The bathroom door stood ajar, the light already on to welcome her. Clarice pushed it open lightly with her fingertips; the scent of lavender rushed out in greeting. Tempted by the water that beckoned so enticingly, she sat on the edge of the tub and dipped her fingers below the surface.
It was warm, warm enough that she wouldn't have to top it off with hot water, though she noted that he had left enough room for her to do so without needing to drain any off. He had known, then, or accurately guessed, just when she would arrive home, timing it close enough to the minute that she could simply shed her work clothes and slip into the perfectly heated water.
Clarice pushed the door closed and undressed, grabbing a clip from the vanity and twisting her hair up before easing into the tub. There wouldn't be time to wash it before dinner.
Oh God. Dinner. She was less than an hour away from having dinner with Hannibal Lecter. A romantic dinner for two with a man who had sautéed another man's brains the last time she'd seen him. She couldn't even blame it on drugs this time. What the hell was she doing?
Her body shook despite the heat of the bathwater. She should never have gotten in in the first place. She should have fought him in the hallway, subdued him, and called Clint Pearsall to come pick him up personally.
No! Her mind recoiled from cold logic. Ten years ago, she could have done it. Hell, even three months ago she had tried to force herself to do it, putting duty above all else. Now, though, the thought of sending him back to a cage was disturbing enough that she hugged her knees to her chest and rested her head on top.
Whatever happened, turning him in was out of the question.
Well, then, she ought to have left. The instant she had seen him in the hall. Her keys had still been in her hand; it would have been no more than a moment's thought to be out the door and back in her car and beyond his reach.
His voice in her mind pounced on that ridiculous notion.
Is there anywhere you could go where I could not find you, Clarice? Would you run from me like a rabbit? Is your courage not up to this task? Is what I want so distasteful to you?
No. No, that wasn't it at all. The problem lay in wanting what he seemed to be offering. No matter that his mere presence made her happy. No matter that he seemed determined to pamper her. No matter that she dreamed of him, now, more nights than not. Some corner of her mind still cried out that it was wrong. What she wanted was wrong. It was strength, not cowardice, to back away.
Even if he loved her. Even if she … well. If she didn't think the words, could she deny the existence of the feeling? It wasn't as though she could simply steer the conversation in another direction; he'd no doubt come here for the answer she owed him. He would intuit the rest from her answer, whether she said the words or not. And he would force her to face what she thought she couldn't; he would dig and poke and prod until he had thoroughly scrubbed the wound and the blood ran clean.
Was it possible to want something so much and fear it in equal measure?
Clarice banged her fist against the tub wall in frustration, sending water sloshing over the side. Dammit. This was the most un-relaxing relaxing bath she'd ever had. She sank down into the water until it lapped at her collarbone, laid her head against the rolled-up towel he had thoughtfully provided as a pillow, and closed her eyes.
Just stop thinking so much, she told herself. The last time this little scenario played out, you thought you ought to call the authorities, and look how that turned out.
"Bored, depressed, surrounded by thieves and traitors…." Clarice stretched, settling more comfortably with a shrug of her shoulders. "All right then. Let's try things his way. Just this once."