To Hiss or to Kiss (7 page)

“OK. What should I do?”

She radiates more tension than the night before, so I decide to get acquainted further before asking for a layout of the house.
“How about you tell me your name?”

“Gracie.”

“I’m Chloe. It’s nice to know your name.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Are you OK right now?”

“Yes. For now. Are you going to get us out?”

“I’m going to try, but I can’t do it by myself.”

“The men are scary.”

“Yes, and I’m just one person. But you can help me prepare.”

“OK.”

“You’re a good girl.”

“I am?”

Probably no one has ever told her that, and for a dog that is tragic. It’s like never telling your kids you love them.

“Of course you are. It’s not your fault what’s happened.”

She is quiet, so I continue.
“Do you know the layout of the house?”

“Yes.”
She starts showing me images of how the men take her up the stairs and through a kitchen. I can tell because she shows me a refrigerator—of course a dog would remember where food smells come from. From there they go through a foyer-type room before going out the back door.

“Good, that’s very good, Gracie. Do you know how the alarm works?”

“I’m not sure what that is.”

“It would be little pieces of plastic on doors or windows.”

“I’m not sure. There’s a lot of stuff and they drag me through the house quickly.”
She starts to sound distraught again.

“It’s OK, Gracie. You’ve done so well. You’re a very smart dog.”

Her tension dissipates.

“Do you know when you might be leaving again?”

“It’s usually a while in between, but it’s hard to tell time down here. It’s been only a few meals since the last time, so I’m guessing we have some time.”

“Good, Gracie. That’s good.”
I’m relieved to know there is some time for the police to take action and for me to keep planning if they fall through.
“One more thing.”

“Anything.”

“Do you talk with the other dogs?”

“Not much. They are tough and I am weak. They mostly ignore me.”

“Ah, that is perhaps why they won’t talk to me either.”
I can feel Gracie considering.

“I will try to talk to them about you.”

“Thanks, Gracie. You are so brave.”

“I am?”

“Of course. Anyone who has survived what you have is very brave. And you are the one brave enough to talk to me!”

Her self-confidence shifts.
“You’re right. I am. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Gracie. I’ll be back with help.”

“OK.”

I close off my mind and lean back against the barn wall. I promised Gracie I would be back, but the enormity of the situation starts to get to me. How can I help her? I don’t know anything about disabling alarm systems and cameras except what I’ve seen on TV and in movies, and I really don’t think that counts. I’m no master thief. Somehow I’d believed that if I could just converse with Gracie, a way out would be obvious. So much for being blissfully naïve; evidently I’m just stupidly naïve.

It’s not generally like me to berate myself for long, so I shake my head, get up, and head back to my car. I’ll think of something. I can always talk to Barb or Naomi to brainstorm. What I really need is someone who is a master thief—or who at least knows the tricks. Maybe there’s something on the Internet.

I’m rather lost in thought as I walk, so I almost scream when I realize there is someone leaning against my car. No, not someone. Jorge. Instead of screaming, I suck air into my lungs as a gasp. What the hell does he think he’s doing?

And why does he look so good? Dammit.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I put on my best pissed-off face.

He’s a cat after all, so he can probably see at night at least as well as during the day, if not better. It would explain a lot about how he got around so gracefully last night.

“I might ask you the same thing.” He’s immediately defensive. We glare at each other for a few seconds.

God, he is hot when he’s annoyed, green eyes blazing in the moonlight, muscles tensed
.

Fuck. You’re mad, remember?

He softens his expression and sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. That’s hot too.
Dammit
.

“I apologize. I didn’t come here to fight with you.” His apology disarms me a bit.

“OK. Then why are you here?” I maintain my pissed-off face. It’s about all I’ve got between getting safely in my car and starting to cry from embarrassment and shock. Or jumping him.

“Despite how things were left last night, I am still concerned for your welfare, Chloe. It was not my intent to upset you last night. I am, uh, I am…”

I want to jump in and finish his sentence with something like “stupid,” “mercurial,” “heartless,” “a cad,” et cetera, but I bite my tongue. I did, after all, admit I might already be in love with him earlier today. Perhaps I shouldn’t do anything to completely screw this up
.

