Driven by Fire by Anne Stuart Page B

saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said finally.
    “No, it isn’t. If I’m to believe you, Soledad has led a life that’s the stuff of telenovelas .”
    “ Telenovelas aren’t as brutal as Soledad’s life. And don’t distract me.” She took another sip of her whiskey, and he realized she really wasn’t used to drinking. She’d already dropped some of her usual defenses. “What kind of life have you lived that’s made you so cynical? No, you’re beyond cynical, you’re nihilistic.”
    “What?”
    “Nihilistic. It means that nothing matters to you . . .”
    “I know what nihilistic means,” he said irritably. “And I’m not. I’m just realistic.”
    For a moment she looked confused, and she took another sip. She was getting tipsy, and he had every intention of taking advantage of it. If, in fact, it wasn’t just an act she was putting on. Everything about her could be an act, given the simple fact that she was hiding something.
    “Tell me what you think you know about me, Ms. Parker. No, even better, I’ll tell you what you think you know about me. I was a troubled kid from a broken home. My father beat me, my mother died young, and I got mixed up with street gangs early. I must’ve come from some inner city like DC—yes, we’ll call it DC—and when I got caught stealing cars the judge gave me the choice of jail or the army. I chose the army, it made a man out of me, and I was recruited for the Committee from there. Does that sound about right? Poor, tragic street kid who found redemption in the killing of bad guys?”
    She was staring at him in fascination. “How awful!” she said in a voice so concerned he almost felt guilty. Almost.
    “Yup, it’s a sad, sad story. The plot of many a bad TV show—it just doesn’t happen to be true.”
    The softness left her eyes, and there was a flash of anger in them, something he was much more ready to believe. “You bastard,” she said.
    “Nope, not that either.” He was enjoying himself. There was nothing he enjoyed more than pissing off Ms. Jenny Parker, Esquire. It kept her at arm’s length.
    “Then what is the truth?”
    “None of your damn business.” Growing up in Idaho with a single mother was far too dull, and he didn’t want any of her damned bleeding-heart sympathy.
    In response she threw the dregs of her whiskey glass at him, and he blinked in shock. She’d already finished most of it, so the effect was no more than if she’d spit in his eye, but she froze in horror, while he took the hem of his T-shirt and calmly wiped the whiskey off his face.
    “I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “I don’t know what made me do that.” She had leapt from a chair, staring at him like he was the lethal SOB he truly was, which just went to prove she had the good sense to recognize a threat when she saw one.
    Whether he was a threat to her was yet to be determined. He rose lazily, draining his whiskey and setting the old juice jar he used as a glass down on the unsteady railing. He was going to have to send someone out to fix it for Dr. Gentry, or she’d just ignore it, he thought absently, staring at the woman. “Don’t worry about it. I can be a real bastard sometimes.”
    The moon was bright overhead, and he moved closer, so close he was almost touching her. It was supposed to be an intimidating gesture, but it backfired. He’d told himself he wasn’t going to touch her, kiss her, take her, but she was so damned tempting. He leaned closer, brushing against her, and took the glass from her limp hand.
    Her swift intake of breath didn’t help matters. He was scaring her, all right. But was it the danger he represented, or something else that ran between them on this lazy night by the river?
    If it had been any other woman, he would have hauled her into his arms. She was sending out hidden signals that she was as turned on as he was—no, scratch that. He didn’t think anyone could be as turned on as he was at that moment. His dick was