Oh boy.
My stomach drops to my feet.
Conor takes a step nearer. “Or, if you’re not inclined to share why you’re so pissed off at my general presence tonight, how ‘bout you tell me something else instead.” His voice is soft, cajoling. “Why don’t you let me in on one of those other secrets you’re determined to keep so close to the vest? The ones you hide from everyone — whether it’s your neighbors or your family or your friends. The ones you’re afraid to admit out loud, ‘cause they terrify you too much.”
“I don’t know what secrets you’re referring to,” I lie, heart pounding too fast, thinking about bruised cheekbones and cold bedsheets and Christmas mornings and my uncontrollable need for control.
“No?”
“Nope.”
He leans in. “Bullshit.”
I suck in a gulp of air and try to look away from him, but my eyes seem to be stuck in a dark blue tractor beam. There’s no escape. No avoiding that deeply perceptive stare, that sees straight through every wall I put up.
He is the one person who’s never been fooled by my smoke and mirrors. Who’s ever called me out on my need for perfection. Who’s ever pushed me to talk about all the not-so-picturesque parts of my marriage to Paul.
Judging by the pointed direction of his questions, he already knows all my secrets. Or… suspects, in any case. But if he thinks I’m going to admit them out loud, to share them with him of all people… he’d better get accustomed to disappointment.
Why would I ever confide in someone I can’t stand?
Conor’s eyes never shift from mine, nor does he back away a single inch. Knowing him, he’ll be more than happy to stand here until the sun rises, waiting for me to speak. He may callmestubborn, but he takes the freaking cake when it comes to digging in his heels.
Until tonight. Because I am absolutely not breaking the silence first.
Nope.
No way.
Not happening.
“Tick tock,” he murmurs, egging me on. “I’ve got all night, Hunt. And I’m not leaving without an explanation. So you can either tell me why you’re pissed… or you can tell me something else. Something real. Something that matters.”
“Why do you even care?” I hiss.
“Call it… professional curiosity.”
“I can think of a few other names for it. And foryou.”
We glare at each other as the silence drags on, as the air grows heavy with unspoken thoughts. The narrow foot of space between our faces seems to simmer with tension the longer we go without speaking. I grit my teeth to keep the words inside, determined not to cave to the pressure, determined not to let him win, determined not to—
“Where were you?” I blurt before I can stop myself.
His brows skyrocket to his hairline. “Sorry?”
“Where were you? And where have you been? Last night, after the shootout, you just… you disappeared on me.” I swallow hard, hoping it might unravel the fragile thread of vulnerability running through my voice, woven between thick cords of anger. “I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know where you were.”
He’s silent, watching me through narrowed eyes.
“Not that I even care,” I tack on hastily. “It just would’ve been nice to know, seeing as there are insane twin mobsters wandering the streets of Boston, out for our blood and armed to the teeth, if last night was any indication.”
His loaded pause is legendary. It makes all previous pauses seem utterly insignificant, by comparison. “You worried about me, Hunt?”
“No,” I snap. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Wasn’t aware I was.”
“It’s just inconsiderate to banish me to a sleazy motel for an entire day with nothing to do except watch soapy shows on a static-prone television and wonder what the hell was happening with Paul and Petrov and the Evanoffs, before falling onto a lumpy mattress to get some rest and most likely catching a severe infestation of bed bugs in the process because,dear lord,did I mention how sleazy this place is?” I plant my hands on my hips. “I know our government is cash-strapped butcome on. Spring for a Hilton, for the love of god. There areprisonsmore pleasant than this motel.”