home, but was now a crime scene.
Through the peephole, she saw nothing, not even light, and her heart started to pound even harder.
“I didn’t order room service,” she said, keeping her eye to the opening.
“Damn it, Bethany, let me in.”
Her hands fell away from the door, as though the man outside had infused the cool wood with the power to burn her palms.
Dylan.
Her heart slowed and thrummed, then started to hammer. Swearing softly, she looked more closely. Clearly he hadn’t slept much, but not even fatigue interfered with Dylan St. Croix. It enhanced. He stood there in an olive button-down and black jeans, a knapsack over his shoulder, a silver tray on one of his hands. His dark hair was mussed, his deep-set eyes deceptively benign. Whiskers shadowed his jaw.
Deep inside, the icy wall started to fissure, and her pulse kicked up. Resentment came next, alarm, because therein lay the danger.
Despite everything she knew about the man—his penchant for muddying the waters and wreaking havoc—he possessed the disturbing ability to make the rest of the world fade away. When he walked into a room, everything else slipped to the background. Bethany could see only him. Feel only him.
She didn’t want that kind of intensity now, couldn’t trust something that spun out of control so easily. She didn’t want that kind of mindless, blinding blur ever, ever again. With absolute certainty, she knew if she let the man standing in the hall anywhere near the fractured glass door of her emotions, the shards would more than slice to the bone.
They would cut clear through to the core of who she was.
Months had passed, but somewhere deep inside, the little girl still lived, the one who’d stood barefoot in the cold hallway, clutching a well-worn, much-loved stuffed rabbit while her mother laughed at her father, telling him this time she’d found a real man. An exciting man. A man who could satisfy her. Her father had fired back that some day she’d learn the difference between passion and love, he only hoped it wasn’t too late for them all.
Too late had come a long time ago.
“Now isn’t the time for games, Bethany. You took a nasty blow to your head yesterday. Don’t make me—”
She didn’t need to hear the rest of his threat. She knew. Dylan St. Croix wouldn’t hesitate to use force to have his way, including persuading the manager to use his passkey.
“I’m not hungry,” she announced, pulling open the door.
His smile said he didn’t care. “Sure you are.” Without waiting for a response, he invaded the room just like he invaded her dreams, striding in and setting the tray on a small table.
Beth closed the door, but didn’t move, just watched him. Tried to breathe. He moved with incredible grace for such a large, destructive man, pouring coffee into a small demitasse cup that made his hands look even bigger, adding just the right amount of milk and sugar.
She didn’t want to think about the fact he remembered.
He wanted something. That’s what she had to remember. Dylan St. Croix wouldn’t show up at her hotel room with a tray of breakfast unless he had an angle to play.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
He took a bite from a flaky croissant and chewed thoroughly before answering. “I’m a private investigator. I find what people hide.” His gaze met hers. “Even themselves.”
The words were soft, matter-of-fact, but they left her feeling as exposed as though the robe had fallen from her shoulders. “I wasn’t hiding.”
An odd light glinted in his eyes, undeniably hot, but unbearably cold. “It wouldn’t matter if you were.”
----
Chapter 4
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B ecause he would find her. He didn’t say the words, but Beth heard the warning loud and clear. Dylan St. Croix had earned a reputation for unearthing deeply buried secrets. Because of him, companies had been made to pay, people cry.
“Nothing has changed since last night, Dylan. I walked away for a
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