“Okay,” he said, holding her startled stare. “What should we talk about first?”
Her mouth trembled with amusement. “It’s come to my attention lately that I have a problematic habit of denying reality,” she said. “I’ve been known to prefer my own comfortable version of the world. I think it’s best I face the truth when it comes to you, don’t you?”
His expression flattened. She really was unexpected.
“Absolutely,” he said. “You were disturbed by what you saw that night. And in the aftermath, you convinced yourself that I wasn’t the same man you’d seen.”
Emma nodded.
“Is this the problematic habit you referred to? The one where you refuse to see certain things?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think you didn’t want to allow yourself to know it was me?” he asked, taking a step closer to her and holding her stare.
* * *
She swallowed thickly at the sensation of his body brushing against her open thighs. His gaze bore straight down to the center of her.
“Because it was safer to assume you weren’t the man who did those things,” she said honestly. He didn’t reply, seeming to sense there was more. She bit her lip and looked away. “And because I was disturbed by what I saw.”
“Disturbed,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“And disgusted.”
She nodded.
“Were you aroused?”
The silence stretched, interrupted only by the sound of the gentle, soughing surf against the rocks below. Her pulse started to leap at her throat like it wanted to escape her skin. Face reality.
“Yes,” she said softly, her cheeks burning. Her gaze leapt to his. “But I was upset. It seemed wrong, what you were doing. And I was mad at you.”
“Mad?” he clarified, his fingers moving subtly on her waist, the sensation distracting her. “For flogging Astrid? For restraining her?”
“Yes,” she hissed, frowning at him for his ease at broaching the most volatile of topics. “But not just for that.”
“What then?” he asked intently. “Emma?” he prompted when she just sat there.
“For making me feel so much,” she admitted in a rush. “For making me feel things I didn’t even know existed. I was disgusted, and confused, and curious, and angry, and . . . aroused,” she forced herself to say the word. “It was too much to consider, you being that man when I met you face-to-face the next night. Too much to handle. I didn’t do it consciously. I just ignored the facts.”
“What facts?”
“Lots of things,” she mused, studying his tie. “Like why would a guestroom have a monitor for Cristina in it, or worse yet, that . . . that apparatus, that thing you tied . . .”
She faded off, embarrassment overwhelming her.
“Yes, I see what you mean,” he said. “Why would a guestroom have that? What else did you ignore?”
She gave him an exasperated look. “Why does it matter?”
“It matters,” he said quietly. “Unless I understand your state of mind, it’s hard to know how to relieve your anxiety.”
She lowered her head. “Lots of things,” she murmured. “I told myself not only was your hair shorter than the man’s I’d seen, the color was darker as well. But of course when you cut your hair, the highlights went, too, for the most part. Every other time I saw you afterward, it was in dim light, so it looked even darker.” She inhaled through her nose slowly. “Your scent,” she added in a whisper. “Sandalwood with
just a hint of citrus and leather. My mother loved things like candles and potpourri. Her sense of smell was very sharp. She could tell what certain stews and soups needed just by smelling the broth. I got her nose. When I was in the armoire,” she mumbled, “I could smell you, but there was something just a tad different mixing with your scent: motor oil. The garments I was sitting in when I was in the armoire—I couldn’t see them, because it was dark—but they were your coveralls, weren’t they? The ones you wear when you’re working on cars?”