Chapter 8

Meanwhile, Michael was dealing with his own conflicted emotions. His whole body felt unnatural. His breathing had become irregular, he felt hot and constricted in the small space, and he was becoming agitated. Circling the couch for the third time, Michael stopped in his tracks, suppressed a low growl and slashed an angry hand through his hair. He never paced, and he wasn't about to start now. The nervous action proclaimed a disgusting lack of discipline he would never attribute to himself. Turning his head in the direction of the closed door Christine had escaped through, his eyes narrowed dangerously. She'd been in there for half an hour and his patience was wearing perilously thin.

Michael had no clue as to what had come over her to make her bolt. Running through every moment of their encounter through his mind, he was sure that she'd enjoyed it as much, if not more, then him…so why the sudden withdrawal? What had happened that had scared her senseless? Hearing the shower turn on, Michael moved to the bathroom door wanting nothing more than to barge in and strangle the woman for not making any damned sense. As appealing as the thought was, he dismissed it. He didn't need her screaming her head off, though small, she had a pair of lungs that made him want to cringe every time she screeched. Not that he ever would, but the impulse was there.

Staring at the patterns in the wood without seeing them, he couldn't help but remember the throaty sounds she'd made when he'd kissed her, which inevitably led his imagination wandering to her slick and wet under the heated spray of the shower. His fingers itched to move his hands over her supple naked skin in place of the water cascading down her flesh…

Abruptly turning his back to the door, Michael savagely bit back a groan and put a halt to his thoughts. She was going to drive him insane if he let her. He wanted to punch something.

Better yet, he wanted to kill.

Michael flexed his shoulders before turning and stalking into the kitchen in search of a knife. He remembered seeing a glimpse of a block set on the counter. The moment the cold familiar weight of the knife settled in his palm, Michael felt his equilibrium return. His mind and his senses sharpened, focused to a single point. Death. Something he knew, something he was familiar with.

Moving to the sliding door, he pulled it open just as her voice washed over him like ice.

"If you go out there with my knife, I swear I will call every law enforcement agency I can think of."

Surprise that he hadn't heard her coming before she spoke turned to anger as her words registered. Michael turned his head sharply to glare at her and had to clench his teeth as fierce desire slammed through him like a truck.

She had no idea of the picture she presented with her defiant stance, flashing eyes and flushed cheeks. Ignorant of the fact that she was only wrapped up in a towel, which barely left anything to his imagination. Her wet hair cascaded in a tangled glossy mass past her shoulders and droplets of water clung to her in a way that Michael could barely leash the sudden need urging him to lick every single one of them.

His mood only darkened with his thoughts. Was this how it was to be? That every time he'd see her, think of her, he'd have to fight with this irrational power she'd developed over him? This ridiculous urge to stay in her presence, to touch her in some way, or to just hear her speak? Like hell it would, she had no hold over him, no right to demands, ultimatums or expectations, and it was time to get that point across.

If Christine had been more alert, she'd notice the subtle change in him, the way one of his hands tightened on the knife, the other into a fist, or the way his eyes turned stone cold. Instead, she impatiently folded her hands across her chest and glared, completely focused on her anger "I mean it, Michael. If you step one foot out that door, don't bother coming back." She was furious and horrified at the same time. How could he go from hot to cold so quickly? From the wild passionate man who had kissed her senseless and turned her calm little world into chaos, to the unfeeling blank shadow holding her knife, intent on doing god knows what to god knows who? To think, she'd been driving herself nuts in the bathroom trying to sort things out in her head, trying to overcome her fears, her insecurities. That she'd been worried about him, worried about hurting his pride, his feelings?

Hah! What a joke! As if he has any!

Looking at his empty eyes and unreadable features, Christine concluded he didn't need a mask to look cold and lifeless. He is doing a damned marvelous job without it. A bitter pain slashed into her heart and spiked her anger up another notch, past the realm of rational thought. Right now, Christine desperately wished he would talk, that he'd say something, yell at her so she could yell back. She was spoiling for a fight.

