wanted to commit her to memory. He wanted to pull that mouth to his, run his fingers over her soft skin, breathe her in and tell her he’d stay with her until the nightmare was over.
He stared outside. The rain had let up, though weak flashes of lightning still lit the hills. He’d been stuck inside this house for almost eight hours and counting. In one respect, he had nothing at all to show for his time. No photographs, no stunning revelations or emotional breakdowns from Francesca, no contact from Edoardo or the terrorists.
Countdown: Steele Page 7
