Free Kiss in the Dark by Jenna Mills Page A

a different kind of love, one a man like Dylan would never understand.
    “You don’t trust me, do you?” he asked.
    She looked at him standing there and cursed the way her pulse thrummed low and deep. Too well, she remembered the last time she opened herself to this man, the fallout. It wasn’t his fault, she knew. He was who he was. But he wasn’t the kind of man she could let into her life. A few kind gestures could no more erase the hard words from last night, than they could overshadow the fundamental differences that stood between them. She wanted simple. He thrived on chaos.
    And no matter how exciting that kind of mind-numbing passion could be, Beth had learned it was dangerous. Passion led to pain. It wasn’t sustaining. It always, always burned out.
    “Last night you asked if I killed your cousin,” she reminded. “How can I trust you?”
    “Damn it, Bethany.” His gaze seared into hers for a punishing heartbeat. Earlier, the low light in his eyes had made her feel beautiful. This time, his scrutiny ran over her like a black crayon obscuring something that didn’t quite measure up.
    “You see only what you want to see, don’t you? Just like before.”
    An immediate defense vaulted through her, but she bit the words back. She didn’t need to defend herself to Dylan St. Croix. Instead, she stood silently and watched him stoop down and violently snag the knapsack he’d carried into the room.
    “I don’t know why I even bothered,” he muttered, handing her the large satchel as he strode to the door.
    The sudden jolt of panic made no sense. If she didn’t know better, she would have sworn she’d hurt him.
    Quickly, she looked at the bag—it didn’t weigh much, and when she squeezed, she found the contents soft. “What’s this?”
    He jerked open the door before turning back to her. Those dark green eyes of his blazed with an emotion she couldn’t even begin to name. “Open it.”
    Curiosity nudged against caution. She couldn’t imagine what he would give her, knew that sooner or later a Dylan bomb had to detonate. One always did.
    “It’s not a bomb, Bethany.”
    She winced, wondering for a second there if she’d spoken aloud. But of course she hadn’t. That was just Dylan.
    Beth didn’t consider herself a brave woman—she rolled her eyes at movies where a scantily clad, defenseless woman investigated a noise late at night. But she wasn’t a coward, either. Instinct may have warned not to open the bag, but determination demanded she not give Dylan any indication that he could rattle her. Whatever he had squished up inside, she could handle.
    Or so she thought.
    She unfastened the two buckles and pulled back the flap just stared. “Clothes?” she asked, looking up at him. “You brought me clothes?”
    He leaned against the door frame, crossing his legs at the ankles and folding his arms across his chest. A slow heat lit his gaze as it dipped down over her body. “Bastard that I am, I didn’t think you’d want to wear a robe to the funeral.”
    Everything inside her went very still. She felt as though she’d just been given a pop quiz, and not only did she not understand the subject, she couldn’t even make out the language.
    “What’s the matter?” His voice was lower now, thicker. “Scared to look?”
    Terrified. What a man bought for a woman said a lot about how he thought about her. How he felt.
    “Do you really think I’m capable of murder?”
    “You’re capable of anything you put your mind to.”
    She didn’t want to look inside that bag. She didn’t want to know what Dylan really thought about her. Too easily she could see him in some trendy store, running his hands over short skirts and sheer blouses, leopard prints and crotchless underwear.
    But she wasn’t a coward. Fire with fire, she reminded herself, then scooped a hand down into the knapsack.
    * * *
    For the second time in twelve hours, Dylan saw Bethany’s eyes go wide and dark, her mouth tumble open. He