Free Kiss in the Dark by Jenna Mills Page B

heard the sharp intake of breath. Her hand came out of the bag slowly, carrying with it the items he’d picked up on his way over.
    He wanted to feel anger. He wanted to resent her for the heartlessness she so clearly expected of him. He’d seen the wariness in her every move, her every look, knew she expected him to supply her with the kind of sleazy clothes a woman like Bethany would never wear.
    She didn’t need clothes to send a man to his knees.
    Hell, even exhausted and frightened, she took his breath away. The sight of her when she’d opened the door in that bulky white robe had almost wiped out everything he’d told himself on the way over. To just play it cool. To stick to the facts, the matter at hand. See if he could detect any hint of a vital secret she might be keeping. Tell her he’d already planned the funeral, then leave. Breakfast was a mere necessity—he couldn’t have her passing out while they stood graveside. And the clothes, well, she had to wear something.
    But then he’d seen her standing there, bare-legged and barefoot, looking lost and alone despite the fact she stood in an opulent hotel room, and self-defense had gone to hell in a handbasket. Those eyes of hers, he knew. Those damn swirling blue eyes, fringed by lashes long and dark without even the aid of mascara. They’d looked especially provocative against skin a few shades too pale. And her lips, that lush mouth of hers that looked startlingly like a dewy rose petal, had been dry, cracked.
    Like an idiot, he’d wanted to moisten it himself.
    Thank God he was a strong man. Thank God he knew that even if he couldn’t count on himself to keep his hand off, with a few well-aimed words, he could count on Bethany. With most women, a smile or wink, a suggestive word here and there, and they came running. Not Bethany. She recoiled from heat and honesty. She preferred impersonal. Telling her she looked beautiful was tantamount to telling her he never wanted to see her again. So he had. Because like an idiot, he did. But knew he shouldn’t.
    She may well have killed his cousin.
    Everything inside him rebelled violently at the thought. “They’re…” She looked from the garments in he hands and met his gaze. Her dilated pupils overrode the blue of her eyes, making them look dark, almost dazed.
    “Perfect,” he finished for her. Classy. Elegant. Just like her. He’d picked the clothes out with great care, linen slacks and cotton blouses, silk pajamas, the muted tones she preferred. A black suit.
    She fingered the fabrics gently. All but the underwear. She didn’t touch the slip or bra, the panties.
    “You knew my size,” she whispered.
    “A good guess.” Like hell. He knew everything about her, every exquisite, damning detail. He knew how her mouth felt, tasted. He knew how her eyes glazed over when he touched her breasts. He knew the soft little whimpers that rasped from her throat when he drove deep.
    He knew what it felt like to wake up alone.
    But last night he hadn’t slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the white sheet draped over Lance’s body. And then he saw Bethany. But rather than holding the fire poker, she held a child.
    The disturbing image had kept him standing at the window until the first red rays of the sun streaked over the mountains.
    Now she just kept looking at him, like the secrets to the universe might suddenly appear on a face he worked hard to keep impassive. He stayed where he was, kept his arms crossed over his chest, knowing if he moved so much as a muscle, he’d end up across the room and smoothing the hair from her face, pulling her into his arms. It was distracting enough seeing her in that bulky robe that kept falling open, revealing far too much creamy flesh.
    Under no circumstances did he trust himself to touch.
    She drew a soft blue blouse to her chest, blessedly obscuring his view of the swell of her breasts. “Why are you doing this, Dylan? Why are you helping me?”
    Because he knew