Capture Me(4)

“I’d like to talk to you,” Kent says, and I hear a hint of amusement in his voice. “Are you going to open the door, or are we going to continue talking through three inches of steel?”

Shit. That doesn’t sound like Esguerra’s sent him for me.

I quickly evaluate my options. I can stay locked inside the apartment and hope he won’t be able to find his way in—or get me when I come out, as I will inevitably have to—or I can take the chance that he doesn’t know who I am and play it cool.#p#分页标题#e#

“Why do you want to talk to me?” I ask, stalling for time. It’s a reasonable question. Any woman in this situation would be wary, not just one who has something to hide. “What do you want?”

“You.”

The one word, uttered in his deep voice, hits me like a fist. My lungs stop working, and I stare at the door, seized by irrational panic. I wasn’t wrong then, when I wondered whether he might be attracted to me—whether the reason he kept looking at me might be as simple as human biology in action.

Yes, of course. He wants me.

I force myself to start breathing again. This should be a relief. There’s no reason to panic. Men have wanted me since I was fifteen, and I’ve learned to cope with it. To turn their lust to my advantage. This is no different.

Except Kent is harder, more dangerous than most.

No. I silence that small voice and take a deep breath, lowering my weapon. As I do, I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. My blue eyes are wide in my pale face, and my hair is messily pinned up, wet tendrils trailing down my neck. With the terrycloth robe wrapped carelessly around me and the gun in my hands, I look nothing like the fashionable young woman who tried to seduce Kent’s boss.

Reaching a decision, I call out, “Just a minute.” I could try to deny Lucas Kent entry to my apartment—it wouldn’t be that suspicious for a woman alone—but the smarter thing would be to use this opportunity to get some information.

At the very least, I can try to find out when Esguerra’s leaving and tell Obenko, partially making up for my earlier failure.

Moving quickly, I hide the gun in a drawer underneath the hallway mirror and unpin my hair, letting the thick blond strands stream down my back. I’ve already washed off my makeup, but I have clear skin and my eyelashes are naturally brown, so it’s not too bad. If anything, I look younger, more innocent this way.

More like “the girl next door,” as Americans like to say.

Confident that I’m reasonably presentable, I approach the door and unlock it, trying to ignore the heavy, frantic beating of my heart.





3





Yulia



He steps into my apartment as soon as the door swings open. No hesitation, no greeting—he just comes in.

Startled, I step back, the short, narrow hallway suddenly stiflingly small. I’d somehow forgotten how big he is, how broad his shoulders are. I’m tall for a woman—tall enough to fake being a model if an assignment calls for it—but he towers a full head above me. With the heavy down jacket he’s wearing, he takes up almost the entire hallway.

Still not saying a word, he closes the door behind him and advances toward me. Instinctively, I back away, feeling like cornered prey.

“Hello, Yulia,” he murmurs, stopping when we’re out of the hallway. His pale gaze is locked on my face. “I wasn’t expecting to see you like this.”

I swallow, my pulse racing. “I just took a bath.” I want to seem calm and confident, but he’s got me completely off-balance. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

“No, I can see that.” A faint smile appears on his lips, softening the hard line of his mouth. “Yet you let me in. Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to continue talking through the door.” I take a steadying breath. “Can I offer you some tea?” It’s a stupid thing to say, given what he’s here for, but I need a few moments to compose myself.

He raises his eyebrows. “Tea? No, thanks.”

“Then can I take your jacket?” I can’t seem to stop playing the hostess, using politeness to cover my anxiety. “It looks quite warm.”#p#分页标题#e#

Amusement flickers in his wintry gaze. “Sure.” He takes off his down jacket and hands it to me. He’s left wearing a black sweater and dark jeans tucked into black winter boots. The jeans hug his legs, revealing muscular thighs and powerful calves, and on his belt, I see a gun sitting in a holster.

Irrationally, my breathing quickens at the sight, and it takes a concerted effort to keep my hands from shaking as I take the jacket and walk over to hang it in my tiny closet. It’s not a surprise that he’s armed—it would be a shock if he wasn’t—but the gun is a stark reminder of who Lucas Kent is.