Watching her closely, Michael took a menacing step in her direction, satisfied when her eyes widened and she took an involuntary step back. Doing the same twice more, his head tilted when she seemed to realize what she was doing and abruptly stopped her retreat.

Christine squared her shoulders and stood her ground while he crowded her. Tilting her head back so she could glare directly into his eyes, her mouth set in a tight line of disapproval "You don't scare me Michael. Not after the way you ki…er…mauled me on the couch."

He knew differently. Before she could finish a gasp, Michael had her backed up to the wall with a knife at her throat. Thrusting his leg between hers, he pinned her, forcing her to go on tiptoe and flatten her palms against the wall to keep her balance. An action he hadn't thought through very well, because it made him instantly aware of the moist heat pressing into his thigh and had his mind wandering into salacious waters.

He growled, his mind cursing a blue streak. Looking into her eyes, Michael almost gave voice to a curse. She was staring at him with a look he was starting to recognize and it damned well wasn't the terror he expected.

And for a few moments he hated her for it.

Christine's heart hammered in her chest, but not from fear. Okay, she admitted silently, maybe a little from fear, but mostly it was from being so damn close to him. Too close, and yet…not nearly close enough. Her eyes dropped down to his mouth and she had to shut them tightly. God, how I want him to kiss me like that again. The memory of it was a torture she couldn't stop replaying in her head. Christine squirmed, uncomfortable, and froze as the small movement shot a jolt of liquid lust from her core to every nerve ending.

Replacing the knife with his hand, Michael wrapped his fingers around her throat, massaging her jugular with his thumb. Glaring directly into her gray eyes, feeling her pulse pound, he slowly tightened his hold and watched her react. At first she remained perfectly calm, looking right at him, but the as his fingers dug into her skin with more power, blocking her airway, recognition sparked and he could practically feel the fear that was previously missing flood over her being after the initial shock wore off.

"… s-sto-p…" choking and gasping for air, Christine grabbed at his hand and dug her fingernails into his skin, trying to loosen his grip. Her mind was screaming, Michael, stop it! Why are you doing this? All she could manage out loud was a gurgle. She could feel her lungs straining painfully and it was all she could do not to have a full-blown panic attack. Soon spots started to dance in front of her and she struggled harder, moving her legs, trying to kick him. It didn't work. Michael was too strong for her and she couldn't get any leverage the way he had her pinned to do any real damage! This was a nightmare, her frazzled mind tried to understand why this was happening, but Christine couldn't think beyond desperately wanting to breathe! I don't want to die like this, please!

Michael felt completely detached, her struggles didn't faze him, nor did the tears spilling onto his hand. He didn't feel a thing as he slowly chocked the life out of her. He didn't even feel the sting of her fingernails as they clawed and broke his skin. He was completely focused on her eyes, the glorious fear he saw in them, the way they were slowly dimming. He knew that in a moment he'd see it, see when she'd gave up, when she'd know it was pointless, that it was over, that she'd die in a minute or so.

Then she did something that completely shattered his coveted numbness. She stopped struggling and placed her palm on his cheek, an action that wouldn't have stopped him on its own, but for the tender look that accompanied it. A look that would later haunt him until the day he died. In that second in time, there was no fear in her eyes, no hatred or burning accusation, only acceptance and a faint sense of forgiveness. She understood.

It was as if someone had slammed a knee into his gut. Michael released her so abruptly and forcefully that he slammed her back into the wall in the process. Her head impacted with a loud crack and she crumpled to the floor completely motionless.

For the first time in his life, Michael stood frozen in place. He didn't move, didn't blink, didn't even breathe, he couldn't even if he wanted to. He simply stood there, staring at the empty wall in front of him, at the web-like crack in the plaster. There was only a sensation he didn't exactly know how to name. A strange pressure in his chest and a tightness in his own throat, like invisible fingers doing the same to him that he did to her. Nothing lasting or monumental, just a twinge in both places, but enough for him to know it was there.

Michael snapped his head down to look at Christine when faint rasping noises registered in his ears. She was breathing; small, shallow and labored breaths, but breathing nonetheless. He hadn't killed her. She was alive, unconscious, but alive. Some of the pressure he felt eased at the realization, and almost completely vanished as he crouched down and carefully gathered her into his arms.

