When I make a small sound of panic, he murmurs, “Easy.”
“You keep saying that. I don’t think you understand the definition of the word.”
“Just breathe.”
“I am.”
“You’re hyperventilating.”
“It’s a normal response to abnormal situations.”
“You weren’t hyperventilating on the street. Bullets flying all around, and there you were, Sarah Connor gripping an AR-15, calmly lying in wait to blow off the Terminator’s head. The picture of composure. All you were missing was a cigarette dangling idly from your lips.”
He waits for a response, gazing at me with unblinking eyes, his thumb moving gently back and forth over the throbbing pulse in my neck.
I almost—almost—say my unnatural calm during the gunfire was shock, as I’d planned, but something stops me.
I hope it isn’t the fact that I promised him I wouldn’t lie to him, because that would be downright pathetic.
Looking up at him, I say quietly, “Can I ask a favor?”
He replies without hesitation. “Anything.”
“I’d like to have the option of not answering every question, if that’s okay.”
When he’s silent too long, examining my expression, I add, “Since we’re only supposed to be truth telling. And, um, I’m not really comfortable talking about myself.”
The corners of his mouth lift in a wry smile. “I didn’t ask a question.”
“Don’t be an ass. It was implied.”
Back and forth that gentle thumb sweeps over my skin as he gazes at me thoughtfully, most likely fully aware that my nipples are hardening from his touch on my neck, and that I’m so angry about that, I’d like to smack myself in the face.
“Should we have a code word for when you’d rather duck my question than lie?”
His expression is neutral, but faint laughter underscores his words.
“Sure. How’s this: up yours.”
His lips twitch. “That’s two words.”
“Call it a code phrase, then.”
His lips twitch again, and I realize it’s because he’s trying not to chuckle. He says, “Maybe something more respectful, considering you might have to say it in front of my men.”
“Right. Can’t tarnish that shiny alpha male glow. Aardvark?”
He wrinkles his nose in disapproval.
“Quadrangle? Collywobbles? Maltipoo?”
“And you accuse me of eating a dictionary for breakfast.”
“I was only joking then. I’m sure what you really eat for breakfast are the souls of everyone who’s displeased you.”
He stares at me with a look I can’t quite figure out, until he says gruffly, “Do you have any fucking idea how much I want to kiss you right now?”
After a moment, when I can catch my breath, I whisper, “Yes. Please don’t.”
Very slowly, he exhales. When he speaks again, his voice is thick. “I won’t. At least not until you ask me to.”
“That will never happen.”
His gaze drills into mine. His thumb lazily strokes the pulse in my neck. “Aye, lass, it will. You’ll hate yourself for it, but it will happen, because you want it as much as I do. Don’t you.”
The last part isn’t a question, really. It’s more of a dare. But he’s got me trapped in the heat of his stare with his hand on my throat and all my nerve endings singing, and I don’t think I could lie even if my life depended on it.
I turn my head and close my eyes. “Aardvark.”
The elevator slows to a stop. A bell dings. The doors slide open.
Liam leans down and whispers hotly into my ear, “For the record, I’d burn down this whole goddamn city just to hear you admit it.”
He’s a criminal, a ruthless, heartless, overconfident SOB, but dear god this is the sexiest man I’ve ever met.
There is something very wrong with me.
He takes me by the hand and leads me into his house. Excuse me—his penthouse. We wander through the living room, vast and silent, and past an equally vast formal dining room, until we reach the kitchen. It’s also huge. And, like everything else, decorated entirely in shades of gray and black.
He guides me to a counter stool at the big marble island and helps me into it, making sure I’m comfortable before rounding the island and opening a cabinet above the sink.
He removes a bottle of bourbon and two crystal glasses and pours a measure into both.
Then he shucks off his jacket, removes his cufflinks, rolls his shirtsleeves up his forearms, tugs on the knot in his tie, pulls the tie off over his head, and drops it onto the counter. For the final act, he loosens the top three buttons of the shirt, exposing a strong, tanned throat decorated on one side with a tattoo.
Of what, I can’t tell. I’m too busy staring at his other tattoos, all along his muscular forearms.
Holy…how many more are there? And where? And do they all ripple like the ones on his arms?
“Penny for your thoughts.”
I glance up from my awed inspection of his forearms to find him smirking at me.
I refuse to say “Aardvark” and give him the satisfaction, so instead I deflect to something still true, but much safer than what I was thinking. “I was wondering if your interior decorator got a good deal on all this black marble, or if she thought you were part bat.”
His smirk turns to a genuine smile. “It is a bit monotone, isn’t it?”
“Oh, no, it’s fantastic,” I say, looking around. “If you’re blind. Or clinically depressed. Or undead.”
Chuckling, he slides one of the bourbons over to me, then downs his own in one swallow. “I have to agree with you, there.”
“Then why did you go with it?”
“It was like this when I moved in.”
The answer is smooth, but he dropped his gaze to the empty glass in his hand when he gave it. I don’t think he’s lying, not exactly, but there’s a lot more to his words under the surface.
Mimicking his dry tone from the car when he was commenting on how calm I was despite the circumstances, I say, “Care to share?”
His gaze flashes up to mine. He holds me in it for a moment, a fly caught in amber, then murmurs, “Aardvark.”
We gaze at each other across the island, both of us knowing we’ll soon be wearing out that word.
I take a breath and ask the question that needs to be asked. “I’m not sleeping with you, Mr. Black. So why am I here?”
“I think we can dispense with the formalities of surnames, considering you watched me shoot a man in the face.”
His logic passes the sniff test, so I start again. “Okay, Liam, why am I—”
“Killian.”
The forcefulness with which he interrupts me is startling. “Excuse me?”
“Call me Killian.”
I wait for him to provide an explanation, but he doesn’t. “Why would I call you that, when it’s not your name?”
His jaw works. He gazes at me in silence so long I almost start nervously laughing. Then he says, “It is my name.”
I open my mouth, close it, then open it again. “So Liam is like a nickname or something?”
“No.”