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MYSTERY WOMAN

“I’d advise you not to go back to that club. And perhaps change your nocturnal adventures.” There he goes with his advice again.

I scowl and set my coffee down, standing up and discarding my leather jacket on the back of a nearby chair. I pace back and forth restlessly, feeling like I’m a caged bird. I lift my arms and fold my hands behind my head, looking thoughtfully up at the ceiling, as though seeking some divination. It is several minutes of me pacing before he decides to interrupt my thoughts again.

“So, what is it that you do, Moneybags? Other than play poker and get into trouble with motorcycle gangs?”

I turn eyes full of ill-disguised contempt towards him and let out a sharp exhale.

“Tonight was no indication of the way my night usually goes.”

“So what are your nights usually like? I can see you’re on a winning streak. That how you make your money?” he asks, nodding toward my bag.

“You know, you never did tell me what you were doing at the club tonight. And then you followed me to the gas station.”

“You’re right, I was watching you. It was interesting watching you beat the pants off all the other players. I saw that pervert follow you out of the club and decided to do the same.”

“Just so you know,” I start, “I don’t believe you, but whatever.” I shrug and resume my pacing. Then turn back to him with furrowed brows as I suddenly remember something. “Why are you carrying a gun?”

“It’s licensed,” he tells me.

“So what is it thatyoudo, then?”

“I’m a businessman."

“Hmmm, a businessman with a gun.” I tap a finger to my mouth thoughtfully and give him an enquiring look.

“I have to make a call,” he says, rising and heading toward the door.

I am no closer to knowing who my savior tonight is. He’s very tight lipped about who he is and what he does. I don’t buy a word of what he tells me about the gun, his business, and being in the right place at the right time to save me. I watch him through the window as he stands in the clearing beyond the cabin, speaking on the phone with an unknown person about God only knows what. For all I know, he’s saved me but could only end up hurting me. I know nothing about him.

Except that the man is terrifyingly handsome. There is no hiding the fact that he has a nice ass, even in his low hanging jeans that fall loosely around his muscular frame. The guy obviously works out, and this is no more apparent than in the way his shirt stretches across his arms and chest. His eyes meet mine as he turns to look toward the window, his gaze piercing me as he holds my own. He keeps his 5 o’clock shadow neatly trimmed, his honey colored eyes mesmerizing against his black hair. Dante. So obviously Italian.

I watch as he lowers his phone and puts it in his pocket, his eyes still fixed on me, as though looking for the answer to some long held secret. There is an intimate dance going on between our eyes as we stand a few feet apart, and I can’t help but admire the way the corner of his mouth curls into a crooked smile.

“Someone will be out in a couple of hours with some gas,” he says, coming back into the cabin. “You sure you don’t want something to eat?”

I shake my head and sit back down, my hands resting on my knees. I am jumpy just being here, out of my element and away from home. I don’t even want to think about what will happen once someone realizes I am missing.

My agitation ratchets up to such a level that I find myself once again pacing the cabin. I watch Dante, his back to me, as he looks out the window into the night. He has his hip cocked against the window frame as he stands wordlessly passing the time.

“You spend much time up here?” I ask him.

“As much as I possibly can,” he says, looking back at me. “Sometimes the quiet here is the only sane thing I can find in a life of chaos.”

“Sounds like you have a crazy life.”

“Life is what you make it,” he says. “If it’s crazy, it’s because I make it that way. I like the quiet. Solitude. It’s a powerful tool.”

I nod my understanding, agreeing with him on one thing. My whole life has been spent literally in silence and solitude, so I can appreciate the concept.

“Not many people like the quiet,” I tell him. “People nowadays prefer the clutter of noise. Like in the club back there.”

“You go there often?” he asks me.

I shrug, not really wanting to answer, but the wait to get out of here is driving me crazy. After today, I will probably never see this man again. Does it really matter what I tell him or what he knows about me when he’ll never even know my real name?