House Of Shadows. Jen ChristieЧитать онлайн книгу.
He shook his head slowly. “The conversation I just had with that woman,” he said, walking around her. “And the things I’ve learned about you.” He stopped, leaned forward and took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look into his strange eyes. Angry eyes that seemed to swirl with dark colors. “It seems you weren’t honest with me, were you?”
“No,” she whispered, too flustered to come to any self-defense of her behavior. She felt the hole that she’d dug widening beneath her feet, and the blackness threatening to swallow her up. If only she could look away from his eyes, but his hand at her chin was no longer gentle. It held her tight.
“What game you play, I don’t know,” he said. “But you will not win it. This I guarantee you—you will not win it. You came and looked me in the eyes, and deceived me.” He leaned close. She smelled the woods on him and the scent of summer blooms. “I know your secret. And I wager there are even more to find out, and, trust me, I’ll find every single one.”
Penrose knew what he was talking about. He was talking about her. About the blonde. “Please, you’re scaring me,” she said. Her words came out too soft, too weak. “Where did she go?” she asked him.
His chest pressed against hers, and he made no accommodation for her at all. She was forced to hold her breath. He said, “Do you care where she went? Do you really care as long as she’s not here?” He stepped even closer, forcing her tighter against the table. “And why is she here, Penny? Do you know that?”
“I needed a job,” she whispered her confession. Her eyes met his, imploring him to have sympathy. “I was hungry. I didn’t know...” Her voice trailed off.
“She gave me the impression you knew a great many things, Penny. And that you weren’t so innocent, that you committed a crime against her, and now she suffers for it,” he said. “Her words, not mine.”
His demeanor was decidedly very, very different, and she didn’t know what to make of it. Mrs. Capshaw be damned to hell. “I’ll leave,” she whispered.
He chuckled, and the threat behind it gave her shivers. “You’ll do no such thing. You made your bed—now you’ll lie in it.” Lifting her chin higher, he leaned closer until his lips touched her ear. “Or you can lie in mine, if you prefer,” he said. “In fact, she mentioned something of the sort.”
Not one word came to her lips. Not one. She could only breathe, but even that was a struggle—little gasps that caused her breasts to push against his chest. “I’m sorry,” she finally whispered.
“Are you?” With his other hand, he traced up the side of her torso. Higher and higher, skimming over her breast, her shoulders, until his long fingers caressed the back of her neck and edged into her upswept hair.
Yes, his demeanor had changed so very much. Whatever the woman had said, she unleashed a new man in Carrick.
Penrose closed her eyes, unsure if this was even real. But her body told her it was real, very real, for it throbbed with life and feeling.
With his other hand, he traced a thumb over her lips, and she whimpered.
“Perhaps she wasn’t lying.” His voice, now at her ear, smooth and cajoling, seemed to be speaking right into her soul. “Are you afraid of me?” His voice was so, so low.
With his thumb on her lips, she couldn’t speak. She shook her head no. But she was trapped and could only stand there, enduring the feel of him.
He removed his thumb. “Let me repeat my question. Are you afraid?”
She couldn’t keep lying to him. Oh, she wanted to, but her pounding heart wouldn’t let her think of an excuse. “Yes,” she said, nodding. It was everything about him. His sharp, strange beauty. His odd ways. The way he frightened her.
But it was too late to say anything. His fingers guided her to look at him and then his mouth descended onto hers, deceptively soft.
She stilled, hardly believing what was happening. But it was happening.
He drew her closer, enveloping her, holding her against him. His kiss turned hard and demanding. Anger lurked underneath. She knew it from the way his lips slashed, hot and accusing, over hers.
It wasn’t merely anger. It was more than that. Something almost dangerous. Seductive.
Sinking, melting, she surrendered to the feeling. He tugged at her lips, coaxing her mouth to open and then his tongue thrust inside, claiming her. Triumphant.
Heat spread between her legs. An odd sound escaped her mouth, and a shiver swept over her. Her whole body shook from it, surprising her.
Her reaction seemed to inflame Carrick. A rumble came from his throat, and his kiss grew bolder, hungrier. All night long, his touch had been measured and precise. Incremental. Now it turned wild. Uncontrolled. His hands swept up her skirt hungrily, grabbing fistfuls of fabric, digging for her body beneath. When he found it, he growled and pressed against her, and she felt his hardness through the folds of her skirt. It made a pulse of pleasure beat between her legs.
From deep inside, an unrestrained, breathy shudder swept over her body. She whimpered and pressed farther into his kiss, overwhelmed with wanting him.
He stilled. Through her dress, she felt his hands clench angrily. “Dammit,” he said harshly. “I can’t do this.” He stepped away from her. “I’m sorry,” he said, avoiding her gaze, already turning away from her. “It’s too damned complicated. More than that. God, it’s so much more than that.”
Reaching out and putting a hand on his chest, she leaned up and tried to kiss him. “Please.” She didn’t want it to stop.
“You are young and foolish,” he said in a measured voice.
Taken aback, she stared at him hard before she said, “And you have no heart.”
“Now you know the truth of it. My real affliction. Let’s get back to work and forget this ever happened.”
Penrose went to bed agitated, filled with thoughts of his touch. Her lips were still numb from his kiss. Her body still betrayed her attraction to him. She lay on the bed, certain that she wouldn’t be able to sleep and that images and memories of Carrick would haunt her. She snuggled deep under the covers, trying to block out the sun.
She had finally settled in and let out a long sigh, when a sound came from behind the walls. The noise continued for a moment, and then it stilled, too, almost as if whoever or whatever made the noise realized she was listening.
A sharp zing of terror shot up her spine. She held her breath, not breathing, waiting for the sound to begin again. It did. Slow, halting little noises. Self-aware noises, as if the need to be quiet was paramount. No. This wouldn’t do. She simply had to find out what caused the sounds.
She sighed in an exaggerated manner and made rustling noises from the bed. She slipped quietly from the bed, her feet hitting the floor softer than a mouse’s, and then she padded with delicate footsteps to the wall. Leaning close, she pressed her ear to the wall. And that was when she saw it.
The morning sun slanted just right over the wood, illuminating all the imperfections and she saw a minute gap between two of the boards. Tracing her eyes along the gap, she saw hinges that were hidden so well in the pattern of the wood that she’d never have seen them if she weren’t looking for them. They were painted white to match. Once she found the hinges, the outline of the secret door was easy to spot.
She dug her fingernails into the gap and pulled. Nothing. Following a hunch, she placed her palms on the wood, and pressed quick and hard. She was rewarded with the sound of a click, and the door sprung open.
The pale face of a child appeared. Violet eyes, big as dinner plates, stared into her very soul. She careened