Slowly moving to the couch so as not to jostle her too much, Michael realized that his previous plans of "letting her come to him" would have to change drastically, he'd pretty much shot everything to hell the moment he'd let his anger override his rational thought. The fact remained that he still wanted her, and he was by no means done with her.

Christine woke up with a splitting headache so intense she was afraid to move an inch, and a throat so sore she could barely swallow her own saliva, much less anything resembling water. It took her a moment of adjusting to the throbbing pain before memory unfolded like a horror movie in her battered head. Lying completely still and with her eyes closed, Christine listened to the sounds of her home for any indication of Michael's presence. She didn't hear anything, but that meant nothing, Michael could move like a ghost when he wanted to. Opening her eyes, she was met with the living room ceiling, meaning she was lying on the couch, and after struggling to peer over the top of it, apparently alone in the house. She sincerely doubted he'd be hiding in her bedroom.

There was no sign of him anywhere. If it weren't for the fact that she was in pain, Christine would have thought that the whole hellish week had just been a terrible nightmare. I'm never that lucky.

Getting up, she had to fight a wave of dizziness before she could move to her room to pack a bag, muttering "There is no way in hell I'm staying here a moment longer the necessary." Even as she said it, her voice broke and tears threatened, her mind already forming excuses for his behavior. Stopping in her tracks at the sight of her bruised throat in the bedroom mirror, Christine glared determinately at her reflection, noting the tangled hair, puffy, swollen eyes and faint outlines of fingers on her skin where he'd hurt her.

Leaning into the mirror, she snapped at the weakling looking back at her with bleary eyes "Look at what he did, you naïve twit! He doesn't deserve your tears! Stop deluding yourself! He doesn't care! In fact, he doesn't give a rats ass about you!" her voice grew so loud she was screaming, and when she saw a tear fall Christine couldn't handle the sight of it. Grabbing the glass horse her mother had sent her from Venice from the nightstand, Christine threw it at the mirror with a strangled cry "NO MORE!" Falling to her knees, she didn't even hear the glass shattering, the only sound in the house were her sobs as she cried for a man she couldn't bring herself to hate and a woman she was starting to resent, because she had started to fall in love with a monster.

It may have been hours later or maybe just one hour that Christine finally stopped crying her eyes out. She wasn't sure and she didn't much care how long she'd been huddled on the floor. A bit numb from everything that had happened, she noticed that it was completely dark in the room. Getting up was a feat of will, her whole body was spent and sore, but she forced herself to do it, like she forced herself to pile a few items of clothing, her hairbrush and a toothbrush into a backpack.

After changing into jeans and a turtleneck, she was out the door and in her car, speeding to god knew where.

After driving for only a few minutes, Christine stopped at a red light on Main Street, looking out her side window at a very familiar sign; "Barr's Books & Beverages". She had no idea what possessed her to turn her car into the back parking lot, or go up the stairs, or knock on his door. The only thing she knew was that she was in pain, scared and exhausted, and very much in need of a friend.

To say that James was surprised to see her on his doorstep, clutching a backpack and looking like death warmed over at ten p.m. would have been an understatement. He gaped.

Christine gave him the best smile she could muster (which decidedly wasn't much) "Hi, James…umm…I'm sorry to come over like this…but…I didn't know where else to go and…uhh…" while he tried to catch flies with his jaw down, Christine was starting to get nervous. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea… Turning to leave she mumbled "I'm sorry, this was a mis-"

Before she could finish backing out and away, James snapped his mouth shut and caught her elbow "No! I'm sorry, I was just surprised to see you here. Please, come on in Christine."

She gave him a grateful smile "Thanks."

While he led her to the living room, he gave her a frown "What's wrong with your voice?"

Christine knew he'd notice she'd been practically whispering. Waving a dismissive hand, she lied "Nothing really, just a sore throat." Hoping he wouldn't press the issue.

He quirked an eyebrow "Just a sore throat? Seem like a lot more than that to me." Gesturing at her, her fumbled "You look …well…"

"Like shit?" she supplied, grinning as he blushed.

