Behind Closed Doors

Part Seven

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"You have to be kidding me. Why do I have to prove anything to you at all? You're the one who somehow stole my personal information and showed up at my house."

He runs his hand over his light brown hair and manages to tear several long strands free. For the first time since I've met him, he looks frazzled, not the cool, calm dude he has to be to win tens of millions playing poker. "I hoped that finding you meant finding Stephanie."

"If you used your friends in high places to find me, why can't they help you find Stephanie?"

"Her apartment is in your storage unit. She vanished."

"Did you hire a private detective?"

"It's not that simple. In fact, it's pretty damn complicated." His brow furrows and his look is back to being accusing. "How do I know you didn't buy it for her, so she didn't have to risk me finding her when she paid her bill?"

"Okay, you're starting to make me think stalker."

"You're damn straight I'm stalking her—"

"I was thinking me, but go on."

He grimaces. "She's blackmailing me. I need inside her unit. I need to look around."

I remember the note in the locker. Jason, It didn't have to end up this way. That doesn't mean he wasn't cheating, though I really don't want him to be a cheater. "Did you go to the police?"

"No police."

"If she's blackmailing you—"

"She's smart. She took precautions to make sure I didn't go to the police."

I don't know what that means, and I'm not a dummy. I shouldn't trust this man based on his actions, but I saw the note from the locker and he's a celebrity, and Molly really does know he's here. If he meant to kill me, he'd have to be dumb to not be more discreet. And I don't think a guy who wins at poker is dumb, any more than he makes a habit of being frazzled.

"Why would she blackmail you?" I ask. "What does she want?"

He walks around the couch to sit down, forcing me to turn and stare at the back of his head or follow his lead. "I guess we're sitting," I conclude as I join him. This really is crazy. He's taken over my house. And me, kind of.

With a heavy sigh, he says, "She says she wants money, but in reality it's about payback. I fucked her and she now wants to fuck me. That sizes up our relationship."

That's direct. And graphic. My normal suit guys save the F-word for someone else. "Oh. Ah. Well."

"'Oh ah well' is right. I was straight up with her that I'm not a relationship guy. It's sex and nothing more. But she got obsessed with me. She's the damn stalker. I told her I was done with her craziness and she kept following me around everywhere. Next thing I knew, I was naked with another woman and she was in my house screaming at us. Lesson learned. Lock the damn doors."

"Yes," I agree. "I think I should learn the same lesson."

"You did lock your door. You invited me in."

"That's not how I remember it."

He changes the subject. "I need to search the storage unit."

Unease rumbles through me. "If the police—"

"I told you, no police."

"Did she threaten someone you love?"

"She threatened me. That's why they call it blackmail."

"I need a reason to believe she really blackmailed you," I say, though I have that. What I really need is a reason to believe he's not a cheater besides my desire that he not be one.

He gives me another one of those long, intense stares, then runs his hand down his jean-clad leg and pushes to his feet. The next thing I know, he's pulling me up with him and tugging me toward the stairwell and the exit.

I try to dig in my heels but he keeps charging forward, proving he truly owns his nickname "Red Bull."

"Where are we going?"

"To get you the proof you need. I don't trust you not to run away or warn Stephanie how close I am to her."

Panic overcomes me. "I need my purse. It has my ID and money, and I need it."

"Where's your purse?"

"Upstairs."

"Fine. Go get it." He releases me and I rush toward the stairs, contemplating a call for help, when his boots sound behind me. I start to turn only to have his hands settle on my waist, firm, branding, and way too intimate. I don't turn. He won't let me turn.

"I can get it on my own," I argue, planting my feet, to have him all but lift me to the next step.

"Forget it. No calling for help. No grabbing a gun to shoot me."

"Shoot you? Are you crazy?"

"Usually."

"That does not make me feel better."

"Walk," he orders.

Walk. I have to move forward. Upstairs. Which makes me brilliant beyond belief, as I've now invited this man to my bedroom where the poker chip and a box of Stephanie's things are stored. And where I sleep. In a bed. Under different circumstances, with this particular man, that might be a good thing. Under these circumstances, it's not. My mind racing, and once again without a solution, my feet move. His hands on my waist do not and I don't know where to put mine, twisting my fingers in front of me when they want to go to his. There's a weird, or maybe not so weird, crackle of energy between us, an intimacy that belongs in the bedroom, which we are about to enter.

I need ammunition to make him explain what's going on. I need my phone. I have a plan! I reach the top level and dart forward, out of his reach, making a mad dash for the nightstand where my phone rests. Red Bull, or Trouble, or Jason, or whoever he is, gets to it at the same moment, as if he's anticipated my action. Suddenly he's turned me to face him, and Lord help me, once again that big, long, leanly muscled body is pressed to mine. Heat rushes over me and settles heavily, low between my thighs, and I silently curse the reaction. What kind of idiot gets turned on by her potential murderer? It must be some kind of brain barrier against fear, I reason. My mind intends me to go to my end with a sigh, not a scream. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

"Stop manhandling me," I hiss, shoving at his chest, immensely disturbed by how much my hands want to linger there.

"Stop trying to call for help."

"That's what people who need help do." When they're in so deep that they're in trouble.

"You don't need help."

The very fact that I'm noticing the green of his eyes and the wicked curve of his mouth says he's wrong. "I disagree. You could murder me right now and I'd have no way to stop you."

"Molly would be pissed, and I don't get the impression I want her pissed at me. And do you make a habit of arguing with people you fear are about to do you bodily harm?"

This hits a nerve. A really deep, raw nerve I try to retract, but it's there, bleeding into my mind, and I roughly shove it aside. "No," I whisper. "No. I don't."

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