JК
Guilty Pleasures :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 161 из 205” She stared at me as if that was significant. My expression didn't seem to please her. She frowned. Then she turned abruptly in a swing of white skirts. Winter followed her like an obedient puppy on steroids.
Burchard, the once nameless man, took up a post in front of the closed door. He stared straight ahead, not at us. Privacy, or as close as we were getting to it.
I went to Phillip and he still wouldn't look at me. His thick, brown hair acted like a kind of curtain between us. “Phillip, what happened?”
His voice was an abused whisper; screaming will do that to you. I had to stand on tiptoe and nearly press my body against his to hear him. “Guilty Pleasures; they took me from there.”
“Didn't Robert try to stop them?” For some reason that seemed important. I had only met Robert once, but part of me was angry that he had not protected Phillip. He was in charge of things while Jean-Claude was away. Phillip was one of those things.
“Wasn't strong enough.”
I lost my balance and was forced to catch myself, hands flat against his ruined chest. I jerked back, hands held out from me, bloody.
Phillip closed his eyes and leaned back into the wall. His throat worked hard at swallowing. There were two fresh bites on his neck. They were going to bleed him to death if someone didn't get carried away first.
He lowered his head and tried to look at me, but his hair had spilled into both eyes. I wiped the blood on my jeans and went back to stand almost on tiptoe next to him. I brushed the hair back from his eyes, but it spilled forward again. It was beginning to bug me. I combed my fingers through his hair until it stayed out of his face. His hair was softer than it looked, thick and warm with the heat of his body.
He almost smiled. His voice breaking as he whispered, “Few months back, I'd have paid money for this.”
I stared at him, then realized he was trying to make a joke. God. My throat felt tight.
Burchard said, “It is time to go.”
I stared into Phillip's eyes, perfect brown, torchlight dancing in them like black mirrors. “I won't leave you here, Phillip.”
His eyes flickered to the man on the stairs and back to me. Fear turned his face young, helpless. “See you later,” he said.
I stepped back from him. “You can count on it.”
“It is not wise to keep her waiting,” Burchard said.
He was probably right. Phillip and I stared at each other for a handful of moments. The pulse in his throat jumped under his skin like it was trying to escape. My throat ached; my chest was tight.
Burchard, the once nameless man, took up a post in front of the closed door. He stared straight ahead, not at us. Privacy, or as close as we were getting to it.
I went to Phillip and he still wouldn't look at me. His thick, brown hair acted like a kind of curtain between us. “Phillip, what happened?”
His voice was an abused whisper; screaming will do that to you. I had to stand on tiptoe and nearly press my body against his to hear him. “Guilty Pleasures; they took me from there.”
“Didn't Robert try to stop them?” For some reason that seemed important. I had only met Robert once, but part of me was angry that he had not protected Phillip. He was in charge of things while Jean-Claude was away. Phillip was one of those things.
“Wasn't strong enough.”
I lost my balance and was forced to catch myself, hands flat against his ruined chest. I jerked back, hands held out from me, bloody.
Phillip closed his eyes and leaned back into the wall. His throat worked hard at swallowing. There were two fresh bites on his neck. They were going to bleed him to death if someone didn't get carried away first.
He lowered his head and tried to look at me, but his hair had spilled into both eyes. I wiped the blood on my jeans and went back to stand almost on tiptoe next to him. I brushed the hair back from his eyes, but it spilled forward again. It was beginning to bug me. I combed my fingers through his hair until it stayed out of his face. His hair was softer than it looked, thick and warm with the heat of his body.
He almost smiled. His voice breaking as he whispered, “Few months back, I'd have paid money for this.”
I stared at him, then realized he was trying to make a joke. God. My throat felt tight.
Burchard said, “It is time to go.”
I stared into Phillip's eyes, perfect brown, torchlight dancing in them like black mirrors. “I won't leave you here, Phillip.”
His eyes flickered to the man on the stairs and back to me. Fear turned his face young, helpless. “See you later,” he said.
I stepped back from him. “You can count on it.”
“It is not wise to keep her waiting,” Burchard said.
He was probably right. Phillip and I stared at each other for a handful of moments. The pulse in his throat jumped under his skin like it was trying to escape. My throat ached; my chest was tight.