Home. Hmmm. This is not home, but again, he’s using a term to evoke feelings. Is it for himself? For me? For Sasha? Or is it genuine and it’s for all of us? I just can’t tell.
He slaps her on the leg and she kicks him. I have to chuckle at that. But James just pulls her out of the backseat and throws her over his shoulder. “Let’s go, tough kid.” I get out and follow him to the door. Sasha is half awake now, kicking and complaining for him to set her down. He opens the door with one hand and flips her over, making her squeal as she is unexpectedly placed on her feet. “When I say move, soldier, you move.” He winks at her. “Or I’ll make ya move, brat.”
She growls at him and then stomps off down the hallway towards the room she’s using.
“I’m ready for bed,” James says as he shuts the door behind me. “You ready for bed?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just takes my hand and leads me over to the other hallway where our room is located. We don’t even bother turning on lights. The moon is half full, and there are enough skylights in this place to allow the moonshine to filter in and give it a surreal quality.
Once we get inside the bedroom, James closes the door, reaches behind his head, and pulls his shirt off in one smooth motion. “I’m f**king exhausted. Tomorrow we’re heading back to the OC.”
I’m a little bit stunned at this revelation and I lose a whole second through hesitation. “Don’t you think they’ll be looking for us?”
“Yeah, probably,” he says, unapologetically. “They’ve been looking for you all year, Lionfish. I highly doubt it’s secret. But I just got a message about some missing files that were found.”
“What? How?” I recover quickly but that’s my second hesitation in this conversation. I’m not sure it’s quick enough. “I mean, how did you get a message?”
“I used the bar phone at the restaurant. I have an answering service. Merc and I share one, actually. It’s not covert or anything. 1-800-Rent-A-Receptionist or some shit like that. We leave voice mails on there. And Merc left one saying he found some intel on some files your father’s been looking for.” He eyes me, asking the silent question.
“I don’t have any files, James.”
“Obviously not these files. Because these files have been traced to someone else. And I’ve gotta go collect them.”
“So you’re on a job? You’re gonna kill this person?”
“Whatever it takes.” He smiles at my revulsion. “I’m kidding, Harper. Shit, have some faith in me. I’m capable of getting everything I need without violence. Look at you,” he says as he wraps his hands around my waist. “I talked you into being mine. Not a shot was fired.”
I smile at him. But inside my mind is spinning. Did someone find the files? Jesus, I hope not. We’re well and truly screwed if we don’t have those files.
“Come on,” he says as he leads me over to the bed. “Come sleep with me.”
I can’t say no to that. Not even if I wanted to. I slip off my shoes and climb onto the bed. The covers are all disheveled from our earlier tryst, but they are soft and easy to appreciate. This Merc guy might be a cold-hearted killer according to Sasha, but I am in love with his house. I could totally picture myself living in a cozy place like this. The adobe walls keep the place cool, but it’s warm in all the ways that count. How bad could a guy be if he owns a place like this?
James scoots in next to me, his shoes gone, but not his jeans.
“Aren’t you gonna get undressed?”
“Aren’t you?” he asks, teasingly.
I slip my shorts down my legs and kick them until they fall off the bed. He leans in and kisses me. “I’m gonna get some shut-eye. Is it OK if I ravish you in the AM?”
What? Oh my God, I think that was a rejection. “Um… you’re not in the mood?” I have no reference point for this. He’s been dripping sex since we met.
He puts his arm around me and pulls me close to his chest until I position myself with my shoulder in the crook of his arm and my cheek over his heart. I listen to it beat for a few moments. Steady. Calm. Strong.
I think I love that sound.
“Not true at all,” he says, kissing my hand. “I’m just…”
“Just what?” I’m anxious for a moment. Because something is wrong and he’s on the verge of telling me what’s bothering him.
“Stressed, I guess.”
“About me?” I ask, lifting my head up off his chest so I can look him in the eye.
“No, this job and stuff. That’s all. Not you, Harp. You’re the only good thing in my life right now.”
“You just need to think?”
“Yeah, baby,” he says in a whisper that tells me he wants this conversation to be over.
“Nick used to get like that. All withdrawn and moody. Need to plan shit, Harp, he’d say. Sometimes I’d play music for him when he was like that. He’d sit in in the saloon and pretend to read, and I’d play the harp or the piano.”
This makes James chuckle in a very sexy way. It rumbles up through his chest and caresses my face. “You do not play the harp.”
I smile. “I can play the hell out of a harp.”
“One of these days I need to hear that. I’d like nothing more than to think all my worries away to the sound of you strumming a harp.”