“But you haven’t exactly gone out of your way to charm me.” His head tilted. “Huh. That’s interesting. Why haven’t you tried to charm me? Because I think if you wanted to do it, you could wrap just about any guy around your little finger.”
Alice moved her shoulders in a careless shrug. The top of her robe dipped. Slid a little off her right shoulder. “Maybe I didn’t think you’d respond well to charm, so I decided to try a different tactic with you.”
“That tactic would be…?”
“What you see is what you get. If you don’t like it, screw off. I don’t have to prove anything to you.”
“You kind of do, considering that I’m investigating you. I can be a major pain in the ass that you do not want.” But his gaze darted to her right shoulder. He’d just caught sight of something on her skin…
She started to pull the robe back into place.
He caught her hand. Froze the movement. “What in the hell?”
She tugged her hand from his.
He touched the silky edge of her robe. Slid it a bit more to the side so that he could see clearly. A long, thin white line. Raised skin. “Knife scar.”
“Excuse me?”
Anger pulsed through him. No, more like rage. A dark and twisting brew that had his back teeth clenching and him gritting out, “Who the fuck used a knife on you?”
“Settle down.”
What? No, no she had not just—
“It’s an old scar. One I’ve had a very long time.”
His index finger was on the wound. Testing the length. Stroking it. Wait. Why the hell was he caressing her scar? He immediately stopped. “If you were attacked—”
“It was an accident. Happened years ago. A real sword was mistakenly used instead of a fake one. No big deal.”
His heart thundered in his ears. “You worked in your father’s magic act when you were a teenager.”
“Ah, yes, you did all that wonderful research on me. And you’re right, after my mother died, I joined my father’s act.”
Saint had done plenty of research on her, and there had never been a mention of Alice being hurt in a magic show.
“It was the sword box routine. I’m small enough that I could fit easily in the box and shift around when the swords were placed inside.” A pause. “For safety, my father preferred to use fake swords for a portion of the trick. The sword that he first showed the audience was real enough—he would even use it to slice open some random object like a piece of fruit. But certain swords that he put into the box were…let’s just say made of a more flexible material so that they could bend and contort inside. They gave me a little more room.”
He’d started caressing her old scar, almost helplessly.
“But something was off that particular night. When the second sword came through, I wasn’t paying enough attention. It didn’t flex. It sliced me.”
“Dammit.”
“After that, I knew to be extra careful with the others. I slipped around them. Made myself as small as possible. Somehow, my father’s real swords—which should have been all backstage for a trick that would come later—were used in that act.” Another shrug. As if it didn’t matter. “There was space inside the box. With real or fake swords, I could still fit. I just—as I said before, I wasn’t paying enough attention, or I never would have been sliced.”
His rage didn’t cool with her words. “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. You were a teenager—”
“Eighteen. The same age you were when you were sent to jail.”
He kept going. “And you were bleeding in a fucking tiny box while your father smiled for the audience? You didn’t cry out? You didn’t ask for help?”
“What would have been the point in doing that? I would have ruined his illusion, and the crowd would have been disappointed.” She wet her lips. “I made sure my hair covered the injury when I came out, and I got patched up backstage. End of story.”
Her skin was softer than the silky robe. And she felt so warm.
“Why are you so bothered?” She sounded genuinely confused. “It happened a long time ago. Ancient history.”
“I don’t like to think of you hurt.” That was why he was so bothered.
“Oh.” Her lips parted in surprise. “Well, if that’s the case,” Alice rallied, “then you should probably stop trying to prove that I’m guilty of multiple murders. Because heading down that path? It will lead to hurt for me.”
“Only if you’re guilty. If you’re innocent, I can finally get you some peace.”
“Is peace what you think I want? Sounds rather boring to me,” Alice said as her nose scrunched.
He didn’t think anything that involved Alice could ever be boring.
“Besides, I don’t want to shatter your illusion of me. If you discovered that I wasn’t the heartless villain, then you would go falling in love with me. And we both know what happens to men who love me.”
Was he supposed to be scared? Not happening. Saint didn’t get scared. Hadn’t, not in a very, very long time. “I’m not like the others.”
“Right. Because you don’t think I’m charming.” She pouted.
“Don’t.” He kept right on touching her. “I don’t like it when you pretend. Be cold. Be outrageous. Be sexy. Be you.” And a pouting Alice? Not a real thing.
“I think you just insulted me and…complimented me in the same instance.” Alice studied him. “How interesting. I’m afraid, though, that I must tell you…I don’t find you particularly charming, either.”
“No, but you do find me sexy.” No sense dancing around it. “We have one of those electric attractions.”
“Oh, is that what we have?” Alice demurred with a flutter of her lashes. “Hadn’t noticed.”
Right. “It makes me want to rip off your robe and take you against the wall. Or the mantel, seeing as how it’s closer. I suspect the same attraction makes you want to rake your nails down my back.”
“And have you roaring my name?” she finished softly. Sensually.
God, she was something. Something dangerous and delicious. “I can want you and still take you down if you’re guilty.”
“How lovely for you. Must be wonderful to be able to compartmentalize one’s life that way. But, alas, my Saint, you’re wrong. You can’t.”
His brows lifted.
“Do you even know that you’re still touching me?”
Shit.
“Want me too much and you’ll do anything to protect me.” She seemed to be giving him a warning. “You won’t be the guy who tosses me into a cell and walks away. You won’t be that heartless.”
Now he laughed, and the sound was grim. “My own brother tossed me into a cell once upon a time. Trust me, I can do what needs to be done. Family trait.”
Red burned in her cheeks. “What a bastard! I hope you kicked his ass as soon as you got free.”
He blinked. Her anger sounded genuine. Anger, because of what had happened to him? “Memphis came back for me,” he told her, speaking slowly as he considered her. He pulled his hand back. Balled his fingers into a fist so he wouldn’t give in to the temptation to touch her again. “He believed my story, but the guy follows the law.”