Devil You Know(26)

With the itch of unease under my skin I leave her room, and return to mine.

Only, I don’t shut the door.

Hers, or mine.



I WAKE up with the sun, incredibly embarrassed at the fact he heard me have a bad dream. How old am I? Two?

Rocco grins at me, panting with his pink tongue hanging from his mouth.

“I suppose you’d like to go out for your morning whiz, huh?”

He jumps off the bed, and trots through the open door. The open door.

Kill me now—what other embarrassing things did I do in my sleep? Somebody tell me I did not snore. Rocco pops his head around the doorway, checking if I’m coming, and I laugh.

“Right-o, I’m coming with you this time.” I slip from the bed, and tug my jeans on under the T-shirt I wore to bed.

As I step into the hall, my eyes drift over to his room. What I see takes me by such surprise I literally stop moving for a moment. He’s asleep, as gorgeous as I would have predicted, but he’s sleeping with his head at the foot end of the bed so he faces the doorway.

Did he honestly watch over me, all night?

And why does that thought have me all giddy?

He couldn’t have. Maybe the floorboards are old, and the bed slopes the wrong way? Yeah, that’d be it.

Rocco gives a small bark at the door, kicking my feet back into action. I let him out, and watch him bound over the huge backyard to find a suitable spot for his business. The mutt is so spoilt by this yard. I’m tending to think he’s going to sulk when this arrangement ends and we have to move back into town.

Town—that reminds me.

The police.

My elated mood fizzles like a damp firecracker. Leaving Rocco to relive his youth, I head for the kitchen, and find the makings for breakfast, and a coffee. I boil the kettle on the gas range, and flip pancakes in the pan as Malice enters.

“That has to be the best smell to wake up to,” he says, stretching his arms over his head.

I’m fixated on the lines at his hips. Why the hell did he not put a T-shirt on? Is the man trying to torture me? I’m a married woman.

And you’re certifiable for thinking of it as a marriage worth honoring.

“I don’t know if there’s any syrup,” I say, returning my sinful gaze to the range. “I couldn’t quite see the top shelf. You’re taller, so you might know.”

I remove the pancake, and fluff about before I pour the next round of batter in, purely so I can watch as he stretches to pat his hand around on the shelf. The muscles in his back flex with his movement, and I take the small joy offered to me for the day. Whatever I can use to make the hours pass, right?

“Nothing,” he says, shrugging as he turns back to me. “Doesn’t matter though.”

“Can I ask you something?”

He nods, and moves to make a coffee.

“The kettle is still hot,” I say, stalling. He pulls a mug out, and looks to me expectantly. “You said this was a rental, right?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t look up from the powder on the teaspoon.

“I know some rentals have furniture in them, but since when do people pre-stock them with food?”

He pauses in his stirring, and sighs. “I am renting it, but it belongs to a friend. The place is his holiday home.”

“Huge holiday home,” I mutter.

“He has a huge bank account to go with it,” Malice responds, raising an eyebrow.

“Money isn’t everything.” The bitterness in my reply makes me sick. When did I get so jaded?

“Money also isn’t happiness,” he retorts. “Ty is one of the saddest assholes I know.”

“Know a few assholes, then?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.

I fail.

“Yeah, I do.” He wanders out of the kitchen, sullen.

I resist the urge to press my face into the burning hot pan to tell myself off for being such a bitch about it all. He’s done something nice by bringing me here, and so far all I’ve done is whine, sulk about it, and double-guess his motives. I plate the pancakes, and carry them out to the table on the patio. He’s sitting, patting Rocco’s head as I approach.

“I’m sorry.”

“I thought I told you not to say that.”

“Well, I thought the occasion called for it.” I place the plate down, and take the other seat.

He thinks my reasoning over for a moment, and nods. “Fair enough.”

The thought of skin-on-skin contact with another person puts me into a cold sweat, but I know he needs to see the sincerity of my words. I reach over the table, and place my hand on his. He stiffens, and I want to cry while I crawl into a hole to die of shame.

“Thank you for doing all of this,” I manage to croak out.

“I don’t know if I should be,” he admits. “But I know that I have to.”