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"Why didn't you tell me who you were?" Might as well get to the meat of the matter.
"I thought I did."
"No, you really didn't."
"What else was there to tell? I told you my name, that I knew you from here."
"You forgot to mention how you brought your boyfriend in again and pulled the same stunt you pulled here last night."
Duncan rested his head back on his pillow. The discoloration of his jaw and his dark hair sliced across the white bedding like an open wound. "Randy would still be alive if you'd taken care of him last night."
"Randy was a heart attack waiting to happen," I snapped. "If you were so concerned about his health, why not get him to cut back on the double whoppers with cheese instead of driving him across the peninsula and bay, just to get to me?"
He slowly shook his head. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Really?" Rising irritation drove me to my feet and to the side of the bed. So much for playing it calm and collected. Every other word that came out of his mouth went dancing through my veins and demanded I do the mamba. "I know you were fucking around with me at Slant. You didn't want dinner. You wanted something else. Admit it."
Coming to him was a mistake. Those icy eyes locked me into place.
"All right," he conceded. "I admit it."
Victory should have tasted a lot better than it did. It has in the past. This time, though, my mouth was as dry and arid as the I-5 on the way to LA in the middle of August. Everything else about me felt hot, swollen. And no, I didn't just mean my cock.
"The police are going to want to talk to you," I managed to grit out. "I've filed a report. Next move is arestraining--"
All my breath suddenly reversed direction and slammed into my lungs when he grabbed my wrist. His fingers easily reached around it, not just because I'm a tad on the slight side but because Duncan was a big fucking guy. And strong. I mentioned the strong, right? It had caught my fist at Slant, and it caught me now, though I hadn't been doing anything but standing there.
He wasn't begging. It wasn't a request. It was an order, or sounded like he meant it to be an order, because there wasn't a hint of coaxing in his silken tone.
I tried to yank away, but his grip was resolute. The best I could do was stand there and just let him hold me. Fighting him made me feel pathetic.
"Maybe you should've thought of that before you followed me to my favorite bar," I said. "You act like trouble, you get treated like trouble." I left out the part that as soon as I got free, I was going to call them. Only an idiot would tell the nutjob threatening him that he was about to turn his ass in, when he was still under the so-called control of the nutjob.