pummeling Tomas and saw her standing there like the little match girl, a waif in the snow, her eyes wide with shock. Sheâd probably never seen a fight in her life. Even if sheâd caused at least one major one.
So heâd let her in, put her to bed and gone from there. Her Volvo was in rough shape, but it wouldnât take much to at least get it running. And heâd lied about his toolsâthe Duesenberg was a German car and it needed metric tools. So did any number of other ones heâd worked on. But sheâd believed him, because sheâd always been gullible,and clearly she still was. Sheâd believe just about anything he told her, a fact he found highly tempting. Then again, he found everything about her highly tempting, and always had.
Taking the purse had been an impulse. Heâd liked the thought of having a Kincaid in his power, even if it was the most powerless of them. Mouser had lectured him, but it had done little good. Heâd only considered letting her win at poker for a brief moment. He was a far better player than she was, and a far better cheater than the hapless Tomas. Mouser and Henry knew what he was going to do, but then, they knew him well. To Jamie Kincaid he was a total enigma.
Keeping it that way was a good idea.
It was a good thing sheâd run. In another minute he would have had her ass on the kitchen counter and her thighs wrapped around her hips. And, whether she realized it or not, she would have let him.
But heâd let her run, when heâd wanted nothing more than to see how far sheâd let him go. And one reason heâd wanted to touch her was for the simple reason that Nate would have hated it. For any number of complicated reasons, the thought of Dillon putting his hands on Jamie Kincaid would have driven his friend into a rage.
But Nate was dead. It was only his ghost to worry about, and Dillon didnât believe in ghosts. It had been more than twelve years since heâd kissed Jamie. Twelve years could build up a hell of a lot of hunger. Particularly when heâd spent eighteen months in jail because of her.
He should let her go. He wasnât going to. He was going to take his own sweet time, and when he finished with her sheâd be ruined for any other man. And this time thereâd be no Nate around to get in his way.
Because he didnât believe in ghosts.
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She hadnât seen him as she sheâd run into her room and slammed the door behind her. He could hear her fumbling with the lock, and he wanted to tell her the skeleton key wouldnât do any good. Even a dead bolt wouldnât stop Dillon if he wanted to get in.
But she wouldnât have heard him any more than sheâd have seen him. She knew heâd died three months ago, and she wouldnât let herself see ghosts. Not when that was what she wanted to see.
She would have been the one who mourned him the most. With a clear conscience and a broken heart. Aunt Isobel would have carried on like a character in a Greek tragedy, but Jamie would havegrieved quietly, deeply. The thought charmed him, almost enough to tap her on the shoulder when she least expected it.
But he wasnât about to reveal himself until he was good and ready. Until he had the most to gain from reappearing. He wasnât quite sure when that would be, but he knew that Dillon figured prominently in his timing. As long as he kept Jamie there it made matters relatively simple. And he knew Dillon well enough to know he wasnât about to let her go easily. Not this time.
Dillon would get her into bed sooner or later, he thought resignedly. Heâd wanted her from the first moment heâd seen her, when she was an innocent fourteen-year-old in awe of her cousinâs wicked friend. Fourteen years was a long time to fantasize about someone, and Dillon wasnât the sort to live in a fantasy world. Now that sheâd delivered herself to his doorstep he was going to
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