He half laughed, half growled. “Not yet.”
Lizette opened her mouth, started to say please, but she didn’t. Begging would only make him more determined to take his time.
They didn’t have time.
Lizette shuddered, head to toe. She didn’t want this dream to end, yet she couldn’t wait to have him inside her. She could stay here all night, just holding him. Her body throbbed, and she knew she’d be doing good to wait another full minute.
More than anything, more even than the urge that pulled her forward faster and faster … she didn’t want to let X go, not ever again.
Xavier went down the hall toward her bedroom, his movements fluid and ghostly, his footsteps as silent as if he were drifting above the floor. The last thing he wanted was for her to wake up. It was dark. Not being able to see him, she’d automatically think he was a rapist or murderer; any woman would. Hell, even if she did see him, she’d still think that. She hadn’t recognized him in the pharmacy, after all. If she woke up and turned on the lamp, saw him in her home dressed as he was in dark clothing and armed, would her memory come rushing back or would she simply panic and start screaming? He’d bet on the panic and screaming.
Her bedroom door was open. She lived alone, after all; there was no need to close an interior door. He eased inside and stood for a moment, looking at the bed, at her.
The alarm clock, and the blue light on another cordless phone, gave off enough light for him to see. She was curled up in the bed, dark hair on an almost-flat pillow, covers pulled up to her neck—and one bare foot sticking out from under those covers. Some things never changed. No matter what they did to her face, her brain … she was still Lizzy, deep inside. He should have known, they all should have known, that one day she’d break free from the prison they’d put her in.
On the bedside table, inches from the bright clock, sat a tall can of something. He grinned. He’d bet his ass it was wasp spray, or something like that. No handgun, at least not yet, but she’d armed herself anyway. Near the base of the can lay her cell phone—and beside the phone was the battery. Until she put the battery in, the phone couldn’t be tracked. Yes, she was waking up, breaking free.
Another thing about her had held true. Lizzy was a purse fanatic. She loved handbags, and would save money to buy one good leather bag, rather than several cheaper ones. Other women he’d trained, and trained with, would forego handbags in favor of pockets or fanny packs, but not Lizzy; she’d held on to her purses. She didn’t just drop the chosen bag anywhere in the house, either; she’d always taken it into the bedroom and put it on a chair. She might move the chair around, but that was where the purse went.
Currently, the bedroom chair was maybe four feet from Lizzy’s head, just on the other side of the bedside table. The bag was white, so he could easily pick it out, and it had a long strap. This was the tricky part. Maybe she didn’t have a gun, but Lizzy had always been a good shot, and if she got him in the eyes with that wasp spray he’d be temporarily blinded. God only knew what she’d do to him then, while he was at such a disadvantage.
He hooked the strap with a finger and noiselessly lifted the purse, got the cell phone from the bedside table, then backed out of the room as silently as he’d entered. The kitchen, where there was more light, was the best place for him to do this.
Once he was there, he put the purse on the counter and got to work. He was just about to place another tracker—this one was marked with a 1—in the inside zipper pocket when he paused. This was Lizzy, the handbag fanatic. She’d have more than one purse. She’d regularly changed handbags, to match her outfit or her mood or whatever she needed for the day. She could easily swap to a different purse tomorrow.
Not the purse, then. He noted the placement of her wallet, then carefully pulled it out and opened it. It was leather, oversized the way women’s usually were, had a place for a checkbook but no checks. What it did hold was cash, a couple of hundred dollars’ worth. There were also a couple of credit cards, her driver’s license and insurance card, and a couple of receipts. He tried to read the date on one of the receipts, but there wasn’t enough light, and he was running out of time.
It was a good bet that no matter what purse she carried, this wallet would be in it. He removed the bills and set them aside, planted the tiny tracker underneath a bit of torn lining and replaced the cash exactly as he’d found it, then slid the wallet back into the purse.
Next up: the cell phone. If she was smart enough to remove the battery, that meant she intended to keep it with her. This new phone, a replacement for the one she’d dropped and broken on Friday, was a simple flip phone. No smart phone for Lizzy, which was a good decision on her part. Normally he’d put the tracker inside the battery compartment, but if she was taking the battery out after she used it each time, that upped the chances she’d either see it or perhaps dislodge it.
For a few seconds, Xavier studied the phone. The light was better here in the kitchen, but it still wasn’t great, so he went as much by feel as he did by sight. There were very few nooks and crannies, and none of them were right. Finally he tested the edge of the keyboard cover. It was rubbery, not a hard plastic. He pushed his fingernail under the edge, lifted it, planted the tracker beneath the cover, and then pressed it down. Not a great placement, but he was limited by not being able to use the battery compartment.
Purse and cell phone in his hands, he retraced his steps to the bedroom and placed both exactly where he’d found them, being careful not to let the phone click against the table as he released it.
He took a deep, silent breath and looked down at her.
If she woke up, he had no place to go. If she opened her eyes she’d see him, in the light of her alarm clock. He should leave, but now that he was this close to her he couldn’t tear himself away, not yet. Seeing her in the drugstore had just made the hunger more intense. To have the luxury of actually seeing her, watching her sleep, he’d risk getting a blast of wasp spray in the eyes.
Lizzy. Thick dark hair, slightly curly, tousled now in sleep. The shape of her face was different now, but the curve of her lips was the same. That bare foot was the same.
The smell of her was the same.
His hands remembered the feel of her.
There had been times when he’d held her under him and fucked her until she screamed. And then she’d done the same thing to him, though she’d teased him and said that, being a manly man, his scream was more like a long grunt.
His fingers curled as he resisted the urge to reach out and touch her. His dick twitched, wanting more than just that. Shit, he had to get out of here before he did something beyond stupid.
Less than twenty minutes after letting himself into the house, Xavier let himself bac
k out. It was still raining, which was a godsend. The surveillance car was still in the same place, but he couldn’t see any movement inside it. Maybe the rain had lulled the guy to sleep, despite the coffee. Maybe he was concentrating on pissing into a bottle. Xavier had been on surveillance himself, so he knew how it went. He was glad he wasn’t the one having to sit in that car.
He silently locked the kitchen door, both locks, then eased around the back of the house, going from shadow to shadow. When a couple of houses were between him and the surveillance car he picked up speed, wanting to get back to his truck and check the laptop, make sure the trackers were working. Then, assuming everything was working as it should, he’d go home and grab a power nap before Lizzy woke up and got started on her day.
He had to be prepared. Lizzy was waking up in more ways than one, and the shit was about to hit the fan. He knew which way he was going to jump. He’d made his choice years ago, and right or wrong, he’d stand by it.
Lizzy was alive, but she hadn’t been living.