He blocked all the flung blows, and this seemed to ratchet her anger to a whole other level.
Nash was breathing more heavily now, too, because Steers was no slack opponent. He watched her cautiously as she fell back and seemed to regroup. Her features had gelled into a mass of hatred. Nash truly felt it was probably pointed more inward than at him.
He said as calmly as he could, “You’ve more than proven yourself, Victoria. Given time, you could probably beat me. But this is not helping either of us.”
She exclaimed, “I am not trying tohelpyou. You are trying to destroy me.”
“If I am, I’m certainly taking my time about it,” he replied.
“You are cunning. You are patient. You are a bastard.”
“Maybe I am all of those things. But what are you, really? You keep telling me who and what you are. But I don’t believe it. So why don’t you try again?”
Instead, Steers charged him, but this time Nash was ready for her assault. He stepped forward before she could strike and wrapped his muscled arms around her arms and torso, and clamped her legs tightly between his powerful ones. And then he lifted her completely off the floor.
She struggled to free herself, but Nash was far too strong. She tried to head-butt him and managed to once, but then he dipped his head next to her neck so she couldn’t do that again.
She screamed and struggled. He held her tighter. She screamed even louder, fighting to free herself, but he would not let go. He breathed in her scent and then felt wetness on his neck.
He realized it was probably her tears.
“Please stop, Victoria. Please,” he said, in a hushed voice that still managed to surge with emotion.
At these words she ceased struggling and hung limply in his arms, her feet dangling nearly six inches off the floor, her chest heaving.
He lifted his head and looked at her. Her eyes were reddened, her features crumpled.
“I’m. . .sorry,” she whispered. Steers looked him in the eyes and then her gaze dipped to his mouth. She looked up again and then Nash’s gaze lowered to her mouth.
Their lips met spontaneously and then each hungrily gripped the other. He carried her to the bed and set her down, then lifted her nightgown over her head. She helped to undress him, quickly, ferociously. He put his gun on the nightstand. She flung his pants and then undershorts across the room and pulled him down on her.
But then Nash abruptly lurched back.
“Walter?” she gasped.
He was rocking back and forth on his knees, his eyes closed, and he was shivering, as though he had been immersed in ice water.
“Walter?”
He backed away off the bed, put his feet on the floor, and grabbed up his clothes. He slipped on his undershorts and his pants.
“Walter, what’s wrong?”
He whirled on her. “What’s wrong? This whole—” He swept his arms around, dropping some of his clothing in the process. “This. . .this whole thing is wrong. Wrong!” he screamed. He picked up his gun and looked down at it. His expression calmed, his brow relaxed. It was as though he had found a measure of inner peace, or at least an answer to his dilemma.
“Walter?” she said cautiously.
“I’ll. . .I’ll be. . .back in a. . .minute. I just. . .just need some time to . . .”
He racked the slide on the gun and turned to leave.
Sensing what he might be about to do, Steers wrapped herself in a sheet and said urgently, “No wait, Walter, I need to show you something first. I should have done it long before now. But I realize it speaks to exactly what you are dealing with. And I have to show you. I have to!” she exclaimed. “Please look at me. Please.”
He did not look at her. Instead, his finger slipped to the trigger of the gun and he started to raise it with the muzzle pointed at his chest.
She jumped off the bed, rushed toward him, and gripped his arm. “Please, Walter, please. Listen to me. For just a few moments. Please.”
“Why should I?” he said coldly, the gun now aimed at his heart.