with a pot of coffee and two cups.
She obeyed with a sick feeling, realizing that he was still very angry with her. But then, did it matter? She had a plan, however vague, and would be leaving soon. She would never see him again. The thought made her strangely despondent.
"This is wonderful," she murmured, looking at her plate containing bacon, eggs, toast, and a bowl with a sectioned half grapefruit in it. "That strawberry jam looks delicious. I don’t usually eat this much."
"It would be fascinating to know what exactly it is you usually do." With that pointed comment he poured steaming black coffee into her cup and seated himself across from her. The idea that she was hiding something from him angered him, but it was an anger directed more at himself than at her. Because, rightly or wrongly, and even though he knew she was married, he had come to consider her his.
Unease pricked at her. She was wrong. This was a different mood from the one he had been in last night, and one possibly even more dangerous. She put her cup of coffee down and eyed him warily.
Jerome rested one of his arms on the table and leaned forward. "Let’s talk about names."
"Names?"
"Yours to be precise. Such pretty names. Just Jennifer. Jennifer Smith. Jennifer White."
It was a trap. She knew it in her bones. Regardless of what she would rather do, she knew now was the time to leave.
She addressed him with quiet dignity. "Jerome, since I won’t be seeing you again, I—I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had tossed me out on the street last night."
"But I didn’t, did I? Instead, I helped you out of a tight situation, put myself in danger, and let you stay in my apartment. In my book that means you owe me, sweetheart."
"Owe you?" Alarm feathered over her skin, producing chill bumps. "I don’t have any money right now, but I’ll send you what I owe you as soon as—."
"I mean you owe me the truth, Jennifer, and your name will do for a start."
"You know my name. What are you trying to do?"
"Give you enough rope to hang yourself with— Mrs. Jennifer Blake."
How had he found out? She glanced around for her purse. Then she remembered. It was on the end table beside the couch. He had gone through it while she slept.
She shook her head, fighting a sudden urge for a cigarette. It shouldn’t hurt this much that he knew she had lied. But it did, and she attempted an explanation. "Look at it from my point of view. You were a stranger. I thought it might be better if you didn’t know my last name."
"You’re good," he commented, reclining back in his chair. "You’re very good."
"Jerome, listen to me—"
"But you’re just not good enough, sweetheart."
It was simply no use, she decided. She should never have involved him in the first place, no matter how desperate her situation. But since she had, the best thing she could do now was to get out of his life.
"I’m leaving," she stated. She threw down her napkin and stood up.
"Dammit, you’re going nowhere!" With a sudden explosion his fist hit the table, causing Jennifer to drop back into her chair and Jerome to frown. Browbeating was a tactic he disdained, but he needed the truth from her and he was determined to get it. "You’ve got no protection. You’ve got no money. How in the hell are you going to manage? What are you going to do tonight, pick up another man?"
"That’s not fair!"
"Tell me about fair, Jennifer," he invited in a hard, cold voice, all the while wishing for the right to take her in his arms and banish the hunted look he saw in her eyes. "Of course, all your problems would be solved if you went back to your husband, wouldn’t they?"
"I—I can’t do that."
It was obvious to him that she was afraid, and her fear struck deep into him. He had known fear, known what it was like to be afraid with no place to turn. Why wouldn’t she let him help her?
Some of the harshness left him, but his tone remained firm.
She obeyed with a sick feeling, realizing that he was still very angry with her. But then, did it matter? She had a plan, however vague, and would be leaving soon. She would never see him again. The thought made her strangely despondent.
"This is wonderful," she murmured, looking at her plate containing bacon, eggs, toast, and a bowl with a sectioned half grapefruit in it. "That strawberry jam looks delicious. I don’t usually eat this much."
"It would be fascinating to know what exactly it is you usually do." With that pointed comment he poured steaming black coffee into her cup and seated himself across from her. The idea that she was hiding something from him angered him, but it was an anger directed more at himself than at her. Because, rightly or wrongly, and even though he knew she was married, he had come to consider her his.
Unease pricked at her. She was wrong. This was a different mood from the one he had been in last night, and one possibly even more dangerous. She put her cup of coffee down and eyed him warily.
Jerome rested one of his arms on the table and leaned forward. "Let’s talk about names."
"Names?"
"Yours to be precise. Such pretty names. Just Jennifer. Jennifer Smith. Jennifer White."
It was a trap. She knew it in her bones. Regardless of what she would rather do, she knew now was the time to leave.
She addressed him with quiet dignity. "Jerome, since I won’t be seeing you again, I—I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had tossed me out on the street last night."
"But I didn’t, did I? Instead, I helped you out of a tight situation, put myself in danger, and let you stay in my apartment. In my book that means you owe me, sweetheart."
"Owe you?" Alarm feathered over her skin, producing chill bumps. "I don’t have any money right now, but I’ll send you what I owe you as soon as—."
"I mean you owe me the truth, Jennifer, and your name will do for a start."
"You know my name. What are you trying to do?"
"Give you enough rope to hang yourself with— Mrs. Jennifer Blake."
How had he found out? She glanced around for her purse. Then she remembered. It was on the end table beside the couch. He had gone through it while she slept.
She shook her head, fighting a sudden urge for a cigarette. It shouldn’t hurt this much that he knew she had lied. But it did, and she attempted an explanation. "Look at it from my point of view. You were a stranger. I thought it might be better if you didn’t know my last name."
"You’re good," he commented, reclining back in his chair. "You’re very good."
"Jerome, listen to me—"
"But you’re just not good enough, sweetheart."
It was simply no use, she decided. She should never have involved him in the first place, no matter how desperate her situation. But since she had, the best thing she could do now was to get out of his life.
"I’m leaving," she stated. She threw down her napkin and stood up.
"Dammit, you’re going nowhere!" With a sudden explosion his fist hit the table, causing Jennifer to drop back into her chair and Jerome to frown. Browbeating was a tactic he disdained, but he needed the truth from her and he was determined to get it. "You’ve got no protection. You’ve got no money. How in the hell are you going to manage? What are you going to do tonight, pick up another man?"
"That’s not fair!"
"Tell me about fair, Jennifer," he invited in a hard, cold voice, all the while wishing for the right to take her in his arms and banish the hunted look he saw in her eyes. "Of course, all your problems would be solved if you went back to your husband, wouldn’t they?"
"I—I can’t do that."
It was obvious to him that she was afraid, and her fear struck deep into him. He had known fear, known what it was like to be afraid with no place to turn. Why wouldn’t she let him help her?
Some of the harshness left him, but his tone remained firm.
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