Page 6 of Toxic
“That’s none of your business.” I get to my feet to put some distance between us. A helpless glance through the small window into the central area of medical shows the nurses in an in-depth discussion or attending patients. I don’t want to draw too much attention to us. If I do, the news will surely get back to Vic, but I also want him to leave. Caught. Trapped. One look in his direction shows he knows and delightsinit.
I keep one eye on him and the other on the nurses so I can shoo him away as soon as they pay one iota of attention to us. Seconds tick away like hours, and even though I’m screaming at myself to do otherwise, I don’t move when he gets to his feet and does his prowling shuffle until he’s standing right next to me. He’s so close I can smell the soap he must have used in theshower.
It isn’t a complicated scent, not like the expensive cologne my husband puts on like it’s his mission to bathe in it. On this big, dangerous man, the scent is elusive. It hides secrets. Secrets my nose wants to investigate. I want to search out all the hollows where it hides and map them. Discover each and every hiding place and plunder and plot until there aren't any places leftunexplored.
“And what if I say I’m making it my business?” he murmurs. The rough cloth of his jumpsuit hisses as he lifts his hands to trace the shadowed bruises on the rise of mycheek.
Shock washes through me, a cold dip in a frigid river, followed by a heated blast of shame. I put distance between us and cross my arms over my chest. “Then you’d be wastingyourtime.”
Those green eyes study me as if they know exactly what I was thinking just a few seconds before. Nerves clamor inside me, and I pray silently for a riot, a rash of stomach viruses, a goddamn epidemic, anything to distract this man’s laser-likefocus.
“I don’t think Iwould.”
“Look, Mr. . . .” I remember I don’t even know his name and huff out a breath, irritated with us both. “Look. What I do in my personal life is none of your business. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we both have worktodo.”
“A woman like you,” his deep, dark voice follows even as I brush by him to go back to my paperwork, “doesn’t deserve to be treatedthatway.”
I spin around. “You don’t know me at all.” Not that it matters. Not that I’d ever leave the prison of my own making. The apparent derision is evident. He’s a prisoner, acriminal.
His expression turns predatory. “What if I said I wanted to get toknowyou?”
I don’t dignify that with a response. He’s obviously the type of guy who enjoys the cat-and-mouse game, snaring his prey and watching them suffer. I have one overbearing man in my life—I don’t needanother.
At my silence, he says, “C’mon, Tessa. What do you have to lose? It’s not like I can do anything while I’m here. There are guards in the other room, and besides, we’re going to be working together. Let’s not make it more awkward than it hastobe.”
“It’s not awkward now. We work, and that’s it. I don’t see why there’s any reason to get to know each other.” My clawing curiosity notwithstanding, I know it’s in my own best interest to keep professionalism at the forefront of ourinteractions.
“Fine, you can get to know me. Ask me anything you wanna know.” He grins. “I’m anopenbook.”
“I highly doubt that.” I smother my smile by turning away so he can’tseeit.
“You know you want to,” he says over my shoulder. He’s right; I do more than I probably should. More than is professional. In fact, my interest is most certainlyunprofessional.
“I’ll cave, but only so we can get backtowork.”
“Whatever you say.” I hear the smile in his words. “Shoot.”
I consider my options as I sort through patient files I’ve already organized. I could ask his name, but I’m not sure I want to know. Somehow, I feel like knowing will make him all too real, too powerful. The same for whatever crime he committed that landed him in prison in the first place. Murder, rape, assault, robbery. None of the answers lead to anything good. Too many things in my life are too complicated, and this rapport with him is effortless. Even though I know it’s wrong, I want to keep it that way. At leastfornow.
“Where are you from?” That seems safeenough.
“That’s too easy, but I’ll give it to you. I’m from Georgia, originally.” His smile is saccharin-sweet as his accent deepens. “A good ‘ole Southern boy, just without themanners.”
“Clearly.”
“What about you?” he asks as he finally starts to strip one ofthebeds.
“I’ve alwayslivedhere.”
He dumps the dirty sheets in a bin and then grabs a fresh set from the shelf. “Really?”
“Yes,really.”
“You realize there’s a whole hemisphere with sun,right?”
“Sun?” I say with a laugh. “What’sthat?”
We lock eyes, and my heart beats a clipped rhythm in my chest. I refocus back on the files, the rhythmic hum of the air conditioner and the swish of fabric fills the silence. This was abadidea.