Hidden Hearts. Susan Kearney
take the police several minutes to arrive. She could be dead by then.
Rather than let that grave thought deter her, she worked faster. She snatched up a plastic shopping bag and dumped out the shoes she’d bought last week. Quickly she snatched the top sheet off her bed and stuffed it into the shopping bag, then she floated the coverlet back over the bed to hide the missing sheet in case Roarke got curious and ducked in for a look. Finally she grabbed a change of clothing and stuffed it on top of the sheet.
She returned to the hallway a little breathless, hoping she hadn’t taken too long and aroused his suspicions. Roarke had angled a chair so he could watch the front and back entrances to her apartment as well as the short hallway from bedroom to bathroom.
Without meeting his eyes for fear he’d guess her intention, she hurried into the bathroom. As soon as she closed the door behind her, Alexandra dumped the clothing on the floor. Quickly she tied one end of the sheet to the towel bar. Praying the bar would remained attached to the wall and would hold her weight, she tugged hard.
The knot held.
She turned on the shower. The water would disguise any noise she made opening the window. She closed the toilet seat, climbed on top and threw the end of the sheet out the open window. Although the sheet wouldn’t reach the ground, she believed she could drop safely to the grass when she reached the sheet’s end.
She didn’t allow herself the luxury of thinking how surprised Roarke would be to find her gone. Palms sweaty with a combination of fear of discovery and fear of dropping out of a second-story window, she placed one leg through the window and started to ease herself through.
The bathroom door opened.
Alexandra froze, her hands on the sheet, still half inside the bathroom.
He took in the dumped clothes, the sheet and her awkward position in one quick but thorough glance and let out a long, low whistle. “Going somewhere?”
“How did you—”
“Know?” He lifted one insolent eyebrow. “You didn’t lock the bathroom door.”
“Huh?”
In one swift move, Roarke tugged on the sheet and pulled her into the bathroom, backing away as he got a good whiff of her odor. “As nervous as you were about taking your clothes off around me, if you’d intended to take a real shower, you would have locked the door.”
Damn him. Damn his know-it-all-superior grin. Damn his mind that didn’t overlook a detail. Damn him for the glimmer of respect she’d read in his eyes.
How did he already know her well enough to predict her actions? Could he have been stalking her for weeks? She’d read about some weirdo stalkers who weren’t ex-boyfriends but simply casual acquaintances who fixated on a woman for no logical reason. Could she have seen this man at the bank? At work? On a construction site?
Ignoring her completely, he untied the sheet and tossed it into the hallway. He took one last efficient look around the bathroom, peering through the tempered-glass shower doors as if searching for any other means of escape. He must have decided she was trapped and walked out.
In frustration she kicked the door shut behind him and viciously twisted the lock. When it clicked, she heard his disturbing chuckle.
She supposed she should count herself lucky that he hadn’t followed through on his threat to stay in the shower with her. He could have…
Better not to think about what he could have done. With those large hands and powerful arms he could do just about anything he wanted.
She was wasting hot water. But did she dare get naked even with a locked door between them?
Why not? If he wanted to remove her clothes he could already have done so. But maybe he was just waiting until she washed away the awful smell.
She sensed that he was capable of violence. And yet…he seemed more amused by her defiance than angered. Almost as if he respected her ingenuity.
A look in the mirror made up her mind. Her hair had escaped the neat French braid and something dark and sticky oozed at her temple. Several smudges stuck to her cheek and chin. And her blouse and slacks were filthy. Knowing she’d never wear them again, she stripped, tossed the soiled clothing into the plastic trash-can liner and tied a knot to keep down the odor.
Within seconds she ducked into the steamy shower, her hands reaching for the soap. With resignation, she realized she could no longer fight Roarke’s wishes as well as her own. She longed to feel clean. Besides, she rationalized, even if she managed to escape Roarke, no one would help her if she looked like a bag lady.
Alexandra wanted to take a quick shower, but once she stepped under the glorious flow of water, she decided that if Roarke Stone had violent intentions towards her, a longer shower wouldn’t make that much difference. If she was going to wash away some of the stench that might have protected her, she might as well wash away all of it.
She soaped down, rinsed and soaped again. Next she attacked her hair, using double her normal amount of shampoo and letting it soak as she washed herself squeaky clean.
Besides, how could she think clearly when she stank? Every time she’d turned her head another awful smell had assaulted her, distracted her. And Roarke might listen to her if she changed her appearance. If she looked respectable, then maybe he’d treat her with respect.
Not that he’d mistreated her—if she didn’t count forcing her to take a shower and taking away her cell phone, her only means to call for help. But why didn’t she sense any real menace in him? Because he treated her gently? Because she’d seen amusement in his eyes when she’d expected anger?
Alexandra rinsed her hair, applied conditioner and gave her underarms and legs a quick swipe of the razor. The soothing routine lifted her spirits. When she finished, she brought a few locks forward to her nose and sniffed.
All clean.
She dried herself and dressed in fresh underwear, blue jeans and a shirt, before quickly rebraiding her hair. Her fingers worked smoothly, easing the wet strands off her face and working her hair into the braid until she fastened it all with one scrunchy at the back of her neck.
She brushed her teeth and applied moisturizer to her skin before she realized she was stalling. While Roarke hadn’t interrupted her, giving her the privacy she so desperately needed, she dreaded dealing with him again.
Hating the uncertainty of whether he was friend or foe, she vowed to try and clear that matter up first, before she made any other decisions about her predicament. But what would make her believe him? Even if he allowed her to call her brother and Jake confirmed that he’d hired Roarke, how would she know that the other man on the phone was really her brother?
She and Jake had never met. At least not since she was three and he was five years old.
And even if Jake was her brother, how could she know if he was being honest with her? Brother or not, he could be some kind of con man with his own agenda. But what kind of swindle could anyone try to pull on her?
She wasn’t wealthy. She could think of nothing she owned that anyone would want. Which made her think that Roarke Stone might be who he said he was—someone hired by her brother to protect her. He had saved her from the man in the uniform…unless they were playing good guy/bad guy so she would trust Roarke. Now her thoughts were really flying out there.
She had to pull herself together mentally as well as physically. And she could only do that by admitting the truth to herself. Roarke Stone reminded her of her painful past. A past where another man’s good looks, easy smile and charm had betrayed her. She found Roarke’s self-confidence alarming. And even worse, she wasn’t quite as immune to him as she would have liked.
Apparently Patrick hadn’t done the number on her she’d thought. Or she’d recovered enough to once again find herself reacting to certain traits. What was wrong with her that the only men she found attractive were the ones who couldn’t be trusted?
Giving