Shaking his head with a laugh, James countered, "I was going to be a gentleman and say "run down" or maybe "under the weather", but since you put it so eloquently… yeah, you look like shit."

Shrugging, she sat on the couch "Feel like it too." Seeing he was about to ask her questions she didn't know how to answer, Christine cut him off "Please, I really don't want to talk about it right now." He still looked like he wanted to ask, so she placed her hand on his arm, pleading with her eyes for him to let it go for now "Please James."

James frowned at her questioningly for a moment but then sighed, relenting "Alright." Giving her a determined look, he warned "But you will tell me eventually Christine." They both knew it wasn't a request. Looking her over from head to toe, James smiled "Red or white?"

Confused by the sudden change in topic, Christine blinked "What?"

His smile turned into a full blown grin "Lady, you look like you could use a drink. So, what'll it be? Red or white?"

Chuckling, she sank back into the sofa and tucked her feet under her "Red. And bring the bottle."

Two bottles and an action movie later, Christine was more than ready to pass out right where she was for the next day or so, she was that wrung out. Not because of the alcohol, that was just a decent buzz, it was more to do with her life hitting the proverbial fan. How could everything go wrong so quickly? How could her life be completely turned inside out in a matter of days? Was she a masochist? How could she be so stupid as to fall for-

"You do know he's a jackass, right?"

Jolted out of her mental self-flagellation, Christine turned horrified eyes to James. How did he know? Dear Lord, had she said something out loud? Maybe she was more loaded than she'd thought!

Noticing her stricken expression and where her thoughts were headed, James rolled his eyes "You didn't say anything….but then again you didn't have to." He winked, but there wasn't much amusement in the gesture "You have an expressive face, Christine. Besides-" he shrugged "-you can always spot a fella in the same boat."

It was impossible to pretend she didn't know what he meant, and it was also impossible to say anything meaningful that would take away his pain. If she tried, she'd be a hypocrite and a liar, so the only thing she could think of to do was squeeze his hand, letting him know she could sympathise.

Thankfully, James decided to call it a night, putting an end to an awkward moment. Getting up, he pulled her to her feet, "Come on, time for bed you little wino."

Christine dug in her heels when she noticed where he'd pushed/pulled her to; his bedroom "Oh no, I'm taking the couch, Mr. Enabler."

Giving her a firm push into the room, he nodded "Oh yes, you're taking the bed-" a wolfish grin split his lips "-or we'll both be sleeping on the couch, your choice." Turning to look over his shoulder and then back at her, he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively "It'll definitely be a tight squeeze though. Lucky for you I'm a cuddler."

Laughing, Christine relented "You win!" Flipping her hair and batting her lashes, she gave him an innocent look and deadpanned "I'll take the bed."

Moving to the closet to retrieve a pillow and blanket, he shook his head in an exaggerated show of disappointment "You have a real lousy definition of winning babe." As soon as he opened the closet door a pillow smacked him directly in the face. Christine had to stifle a giggle at the absurd way he glared at the attacking piece of fluff. Moving forward and swooping down, she quickly scooped it up and gave it a good whack. Looking up she was about to make a comment about how sneaky and deceptive linen could be, but the words died in her throat. James was staring at her. He looks like he's about to…oh dear…

She was right. Placing his hands on either side of her face, James searched her eyes for any sign of reluctance or dismissal. When he didn't find any, he slowly leaned down and kissed her.

And as far as kisses went, it was a nice kiss, a good kiss, a tender kiss between a man that cared for the woman that loved another. And Christine gave him that one kiss because she knew he'd never ask for another or ask for more than she could give.

And she kissed him back because she did like him, and because he was a good friend, and because once in a while you have to do something for someone when they need it. Even if it was as big or as small as a kiss.

Reluctantly ending the kiss, James, gently touched his forehead to hers and sighed. Moving her hands from his shoulders to the hands cupping her face, Christine squeezed his fingers in what she hopped was a comforting gesture "James,-"

He stopped her from speaking by running his thumb over her lips, whispering "I know. But I had to try." The sadness in his eyes almost broke her heart.

"I know." And she did.