Trusting A Stranger. Melinda Lorenzo Di
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“Did you know I was here?” he demanded. “Or did you just get lucky?”
“I wouldn’t call this lucky.”
Keira pulled emphatically on the rope around her arms, and in spite of himself, Graham winced.
“If you’re not going to answer my questions,” he said, “then I’m going to go back to our previous arrangement.”
“What previous arrangement was that?” she replied, just shy of sarcastic.
“The one where I don’t speak at all.”
He started to turn away, but she snorted, and he stopped, midturn, to face her again.
“More of the silent treatment? What are you?” she asked. “A ten-year-old boy?”
For some reason, the question annoyed him far more than her lack of candor. Graham strode toward her, and once again, she didn’t cower. She raised her eyes and opened her mouth, but whatever snarky comment had been about to roll off her tongue was cut off as Graham mashed his lips into hers messily. Uncontrollably. And when it ended, Keira was left gasping for air—gasping for more.
Trusting
a Stranger
Melinda Di Lorenzo
As always, I owe the deepest gratitude to my family. Without them, I would never have been able to add the title of “writer” to my list.
MELINDA DI LORENZO is a Canadian author living on the West Coast of British Columbia. She is an avid reader and an avid writer. Her to-be-read and to-be-written lists are of equal overwhelming length and she plans on living to be 150 years old so she can complete them both. Melinda is happily married to the man of her dreams and is a full-time mum to three beautiful girls. When she is not detangling hair, fighting for her turn on iTunes or catching up on sleep, she can be found at the football pitch or on the running trail.
Contents
A sharp gust of wind grabbed the branches of the trees outside the window, sending them crashing and scratching against the glass with a screech.
From where she stood in front of the window, the impact came mere inches from Karina’s face. She didn’t even flinch. She had too many actual threats to fear to be so easily frightened by nothing.
As she had every day since her arrival, she stared out at the street in front of the building. She watched the passing cars, she scanned the pedestrians. She didn’t know why she kept her silent vigil. There was really nothing to see. If the danger she expected did come, it would hardly approach so boldly from the front. The answers she sought deep in her soul weren’t out there. Yet she simply didn’t know what else to do.
She’d arrived in the United States just over a month ago at the beginning of February. From what she’d seen through the building’s windows, it had been gray and cold ever since. Not so unlike Russia at this time of year. She almost wished she could look at the unremarkable city scene outside and pretend she was home. But she’d never managed to forget that she was not home, nor why.
“I am going out now.”
The booming voice behind her was too familiar to startle her. Or perhaps she was simply too numb to be startled.
Forcing some semblance of a smile, Karina turned to face her godfather. He stood halfway inside the room, already wearing his overcoat, pulling on his gloves. He was a big, robust man with a ruddy face automatically eased in a smile of his own. But she sensed the strain in his expression as much as she felt it in her own. He couldn’t quite hide the worry in his eyes. Even though he’d said nothing about it, she knew how much trouble he’d gone to to bring her here. She hated that she’d brought her problems halfway around the world to his door, but she’d simply had nowhere else to go.
“You should come with me,” Sergei said. “Come see the city. You have not left this building since you arrived.”
“I am fine here.” Safe here.
“You are not fine,” he said, the reprimand slightly tempered. “You are hiding.”
“For good reason.”
He grimaced. “I brought you here to be safe, not to turn this building into your prison.”
“It is too nice to be a prison,” Karina said wearily. She cast an eye around the room. Beautifully decorated, it was as lovely as the rest of Sergei’s home. Much like the homes she used to decorate back in Moscow, when she’d had a job,