Playing with Fire. Gena Showalter

      “Stop wiggling.” He purposefully bounced me on his shoulder, cutting off my air when my stomach hit the sharp edge of his collarbone.

      When I could breathe again, I muttered, “You’re squashing my kidneys and my pancreas! Do you know how dangerous that is? Put me down before I sink into a coma.”

      “If you can point to exactly where your pancreas is located, I’ll do as you so sweetly asked.”

      “It’s—oh! Damn you. Put me down right now. I do not want my face in your ass.”

      He chuckled, that deep, seductive sound all the more potent because this time it held rusty layers of disuse, as if he didn’t allow true humor in his life very often.

      Keeping his stride smooth and easy so I didn’t bounce on his shoulder again, he sailed down the short hallway and into the kitchen. He plopped me onto a bar stool. Without the use of my hands, I teetered precariously and almost tumbled to the floral linoleum.

      “Now we eat and talk.” He moved to the other side of the counter, heaping a plate with scrambled eggs and bacon.

      I glared over at him, ignoring my grumbling stomach. “We were talking. There was no reason to tie me up like this.”

      “There was every reason.” His gaze veered pointedly to my bound hands. “Call me silly, but I’d rather not be roasted alive.”

      I took some comfort in that and grinned smugly. “Afraid of me, Rome?”

      He snorted. “Afraid of your inability to control yourself, more like.”

      Score one (or twelve million, but who’s counting?) for Rome. I lost all sense of superiority, and my shoulders slumped. He was right. If I could catch my own fingers on fire without any provocation—that I knew of—what else could I do? I hated having powers.

      The moment the thought filled my head, I blinked. Powers. Me. Would I ever get used to those two words used in conjunction?

      “You’re as likely to harm yourself as me, “ Rome said. He set the plate between us, scooped a portion of eggs onto a spoon and offered me the bite. “Open.”

      “Like hell—oomph!”

      The moment I opened my mouth, he shoveled in the spoon. The jerk. The bast—Oh, this tasted good. So good. The taste exploded on my tongue, the flavor more defined than anything I’d ever experienced. I closed my eyes, enjoying the buttery delight. He’d seasoned them just right. Killer, neutralizer and master chef. Odd combination.

      He cleared his throat, gaining my attention. His eyes were on the food, not me, so I couldn’t read the emotion there. Like I could have, anyway.

      “I have a proposition for you.” His voice was a little scratchy.

      I swallowed and opened my mouth for more. If the eggs were poisoned, I’d willingly die. His brows arched. “Bite, “ I said. “What kind of proposition?”

      The heaping spoon trekked back to my mouth. I kind of liked being fed—and I didn’t like that I liked it. Especially by this man. I frowned at him, just to make a point.

      “The kind where I help you, then you help me.”

      Another bite. “Help me how? By putting me out of my supposed misery? By helping me save the world from my evil self?”

      A flicker of anger sparked in his too-blue eyes, lighting them up. They quickly darkened again. “Will you stop that already? I didn’t kill you, and I’m not going to.”

      “You came at me with a needle.”

      “I didn’t use it on you.”

      “Yes, you did. I remember a sting in my arm.”

      He rolled his eyes. “I gave you a sedative to help you sleep. You were tossing and turning.”

      “That doesn’t negate the fact that you did, in fact, try to neutralize me.”

      “Are you this unforgiving with everyone?” He stuffed a piece of bacon into my mouth. “A man makes one little mistake and you hold it over his head for eternity.”

      I nearly choked and had to force the chunk of salty meat down my throat. Once I regained my breath, I gasped, “One little mistake? Did you just say one little mistake? Is that what you said?”

      “Yeah.” His expression was deadpan, with no flicker of emotion—which I absolutely hated and which he was so damn good at. I scowled while he put a bite of egg into his mouth and chewed.

      How could he remain so unreadable? He was like a light switch. If he wanted me to know his thoughts, he showed them to me. If he didn’t, well, I got nothing.

      “I’m finding it hard to believe you consider trying to kill me a little mistake. Little is forgetting to put the toilet seat down. Little is leaving your socks on the floor. Little is putting a dent in my car and pretending you didn’t do it.” I was growling by the time I finished my diatribe.

      “Are you thirsty?”

      I blinked over at him, momentarily rendered speechless. “That’s your response to me? You ask if I’m thirsty?”

      “I’ll take that as a yes.” He pushed to his feet and strode to the olive-green cabinets that perfectly matched the outdated green striped counter. At least this room didn’t boast the same peeling yellow paint as the bedroom. Instead it had green polka-dotted wallpaper.

      With the familiarity of a man who knew his way around, he reached inside and withdrew a glass. “Is this your place?” I asked.

      “Hardly.”

      “Then whose is it? Does the owner know you’re a criminal and holding me against my will?”

      “For the moment, this is our place.” He paused, his expression mocking. “I feel warm and fuzzy all of a sudden. I just realized it’s like we’re on a secret honeymoon.”

      Honeymoon of horror. “Did you kill someone to get this dump?”

      A grin tugged at his lips. “Do you think this poorly of everyone or am I just lucky?” He procured a carton of orange juice from the fridge and poured some into the glass, the pleasant gurgle of cascading liquid the only sound for a moment.

      I could have said the obvious: I only think poorly of those who want to neutralize me. Instead I asked, “How long was I out after you stuck me with that needle?” effectively changing the subject. I didn’t really want to know what he’d done with the apartment’s owner.

      “A little over twelve hours.” Instead of bringing me the drink, he gazed down at it, his hands circling the sides. I saw only his profile, so I couldn’t read his expression. Not that he’d have one. I’d never met anyone who could mask emotions as quickly as he could. “Would it help if I apologized?” he asked.

      I blinked. “For trying to kill me?”

      “Trying to neutralize you.”

      “Same thing.”

      “No, it’s not, but would it help?” he pressed. His gaze remained on the glass.

      I didn’t have to think about my answer. “No.”

      “Then I won’t bother.”

      My jaw tightened, almost snapping. “Why did you spare me? You still haven’t answered that.”

      Ignoring the question yet again, he finally turned toward me and closed the distance between us, eyeing me determinedly. “I’ll tell you this. If I’d been totally serious about hurting you, you’d be dead. I could have broken that shield if I’d put any effort into it. I could have sliced your throat while you slept. I could have pumped you full of drugs and done anything I wanted to you.”

      I shuddered. Yes, he could have done all of those things. He hadn’t.