Connor nodded and turned back into the room.
* * * * *
Two hours later, Conner watched Charlize punch the numbers into the keypad next to the front door of her modern single-story duplex. He committed the numbers to memory. Politeness would mean waiting for her to give the code to him, but well—screw that.
She hung her handbag on a hook and strode into the kitchen. The she-cat he’d met earlier had vanished and he had no idea what to say to this subdued creature. Or how to act around her. She-cat he could manage. She-cat he could fuck until she forgot her problems.
Cock therapy—the best kind.
He followed her to the kitchen and watched her swallow some pills with a glass of water. She tipped her head back and her bedraggled bun flopped to the side. His fists curled. She was probably in pain. A drop of water trickled down her chin and trailed across her neck.
Blood rushed to his cock. He was a bastard. What the hell was he supposed to do now, comfort her? He was shit at that. Besides, patting her back would lead to stroking, which would lead to cupping that sweet ass of hers, which would lead to—fuck. He’d behave tonight. After what she’d been through he would keep his hands off. But soon. Soon that skin would be his.
She set down the glass. “You can put your things in the guest room but you’ll have to sleep on the couch, there’s no extra bed.”
Connor looked around the open-plan house and—nothing. This woman had no stuff. The central living area was empty and only a wrinkly, oversized leather couch and glass coffee table sat in front of a plasma TV in the corner. Two cardboard boxes rested against one blank wall.
“Did you just move in?”
“No. I’ve been here for over three months now.” Her voice was flat. She picked up her glass again, rinsed it and set it in a strainer next to the sink.
He gazed at the couch. A man’s couch. The whole place was devoid of feminine influence. Girls didn’t live like this, not unless…
“Who do you live with, Charlize?”
For the first time since he’d seen her at the hospital her eyes looked like they focused properly.
“No one. What are you talking about?”
He frowned. “That looks like a dude’s couch.”
Charlize’s forehead scrunched. “So because I have a vagina I should have floral furniture?”
She-cat inched back. He wouldn’t smirk, he’d go easy on her tonight. Kinda. “No I just thought women had taste. That thing’s fucking hideous.”
Her gaze snapped to the couch and her mouth slanted. “Yeah it is, I fucking hate it. It’s the only furniture my ex would let me take. I figured I’d better keep it.”
Ex? She’d lived with someone? He crossed his arms to keep them from grabbing her like a possessive asshole. He wasn’t jealous. He just didn’t like people touching his stuff—so what if she wasn’t his yet, she would be soon. He’d have her soft and yielding in no time.
Yielding. Yeah she would be. He’d strip back that act—underneath she’d be all woman. He swallowed. “Burn it.”
A hint of a real smile twitched the slant on her lips. “I might.”
Her shoulders drooped again and she strode to a door off the main living area. “This is the guest room. There are pillows and blankets in the wardrobe and it has a bathroom. I assume you know how to use a kitchen. Help yourself to whatever you want, I’m going to bed.”
Help myself to whatever I want…
She stood next to the door—bare feet, lopsided bun, still clutching her shirt together, missing the usual bite of her aloofness. She’d somehow gotten sexier. Did she have any clue what he planned to help himself to?
“You can stop looking at me like that, Caveman. So we’re clear, my room is off-limits. Don’t come near it, hear me?”
He grinned and swaggered over to the guest room door. “I can wait ’til I’m invited, kitten.”
Charlize backed up to the next door and tugged it open. “Why don’t you go on and hold your breath while you wait?” She stepped into the room and slammed the door behind her.
* * * * *
Rap, rap, rap.
The sound vibrated through her dream, drawing her out of the warm depths of sleep. What the hell? Charlize frowned and an ache stretched over her cheekbone. Another rap sounded on her door. She touched the graze on her cheek.
“Wakey, wakey, kitten. It’s time to start the day.”
That voice—that arrogant drawl—it all came back. She groaned. The parking lot, the hospital and the ridiculous decision to agree to be stalked by the last person she needed around. Fear did screwed-up things to people. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table and cleared her throat. “It’s 5:00 a.m., go away.”