And the one thing she wanted to do, and absolutely could not, was ask him his name.
After all, if they were in a relationship as he believed, she would know his name. Asking would break his fantasy.
Given all those factors, her best option was to…
Annalise sucked in a deep breath, steadied herself, and grabbed hold of every last ounce of courage she had. She was going to challenge his delusion that he was “caring” and “cared for” her, without outright confronting him with reality.
Annalise dipped her head, letting her hair fall forward to hide her face, hide that she was looking at him. “Why did you send me the flying bugs?” she asked softly. “It was very scary. I was really afraid.”
He jerked, as if she’d poked him. His mouth opened and closed, two lines appearing between his brows. For the first time, he turned away, no longer staring at her with an intensity that made her hindbrain nervous.
He turned his back to her, opening the small refrigerator. “I have your favorite cheese. Crackers. Dried fruit.”
Annalise often made a meal out of a simple charcuterie platter. Her stomach knotted that he knew that even though it wasn’t a surprise.
She watched him fumble for a few minutes, getting things out of the refrigerator, and then setting everything on a small cutting board. He brought it over, placing it in front of her expectantly. Annalise was nervous about eating any of it. Though the cheese was still wrapped up in what looked like its original wrapping, it was a soft cheese, and maybe he could have injected something into it, through the packaging. Same with the dried fruit. She took a cracker, carefully taking a small bite. He smiled, relaxing.
“Why did you choose a caravan?” she asked, keeping her focus on the tray, as if she were just making conversation. He hadn’t been able to engage with a direct question, so she’d have to try to work her way around to it.
“You had one, growing up.”
“Yes, but I also had a house. You chose something portable.”
“To keep you safe.”
Annalise folded her hands, looking up. “Am I in danger?”
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
He pushed to his feet. “I have wine too.” He took her coffee cup, tipping it into the sink.
“No, thank you.”
“I got it for you.”
“I understand that, but right now I’m nervous. Will you tell me why I’m in danger?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator, setting it on the small counter. But he didn’t move to open it.
“This must have been very expensive,” she said. “The caravan. The cars.”
He relaxed, opened a cupboard for a corkscrew. “I’m rich. Very successful. I could have anyone I want.”
“But you want me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” she asked mildly.
“Why?”
She wanted, oh God, she wanted to say, “Why me? Why are you doing this? Did we meet? Do I know you? Please say something that will make everything make sense.” Instead, she said, “Women like to know what men appreciate about them.”
He frowned down at the corkscrew in his hand. “I know what women want.”
She was on dangerous ground. Rather than risk saying anything else, she picked up another cracker. Her mouth was dry from the last one, so instead of eating it, she broke it in half.
“I could have any woman I want. But I want you. Not just because of how you look.” He rushed to add, then smiled as if he were proud of himself for not being shallow. “You’re cerebral, like me.”
She was many things but “cerebral” wasn’t one of them, though the term was amusing, given what she did. What Annalise was, was determined, hardworking, and, in many ways, insightful. But something about her made him identify her as “cerebral”—an odd and specific choice of words.
Or maybe after he’d focused on her, selected her as his victim, he’d decided that the object of his affections had to be extraordinary, according to his own definition and terminology. “You’re cerebral too, of course. Tell me about work.” She hoped she’d phrased that generically enough.
He set down the corkscrew, running his fingers up and down the bottle of wine. “I don’t want to talk about me.”
“Well, I think we should. I’d like to talk about you.” Her tone was a little too clinical, too much like a therapist, and she knew it the moment the words were out of her mouth. She saw his shoulders tense, and his hand tightened around the bottle. “Where did you buy the camper?” she rushed to ask. “Here, or in Frankfurt?”
For a minute, she thought she’d managed to distract him, but the tension was still in the lines of his body. “I knew you might do this,” he murmured. “But I’m not like them.”
“Of course not,” she soothed. Them could be anyone from the people she’d helped the police hunt to other men in general. Who exactly they were didn’t matter as much as assuring him she agreed with his distinction between himself and those who were “other”.
“You’re in danger, and I’m protecting you.” He said the words steadily and calmly. They had the tone and cadence of words often repeated, almost a mantra.
Had there been a slight stress on the word “I’m”?
“And I need protecting,” she said, neither question nor statement but an ambiguous place in between.
“You do. You might not see it, but I do. The people you try to find, they’re too dangerous. One of them will want to find you. Hurt you.”
One like him?
Anger welled in her, and though she knew better, though her control should be better, Annalise raised her chin, her soothing tone becoming accusatory. “Yes, I am in danger. Some coward broke into my house one night and attacked my sister.”
“Coward?” He whirled, wine bottle in hand, eyes narrowing. “She was in your house, pretending to be you.”
“She was welcome in my home,” Annalise snapped, ignoring the way his body language had changed from tentative and unsure to aggressive. “She was invited. She has a place in my life.”
She saw the words hurt him, knew she had wounded him by highlighting a reality—in which he was unknown and unwelcome—that was so different from his delusion.
And now she would pay for attacking his fantasy.
He raised the bottle.
Annalise threw up an arm and leaned to the side. She saved herself from a concussion, the bottle striking her upper arm instead of her head. Pain lanced through her humerus and shoulder, stopping the breath in her lungs for a moment. Then she screamed, a high, thin sound that wasn’t deliberate, but reactionary.
He raised the bottle again.
Annalise scrambled off the bench, running for the door. She’d forgotten about the cuff, the chain. She managed to put a hand on the door latch before she was pulled up short, the chain suddenly taut, the cuff digging into her wrist.
Then his body slammed into her, forcing her against the closed door, the cuffed arm stretched back painfully. She didn’t turn her head in time, and her nose impacted the door, hard enough that her eyes instantly watered. Her stalker shoved his hips hard against her ass, and his lips brushed her cheek. With a small cry of horror, she twisted her face to the other side, only to have him grip her hair, pulling so tight she felt little pops as the hairs were ripped from her scalp. He brushed his lips against her other cheek, his breath washing over her face. He smelled like mint.