of the light was blue, and gave an interesting hue to her skin, making her look otherworldly, but it was still light behind the shade. He could still use the feeble light of a torch to feed his power, if only a little. Yeah, they hadn’t put that little tidbit in the history books. It wasn’t the most efficient way for him to recharge—the light warriors had made sure to keep that one secret, too—but the glow from a torch did help. Each day, she fed him, both in food and energy.
Today she wore some sort of silky green top that flowed about her. It didn’t hug her form, but just hinted at the willowy, lithe frame beneath. Her jeans were tucked into leather boots. Boots with heels he knew from experience that hurt like the dickens if she kicked him.
She crossed to the pulley of chains that hung against the wall, set the brown paper bag and bottle of water on the floor and started to drag down on a length of chain. His jaw tightened as the iron chafed against his skin, and he could feel the sting as the cuff burned him. He thought he’d get used to it—especially with the efforts he’d put into those chains recently, but he hadn’t. Each contact of the metal with his body was like a hot poker to his skin.
Soon his right hand rose with each pull on the chain, and when she was satisfied with the position of his arm, she roped the chain around a hook on the wall. Then she started with the second chain. She did this every time, and he sighed. Damn her caution.
Of course, he’d given her good reason to exercise it whenever she was around him.
She left just enough give in the chain for him to have a limited range of movement with his left arm, then stooped to pick up the brown paper bag. He eyed the silky top as it gaped open with her movement, and he caught a glimpse of the creamy swell of her breasts, the scalloped pattern of black lace. He should be angry at himself. One, for being a pervert, and two, for spying on her. But, no. Five months. No sex. Angry wasn’t the right word for what he was feeling.
She opened the bag and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in plastic. She unwrapped it, then tossed it to him.
He caught it easily, eyeing the distance between them. She was just outside of his reach. Pity. He had fantasies of her stepping too close, of him stepping up and grabbing her, of him...doing wicked things. And then he’d call himself all sorts of a pathetic idiot for thinking anything remotely lustful about his captor and would replace those secret fantasies with something harsher, like forcing her to set him free.
He stared at her for a moment. She had red hair that looked like it had a life of its own, all vibrant curls and shiny locks, and green eyes that were a vivid spark of color, the pale complexion with a faint tinge of pink high on the cheeks was smooth and clear. The woman had the face of an angel, a body built for sin...and the ferocious temperament of a saltwater crocodile at sunset.
He looked down at the sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly. He was heartily sick of that combination, but damn it, he was also hungry. At least she gave him something more substantial in the evenings. Mostly. He tried to lower his other hand to hold the sandwich properly, but the chain clanked against the wall, and he hissed softly at the sting at his wrist. He covered the noise with a tight smile.
“Come on, Red,” he crooned. “How about loosening up the other one?”
She arched an eyebrow and stepped back. “You only need one hand to eat, jerk.”
His lips pulled up at the corners. And there it was, her regular endearment. He gestured toward her. “What, you’re not going to join me? We could swap sandwiches and bitch about our boyfriends.”
She would come, feed him, and when she was sure he’d eaten, she’d fetch him the bottle of water so he could wash it down. Before she left, she’d loosen the chains enough so that he had more slack in his restraints. Enough for him to make use of the crude seat fashioned on a stone ledge across the stone room he’d called home for way too long, and to walk a little around the room.
“Just eat.”
He should be thankful they were now on speaking terms. For the first two months of his captivity she’d treated him to a cold silence—and a blinding headache each time he tried to talk to her.
Or attack her.
He chewed on his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then forced the food down his throat. “You know, one day we’ll have a proper meal together, Red. I’m thinking filet mignon and a glass of fine wine.”
“I’m thinking I’d rather hang myself up by hooks in my eyelids than spend one evening with you,” she said, folding her arms and leaning back against the stone wall. He watched as she crossed one long, slender leg over the other. Again, something curled inside him, something he resented, but couldn’t fight. Yeah. Five months, no sex. It screwed with your brain, making the most unsuitable woman seem compellingly attractive. Desirable. Sweet. He met those frosty green eyes again. Maybe not that sweet.
He needed to get out of here. He wanted to get back to work. Being alone with his thoughts was depressing. Too much time to think, to remember. To grieve...to regret. Ugh. He needed to work, otherwise he just sat here in this cold, dank little hole with only his memories and Steve to keep him company. At the thought of the rat he’d befriended, he broke off a portion of his sandwich and tucked it into his jeans pocket for later. She watched his movements, but just like every other day, didn’t query him. Probably thought he was squirreling away afternoon tea. He almost laughed at the suggestion of decorum and propriety in this misery. He took another bite of the sandwich, and chewed slowly, drawing their time together out. She glanced pointedly at her watch, and he grinned.
“If this cuts into your day, Red, you could always release me,” he suggested smoothly. “Just think—you wouldn’t have to spend so much of your culinary talents on me, such as they are. You wouldn’t have to stand and wait, watching me chew every bite...wouldn’t have to watch your back every second you’re down here. Set me free, Red.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t you ever get tired of this conversation?”
He shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a conversationalist after being in the dark for so many months.”
Her gaze flicked around the cell. “You brought this on yourself.”
His gaze dropped. Yes, well, he couldn’t argue with that. “Why don’t we start over?” He smiled, calling on his customary charm he knew worked so well with the ladies.
Her eyes narrowed, and she straightened from the wall. “You tried to kill me. There’s no starting over.”
Except for this lady.
He sighed. “How long can you hold a grudge?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. “Aren’t you bored with this yet? Isn’t it exhausting, keeping me fed and watered, dreaming up new tortures? All that effort...”
She smiled, but it wasn’t a warm, friendly smile, and she stepped closer. “Oh, I still post hate mail to my first ex. That’s since second grade.”
He eyed her. He couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.
“Look, I’m sorry. How many times do I have to say it?”
“If you mean it, only once.” The remark was quietly spoken, and gave him pause. Her green gaze was blazingly direct. He ate the rest of his sandwich, forcing the gooey mess down his throat. Her gaze dipped to his throat, then lower, before it flickered away. Not quick enough that he didn’t notice it, though—or the faint bloom of color in her cheeks.
Interesting.
He lifted his hand to indicate the gloomy room. “Trust me, I’m sorry.”
She nodded. “Yeah. You’re sorry you’re stuck here. That’s what you’re sorry for.” She turned back to the door, halted, then faced him. “You tried to kill me,” she said, her voice low and shaking with anger.
He held up a finger. “No, I just wanted to destroy your shop,” he corrected her.
Her eyes rounded. “With me in it.”
He