Secret Stalker. Lena DiazЧитать онлайн книгу.
stepped back, her hands on her hips. Then she took another step, then whirled around and ran to her Toyota RAV4 SUV two spaces over. By the time Max realized she’d played a trick on him and started toward her, she was zipping out of the parking space.
He stood watching her in her rearview mirror, his hands fisted at his sides.
Running from him was childish. Especially since he was a police officer and she’d have to answer his questions eventually. But facing angry, cold Max was more than she could take right now after everything else that had happened. How could she stand there, talking to him as if he was a stranger, when even now her body yearned for his touch?
It might have been ten years since she’d last kissed him, a decade since she’d felt the comforting weight of his body pressing her down into the mattress. But from the moment she’d seen him at the deli, all those years had fallen away as if they’d never happened. And her emotions were just as raw now as the day she’d left.
She wanted, needed, some time to herself. To decompress, to reflect about what had happened today and get her emotions back under control. Trying to do that with a man she’d once loved looking at her like he despised her was more than she could bear, more than anyone should have to bear after the kind of crisis she’d just lived through. No, tomorrow would be soon enough. She’d face Max tomorrow.
The sound of a powerful engine had her looking in her rearview mirror again. A shiny black four-by-four pickup was coming up fast behind her. And sitting in the driver’s seat was an achingly familiar silhouette.
Max Remington.
Normally the ride from the grocery store to her mother’s house would have taken Bex twenty-five minutes. Today, with Max riding her bumper, it took half that. She barreled into the driveway on the left side of the house and slammed her brakes. Max braked hard behind her, narrowly missing her car.
He hopped out of his pickup and stalked up to her window before she’d even cut her engine.
“Get out.”
Even with the window rolled up, she could hear the anger vibrating in his deep voice.
“Go away.”
He shook his head. “Open the door, Bex.”
She gave him a very unladylike gesture and reached for the gearshift, fully intending to drive across the lawn back to the road.
“Gonna run again, Bex?” he taunted. “You’re good at that.”
She stiffened.
“You drove twenty miles over the speed limit. I can arrest you for that.”
“There was a maniac following me. I was in fear for my life.”
If his jaw tightened any more his teeth would probably break.
A long breath huffed out of her as her anger drained away. This wasn’t how she wanted things between the two of them. She’d blindsided him by coming back and deserved a little consideration. He’d also saved her life today. Repaying him by pushing his buttons and making his job difficult wasn’t right. She cut the engine, grabbed her purse and waited.
Looking suspicious at her sudden change of heart, he seemed to almost reluctantly step back, just enough for her to open the door and get out of her car.
As she headed toward the wide, covered front porch than ran the width of the cottage, he was hot on her heels, so close she could feel his body heat against her back. And just like that, her skin prickled with awareness and her belly tightened, her body’s natural response to Max being that close.
She couldn’t believe he still had this kind of impact on her, after all these years and after everything that had happened. It was irritating, and made it really hard to keep her raw emotions at bay.
“You don’t have to hang so close,” she told him as she climbed the steps.
“Just making sure you don’t run again,” he taunted.
She stopped, then whirled around to face him. But he was too close. She had to climb two more steps to be able to meet his gaze without craning her head back.
“Was that supposed to be funny?” she demanded.
“Not even a little bit.”
He arched a brow, daring her to bring up the past, to go down a road she had no intention of traveling. Down that road lay too much hurt. And danger. For both of them.
She let out a pent-up breath and turned around, climbing the rest of the steps and crossing the wide porch. After unlocking the front door, she turned the knob. And suddenly he was pushing past her into the living room.
“Please, won’t you come in,” she muttered behind him, closing the door and flipping the dead bolt.
He did a quick turn around the room, glancing through doorways into the kitchen, the hall, the bathroom, all while keeping his hand on his holster. She supposed it was second nature to do things like that, the instincts of a cop automatically checking the security when they went anywhere.
When he returned to the entry, he eyed the dead bolt but didn’t say the obvious—that she’d never have locked a door when she was growing up here. Most people in Destiny didn’t lock their doors. Bex’s mother certainly hadn’t. The dead bolt had been frozen when Bex had arrived and she’d had to spray it with oil to get it to work.
Feeling silly now for having locked it, she flipped the bolt again, leaving the door unsecured, even though her big city instincts had her fingers itching to flip the bolt.
For a man who’d been all bent out of shape about wanting to talk to her, Max didn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry to talk now. Instead, he strolled around the room, examining the stacks of boxes containing her mother’s things, reading the labels on each one. When he reached the fireplace, he stared in silence at the dark square above it where a picture of the two of them from their senior prom used to hang. She expected him to ask her what she’d done with it, perhaps in a sarcastic or accusing tone. She’d die before she told him that she’d carefully packed it away and put it in a box to go back home with her to Knoxville. But he didn’t ask.
Instead, he turned around and headed toward the archway that led into the eat-in kitchen on the front left side of the house.
“Got any coffee? I sure could use some even though it’s inching toward dinnertime now,” he said.
She frowned and hurried after him. “I thought you wanted to interview me about what happened at the store? Show me some pictures or something?”
He hesitated, then pulled his phone out. A moment later, he flipped through pictures of five men, holding each one up for her.
“Recognize any of them?”
“No. Are those the gunmen?”
He didn’t answer, just put his phone back in his pocket. After opening the cabinet to the right of the sink, he took down two coffee cups, acting just as familiar and comfortable with the house as he’d been as a teenager. As if the years between had never happened.
A few minutes later he had the old-fashioned coffeemaker spitting and gurgling a thin stream of dark coffee into a carafe.
“Cream and sugar still?” He took the creamer out of the refrigerator, which Bex had topped off just this morning, and grabbed the sugar bowl from the kitchen table.
“Yes. Still.” She pulled out one of the chairs and plopped down. “I’m surprised you remember where Mom kept everything.”
His lips thinned. “I practically lived here in high school. Your mom was like a second mom to me. We kept in touch. I didn’t write her out of my life just because you wrote me out of yours.”
She sucked in a breath, old hurts washing over her. The last