caught.
“Sorry,”
she said softly with a slight shrug. “Nowhere else to look.” She hid a smile at
his disgruntled expression.
Langston
turned back to stare at the ceiling again. “So I told you my story,” he said. “Now
tell me yours. Why the life of crime? You’re a smart girl. You didn’t have to
choose your way of life.”
Clarissa
didn’t answer. After a moment, he turned to look at her. “Still sticking with
the amnesia thing?” he asked, his voice colder now than it had been.
“Langston,
I can’t — ” she began.
“Spare
me,” he cut her off. “I was an idiot to think maybe you’d stop lying to me.” This
time, he turned his back to her.
Clarissa
wavered between disappointment and anger. Just like a man to think he was
always right, and Langston seemed surer of himself than most.
Although
she would have liked to turn her back to him, too, she didn’t dare. The windows
were watching her. Clarissa shivered as she glanced at the window above
Langston’s head. It loomed over her like a faceless wraith, staring in silence
at the occupants inside the car.
With
a chill, Clarissa tore her eyes away, instead focusing on the center of
Langston’s back. She slowly inched her way closer to him until his body
obscured the window. He was very near now, so close she could feel a bit of his
body heat through the layers. His hair was thick and looked soft to the touch. Her
hands itched to touch the russet locks, to run her fingers through them.
She
was quite sure he would not appreciate that.
Clarissa
couldn’t help but smile as she imagined what he’d say, Mr. Oh-So-Serious FBI Man.
Then she began to wonder what he would say, and do, if he weren’t quite so
proper and determined to follow the rules. Would he turn over? Kiss her? Put
his arms around her?
These
thoughts led to delicious fantasies, ones that would no doubt shock and horrify
Langston, but which lulled Clarissa into slumber, still wearing a grin.
It
was still dark when she opened her eyes, only this time the dark was absolute.
Clarissa
blinked, but everything looked the same whether her eyes were open or closed.
Where
was she? Her sleep-fogged mind struggled to clear before she remembered — the
storm. They were in the car waiting it out.
But
the knowledge didn’t bring calm. Her eyes swiveled frantically, and her pulse
jumped, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. Air. She couldn’t breathe. The
darkness was a smothering blanket, pressing the air from her lungs. Clarissa
gasped, the noise loud in the oppressive silence. She tried to suck in air but
couldn’t.
Blindly,
her hand struck out, landing on cold glass. Panic clawed at her as she
continued to gasp for air. She had to get out, had to breathe.
“What—”
Langston’s
voice didn’t even penetrate as her frenzied grasp fell on the door handle. With
a jerk, she pulled, nearly falling out the door as it swung open.
“O’Connell!
What the hell are you doing?”
Erik
watched, stunned, as O’Connell scrambled to get out of the car. She was trying
to escape? Now? Was she insane?
“Are
you out of your mind?” he bit out, grabbing her arm and hauling her back inside
before she could get her feet out the door. Feeling around with his free hand,
he found another glow stick and cracked it. The light threw her face into stark
relief, and Erik froze when he saw her.
O’Connell
was stark white, her eyes like bruises in her face. She clawed at her sweater,
as though it were binding her, and terror leaked from her eyes.
“Air,
please,” she choked. “Can’t…breathe.”
She
was having a full-blown panic attack, right here, right now.
Shit.
Throwing
open the hatchback door, Erik hauled her bodily through it. Once her feet hit
the ground, she tore her arms from his grip, stumbling away from him and
sucking in greedy gulps of air before falling. She struggled to her knees.
Erik
winced at the sight of her bare hands buried in the bitterly cold snow. He
hurried
“Sorry,”
she said softly with a slight shrug. “Nowhere else to look.” She hid a smile at
his disgruntled expression.
Langston
turned back to stare at the ceiling again. “So I told you my story,” he said. “Now
tell me yours. Why the life of crime? You’re a smart girl. You didn’t have to
choose your way of life.”
Clarissa
didn’t answer. After a moment, he turned to look at her. “Still sticking with
the amnesia thing?” he asked, his voice colder now than it had been.
“Langston,
I can’t — ” she began.
“Spare
me,” he cut her off. “I was an idiot to think maybe you’d stop lying to me.” This
time, he turned his back to her.
Clarissa
wavered between disappointment and anger. Just like a man to think he was
always right, and Langston seemed surer of himself than most.
Although
she would have liked to turn her back to him, too, she didn’t dare. The windows
were watching her. Clarissa shivered as she glanced at the window above
Langston’s head. It loomed over her like a faceless wraith, staring in silence
at the occupants inside the car.
With
a chill, Clarissa tore her eyes away, instead focusing on the center of
Langston’s back. She slowly inched her way closer to him until his body
obscured the window. He was very near now, so close she could feel a bit of his
body heat through the layers. His hair was thick and looked soft to the touch. Her
hands itched to touch the russet locks, to run her fingers through them.
She
was quite sure he would not appreciate that.
Clarissa
couldn’t help but smile as she imagined what he’d say, Mr. Oh-So-Serious FBI Man.
Then she began to wonder what he would say, and do, if he weren’t quite so
proper and determined to follow the rules. Would he turn over? Kiss her? Put
his arms around her?
These
thoughts led to delicious fantasies, ones that would no doubt shock and horrify
Langston, but which lulled Clarissa into slumber, still wearing a grin.
It
was still dark when she opened her eyes, only this time the dark was absolute.
Clarissa
blinked, but everything looked the same whether her eyes were open or closed.
Where
was she? Her sleep-fogged mind struggled to clear before she remembered — the
storm. They were in the car waiting it out.
But
the knowledge didn’t bring calm. Her eyes swiveled frantically, and her pulse
jumped, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. Air. She couldn’t breathe. The
darkness was a smothering blanket, pressing the air from her lungs. Clarissa
gasped, the noise loud in the oppressive silence. She tried to suck in air but
couldn’t.
Blindly,
her hand struck out, landing on cold glass. Panic clawed at her as she
continued to gasp for air. She had to get out, had to breathe.
“What—”
Langston’s
voice didn’t even penetrate as her frenzied grasp fell on the door handle. With
a jerk, she pulled, nearly falling out the door as it swung open.
“O’Connell!
What the hell are you doing?”
Erik
watched, stunned, as O’Connell scrambled to get out of the car. She was trying
to escape? Now? Was she insane?
“Are
you out of your mind?” he bit out, grabbing her arm and hauling her back inside
before she could get her feet out the door. Feeling around with his free hand,
he found another glow stick and cracked it. The light threw her face into stark
relief, and Erik froze when he saw her.
O’Connell
was stark white, her eyes like bruises in her face. She clawed at her sweater,
as though it were binding her, and terror leaked from her eyes.
“Air,
please,” she choked. “Can’t…breathe.”
She
was having a full-blown panic attack, right here, right now.
Shit.
Throwing
open the hatchback door, Erik hauled her bodily through it. Once her feet hit
the ground, she tore her arms from his grip, stumbling away from him and
sucking in greedy gulps of air before falling. She struggled to her knees.
Erik
winced at the sight of her bare hands buried in the bitterly cold snow. He
hurried
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