"Why do you throw out verbal bombs like that?" she murmured. "Like the zip code crack and now I'm calling you a rapist?"
"Just keeping us honest."
"I've never given you any indication that I cared about what side of town you come from. Or that I believe you're anything but honorable. I wouldn't be in your home if I didn't."
He didn't reply, and the silence seemed to expand until it filled the room almost beyond capacity. Even in the shadowed room his eyes burned into hers. She wanted to glance away from the intensity in the scrutiny that was at complete odds with his closed expression. Just as she was ready to … what? Retract what she said? Explain it? God, she didn't know. But as she parted her lips, he bounded from the bed and left the room with a "Be right back" tossed over his shoulder. Another flash of those sexy tattoos, wide back, slim hips bared by the low-riding sweats, and tight ass, and then he was gone.
She exhaled a deep breath-one she hadn't been aware she'd been holding. God, the man didn't only endanger her heart but her lungs, too …
Whoa. Wait. Endanger her heart. Where the hell had that thought come from? No, her heart wasn't in jeopardy. Not at all. After this was over, she would walk away-she and her baby-and Raphael wouldn't so much as stretch out one of those wide, long-fingered hands to stop her. She'd interrupted his life with her announcement of an unplanned pregnancy and crazy stalker. Yes, they'd had sex-the hottest, wildest sex of her life-but he didn't want her. Not where it counted.
In spite of the stern lecture she'd administered herself, her belly executed a slow, sinuous somersault.
"Here."
She started, blinked before focusing on the mug of steaming liquid in front of her face. Hell, she hadn't even heard him reenter the room. She accepted the cup with a subdued "thanks," unwilling to meet his all-seeing-all-knowing gaze in case he detected the thoughts tumbling around in her skull.
"You didn't mention feeling sick, so I figured we'd head it off." Raphael reclaimed his spot on her bed and wedged his shoulders up against the headboard. He nodded toward the drink. "More ginger tea."
She'd swallowed her first sip of the tea she was fast becoming addicted to when he crossed his arms and leveled one of his cut-the-bullshit stares on her.
"What did you mean the headache was because of the murder?"
Did I say that? She rewound the time before she'd fallen asleep in her head but couldn't pinpoint the memory of her revealing that bit of information.
"I have no memory of what happened the night Gavin was killed. The last thing I remember is you dropping me off."
He dipped his chin in acknowledgment. "I know. We covered that."
"Lately I've been having nightmares. I can never remember them clearly but … " She shivered, clutched the mug tighter. "In them I'm scared. Terrified. And the headaches usually follow. The doctors said my memory might come back in trickles or all of a sudden or even not at all. I think the dreams are my memories returning."
Raphael swore softly. "Did a dream trigger the migraine that landed you in the hospital the other night?"
"Yes."
He frowned, his eyes narrowed as he rubbed a knuckle over his unpierced eyebrow. "Who knows about this?"
"The dreams and possible return of my memory?" He nodded. "Just Ethan and Noah. And now you. Why?"
"Nothing. Just thinking," he replied, but his frown remained in place, and he continued stroking his eyebrow.
"Why do you do that?"
He glanced at her, pausing mid-stroke. "Do what?"
"This." She mimicked the gesture. "I noticed you tend to do it when you're thinking." Heat surged up her chest and flooded her face. She wouldn't be surprised if her cheeks resembled a tomato. Awesome. Now he knows I pay waaaay too much attention to his habits. She lifted the tea and sipped long and deep, hoping the large mug hid her face.
She waited, expecting a mocking smirk or raised eyebrow right before a heavy, telling silence. He did none of them. Instead he studied her, the scrutiny hooded, long, and intense. She fought not to squirm, not to dodge the weight of it. Even when he lowered his arm and cupped her chin. Go figure. Her chin had never been an erogenous zone. But that was BR: Before Raphael.
"Habit. It's a scar. A souvenir from dodging a beer bottle my father threw at my head when he was drunk." He swept the pad of his thumb over the small sickle-shaped scar on her chin. "How'd you get this?"
Shock slammed into her. He uttered the nonchalant confession as if conveying the time of day. Oh my God. Without conscious permission, her arm lifted, and her fingers brushed the dark arch over his eye. They detected the small, hard ridge bisecting his brow. She firmed her lips into a straight line. Either that or surrender to the impulse to kiss the old wound that had to be a reminder of a painful, terrifying moment in his life-no matter how dispassionate he seemed about it now.
"Princess?" He grazed another caress across her chin. "What about this?"
"Old playground injury," she whispered, then grasped his hand, slowly tugged it away from her face. "What about these?" she asked, brushing her thumb over the faded, thin pale lines marring his knuckles.
A ghost of a smile played with his lips. "Let's just say I wasn't always the upstanding citizen you see before you now." When she snorted, he shrugged. "I had my fair share of fights in high school. What happened here?" He didn't remove his hand from her hold, but raised the other and pressed it to her collarbone over a scar she'd long forgotten about.
"Scratch from the one and only dog I was allowed to have. A cute midnight-black poodle I named Georgey." She huffed out a humorless chuckle. "Georgey didn't last long in the Addison house though. Too loud and messy."
God, she hadn't thought of the puppy in a long time. The three months she'd owned him had been some of the happiest in her childhood. Energetic, enthusiastic, and cheerful, he'd always been glad to see her when she came home from school. Until the day she'd arrived and silence had welcomed her. Without telling her, her mother had given the dog away; his incessant yaps had worn on her nerves. And besides, Celeste had added with a dismissive wave of her hand, at thirteen, Greer was too old for a dog. She'd never asked for one-or anything else-from her parents again.
She shook her head as if she could toss the somber recollection out of her head.
"What happened here?" She pointed to a two-inch thin line right above his abdomen.
"Knife wound."
"Are you kid-" Worry rushed through her. Jesus, what kind of life had he led? The pain … She rubbed the flat, shiny patch of skin, almost as if she could soothe away the hurt it must've once caused.
"Actually it was a tragic accident involving my sister's Barbie, my Matchbox car, and a small fire." He shrugged. "But the knife wound sounded way cooler."
She gaped at him, trapped somewhere between laughing and kicking him off the bed. Hard.
"I know, I know"-he patted her thigh-"I'm an asshole. Where'd this one come from?" He skimmed a finger over the flat, nearly imperceptible mark above her knee. The injury was a very old one, but she remembered it as if it'd happened seventeen minutes ago instead of years. She stroked the scar. "Hey." He covered her hand with his, stilling her movement. "Give."
If he'd tried to cajole her, or offer pretty words of assurance, she would've resisted and kept the truth locked up inside. She didn't want pity or sympathy; she wasn't broken or damaged. But the simple, low demand to "give" contained a promise of safety for whatever she revealed. No judgment, no condemnation. Just acceptance.
"When I was nine, I ran away from home. I didn't make it far, just to the end of the block before the housekeeper-the housekeeper"-she emitted a brittle laugh-"came after me. But by the time she found me, I had tripped and cut my knee on a piece of glass. I had to go to the emergency room for stitches, and she was fired."
"Why were you running away?"
She paused, removed her hand from under his, and clasped her fingers together in her lap. "Because that afternoon my mother had come from a meeting with my fourth-grade teacher who'd told her I was dyslexic. I was afraid of my father's reaction, so I decided to run away rather than face it."