So instead of a biting retort, I soften my expression but still stare mercilessly, willing him to look back up and meet my eyes.

He finally looks up, his eyes pleading with me to understand. “…I do not do well interacting with people. And I don’t tell people my secrets.”

I find myself melting a little when I see some chinks through the wall he erected last night. “Yeah, well, I can understand that.”

He looks mildly surprised that I’m not berating him or stomping past him to get in my car. Am I really that harsh?

Yeah, maybe. No, definitely, if I go on what he’s seen of me.

“You do?” He looks more vulnerable, and therefore more sexy, by the minute.

“I know having to hide a part of yourself puts up a pretty big barrier to maintaining relationships,” I say, and find I mean it. I smile. “And you do seem like kind of a nerd, too.” I’m relieved by the slight upturn to his lips.

“A nerd?”

“Yeah. You’re quiet and I bet you know a lot. You’ve got a bookish vibe.” At that he seems a little crestfallen, and I worry I just undid any repairs I’d made to this incredibly awkward conversation/relationship/future marriage/whatever.

“That’s not a bad thing. Nerdy can be cool. I’m somewhat of a science nerd and bookish myself. And you’re a pretty sexy nerd, so it’s all good.” Oh, God. There go my capillaries again.

I decide the best way to save face is to keep staring at him, so I see his mouth widen into a satisfied grin. His nervousness seems to have evaporated, and he’s back to cool cat. “You think I’m sexy?”

“And if I do?”

He chuckles. Then he is moving toward me so quickly he’s almost a blur. He weaves his hands into my hair and kisses me. Not a gentle, get-to-know-you, let’s-ease-into-this kind of kiss, either.

Wow, talk about erratic. Maybe mercurial wasn’t that off the mark. With his tongue darting into my mouth, I realize I don’t much care at the moment.

I lean into him a bit more and use my tongue to explore him a bit. No, his canines don’t feel longer than a human’s. I hadn’t noticed long canines when I looked at him, but I do like to test my hypotheses.

His right hand starts to slide down my back, and then all thoughts of science are gone.

When he pulls back, I fight the desire to say
Wow
out loud. It must be on my face because he is now grinning like a cat who got his mouse. “Will you come back for drinks? I purchased more Dalwhinnie today. Thirty-six year.”

Ugh, I’m not completely over my hangover. “No…” I start to groan, and he looks a little deflated. “I mean no alcohol. But perhaps something like tea? I’d very much like tea.”

His smile returns. “I have that, too.”

I start to walk around him to the driver’s side. “I’ll drive this time.” I completely ignore the warning bells my brain starts to ring. For once, I’m letting my heart dictate. Or maybe I’m just really tired. Or stupid. Whatever.

* * *

We get out of the car and rush into his house. As soon as the door closes, we’re kissing and working buttons, zippers, and clasps so our clothes are falling off as we make our way across the living room. I don’t know where the bedroom is, but Jorge starts to steer me toward…the kitchen?

“Chloe!” And then louder. “Chloe! You’re going to miss the driveway.”

“Oh.” I come out of my daydream and see the driveway going by. I consider swerving, but we are on a dirt road, so I just mutter “Oh shit” and execute a three-point turn.

“Maybe I should have driven after all,” Jorge teases.

If I wasn’t consumed by the demands of driving, I’d be looking at him. I imagine I’d see his gorgeous smile, a sweetly sly look in his eyes, the corners crinkled to show his future laugh lines. I find myself taking it for granted that I’ll be around to see those laugh lines show up.

Get a grip, Chlo. But my heart disagrees with that advice. Unless, of course, it was to grip something else…

“Ha, ha. I’ll still get us there.” I’m not going to mention why I was distracted. Let him think I just didn’t quite remember where the driveway was.

Once we’re settled in said driveway, the walk to the house is less rushed than in my daydream, and when we enter I feel a bit awkward.

Jorge again turns on one of the lamps in his sparse living room and gestures for me to take a seat. “I’ll go make the tea.”

