Page 57 of Locked and Loaded

"You're not as subtle as you think," he said.

"I'm plenty subtle. You're just paranoid."

"Paranoid people live longer." He looked down at her hand, the one still closed around the key. "Are you going to give that back?"

"Are you going to let me go?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you're planning to run the second I do."

She should lie. It would be the smart thing. But he'd know. Somehow, he always knew. "I'm always planning to run."

"I know." And there was something in the way he said it, something that wasn't anger or frustration or even amusement. It was closer to respect. "That's what worries me."

He let go of her wrist.

She didn't run.

She should have. Every rational part of her brain was telling her to take the key and bolt, but she was standing there in the steam and the yellow light, and he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the room worth looking at, and the rational part of her brain had apparently decided to take the night off.

"You're still here," he said.

"You told me not to run."

"I didn't tell you. I asked."

"Same thing coming from you."

He took a step closer. There wasn't much space left to close. "Is it?"

She should have had something clever to say. She always had something clever to say. It was one of her few reliable skills. But he was close enough now that she could smell the soap on his skin, something clean and sharp, and her brain had gone completely blank.

"You're doing it again," she managed.

"Doing what?"

"Reading me."

"You're not hard to read right now."

"Then you know I'm thinking about kissing you."

His eyes flickered. That was the only sign that she'd surprised him. "Are you?"

"No," she said. "I'm thinking about the key."

"The key is in your hand."

"It is." She was acutely aware of it. The iron was warming against her palm.

"You haven't moved," he said.

"Neither have you."

He moved.