Instead of sitting, I follow him to the kitchen. “Perhaps I can help.” Sitting on the couch by myself is not an option. I’m entirely too riled up, in too many ways, for that.

He hands me a stainless steel teakettle when I follow him in. “Here, you can get the water started then.”

I fill the kettle with tap water and set it on the stove to heat. He has an ancient looking gas stove, but the burner still lights right up. Teakettle settled, I turn around and watch Jorge measuring out some loose leaf tea into a paper filter bag. “What kind are you making?”

“Darjeeling. Is that OK?”

“Yes. I like Darjeeling. What season?”

“Quite the beverage connoisseur, I see.” I hope that piercing tone is impressed. “It’s fall.”

“Oh. I prefer the spring.”

“Should I make something else then?” He sounds both annoyed and a little anxious not to disappoint.

I am realizing he is about as touchy as my Sashi—or maybe me—and that makes me grin inside.

I curse my uncensored bluntness. “No, I didn’t mean I don’t like it. It’s just not my personal preference. Any Darjeeling is good. Besides, based on your scotch choice, I assume you have nothing but the best-quality tea.” I grin at him and he returns it.

“Of course.” He finishes prepping the tea bag and places it in a Brown Betty pot, then turns to me. “Do you take cream or sugar?”

“Yes, please.”

He turns to pull some half-and-half from the refrigerator as the kettle starts to whistle. I grab the latter and pour the steaming water into the Brown Betty. Then I set the oven timer for five minutes. Meanwhile, Jorge puts the half-and-half and some sugar on the counter next to two matching green mugs.

“So now we wait, I guess.” I laugh nervously
.

“Yes. What shall we do while we wait?” His gaze locks on my lips.

Mine snaps to his lips, and I glide toward him in what I’d like to think is a sexy way. “Hmm. Seems we’re pretty good at kissing.”

“Ah, I see any fear you had has faded.” He puts his hands on my cheeks, his fingers reaching back into my hair. “But I think we should discuss what happened last night.” His intense emerald eyes meet mine.

“Fine.” I pout, pulling away. “If you want to be all mature.”

He chuckles, and so do I. It’s wonderful to be around someone who gets my sarcasm. Again I ignore the warning bells that say I’m getting too close.

He stares at me for a bit, and I find myself slightly hypnotized by his rhythmic breathing. I break the silence. “So I enjoyed your scotch. And I will wash the glass and bring it back. I know those things are expensive.” I try my darnedest not to blush, but the heat in my cheeks tells me I’m not succeeding.

“OK.” He has gone incredibly still, like a predator stalking its prey. And I have the uneasy—and exciting, depending on which part of me you ask—feeling I’m his prey.

When I realize he’s not going to add anything but just stare at me, I continue, increasing the chagrin in my voice. “I swear I don’t usually storm out and steal from my host. I was really confused and angry.” I pause, trying frantically to steer my brain away from sharing anything too personal, and finish lamely with, “The whole night was just weird and overwhelming.”

“Yes, it was. We both trusted the other with a pretty significant secret. And I didn’t exactly handle that well. Or the attraction between us. Although it was a pretty bold move to take the whole bottle of scotch.” He is still staring fixedly at me, a teasing smile on his lips. His eyes are another story. They are filled with heat, and I need a way to lower the intensity level.

Instead of jumping him—some prey I turn out to be!—I offer my hand. “How about we try to start again? I think we can manage much better tonight.”

“That’s an excellent idea.” He reaches to shake my hand. “I’m Jorge.”

I shake his hand in return. “Chloe.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise…OK, this is just cheesy. How about we just move on and pretend that nothing awkward happened, and then in a few months we’ll have a great, funny story to tell about how we met.” To tell our grandchildren, my impish heart says, even while my brain fights for control.

Jorge cocks his head. “That sounds much better actually. And to reiterate that I won’t interfere with your plans, so long as you do nothing knowingly dangerous, how did your recon go tonight?”

And that easily, the tension in the air dissipates. There’s still an undercurrent of sexual tension, but that I can definitely live with.