one hand and the book of demons in the other, she raced to escape.
But Quinton moved at lightning speed, jumped her from behind and slammed her against the wall, pinning her with his body. His knee jabbed into her lower back so painfully she gasped, and he karate-chopped her hand, making her release the letter opener. Pain shot through her wrist, and her legs buckled.
Then the cold barrel of a gun raked across her cheek.
Her heart hammered against her breastbone as she choked on a cry of pure terror. “Please… don’t hurt me.”
His hot breath bathed her neck as he tightened his grip. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
A sob escaped her. “I… wanted to talk to you.”
“So you broke into my house and went through my things?”
“No…”
He wrenched her arm behind her back, twisting it so hard she whimpered and braced herself for the sound of bones shattering.
“Don’t lie to me,” he growled in a menacing tone. “Who are you, and what the fuck do you want with me?”
A tear slid down her cheek. “Please… you’re hurting me…”
“If you don’t tell me the truth, I’m going to do a lot worse.”
She shuddered, growing nauseous from the pain. “All right, just let me go, and… and I’ll explain.”
He dragged her from the wall to the sofa and threw her down onto the edge. Her vision blurred as her head snapped back. Outside, the wind roared and the waves crashed against the shore; thunder clapped above. The sound of her own heartbeat drowned them all out, though, her mind scrambling for a feasible lie.
He flipped on the lamp, the dim light streaking the room in sharp yellow lines that slashed the walls, dust moats floating in the light.
With a grunt, he pressed the gun into her chest as he towered over her, a hulking shadow dressed in all black—black leather jacket, black T-shirt, black jeans—his black eyes making him look even more intimidating.
She rubbed at her arm, which throbbed from his punishing grip. What had she been thinking?
She was an amateur, had been a fool to break in.
But if she’d found something concrete, she would have had the story of her life. She’d finally win the respect she wanted and prove she could do hard-core stories.
“I’m waiting,” he said in a lethal tone. “Who are you?”
“Annabelle Armstrong,” she said.
His voice was just as husky and dark as the rest of him. She’d never seen a man with such raw intensity. His shaggy hair added to his renegade look, the raven locks shimmering in the light. His nose had been broken at least once, and a razorlike scar stretched from his ear down his neck into the top of his T-shirt.
God, he was sexy.
He closed in on her again, rammed his broad face in front of hers, eyes gleaming with coldness. “Go on. You’ve got five seconds before you become shark bait.”
Her breath rushed out, but she met his steely gaze with as much courage as she could muster. “You know who I am, Quinton.”
“An intruder, that’s what I know.”
“Then maybe you should call the police,” she said in challenge. “Or are you afraid they’ll find out who you are?”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” he hissed.
She inhaled against the pain in her wrist and arm. If he was going to kill her, she wanted the truth first. “Why? Because you’re a cold-blooded killer? Some kind of monster or demon?”
His gaze fell to the book she’d dropped in her haste to escape, and his eyes turned that same strange glittering silver they had the night before.
“You believe in demons?” he asked with an ominous eyebrow raise.
“No, I deal in cold, hard facts, blacks and whites. Demons are mythical legends people made up to explain the unexplainable.” Her voice cracked, but she forged on, determined not to let him intimidate her. “History and research have shown that people who might have once been deemed possessed or demonic were in reality suffering from a mental illness such as schizophrenia, or another
But Quinton moved at lightning speed, jumped her from behind and slammed her against the wall, pinning her with his body. His knee jabbed into her lower back so painfully she gasped, and he karate-chopped her hand, making her release the letter opener. Pain shot through her wrist, and her legs buckled.
Then the cold barrel of a gun raked across her cheek.
Her heart hammered against her breastbone as she choked on a cry of pure terror. “Please… don’t hurt me.”
His hot breath bathed her neck as he tightened his grip. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
A sob escaped her. “I… wanted to talk to you.”
“So you broke into my house and went through my things?”
“No…”
He wrenched her arm behind her back, twisting it so hard she whimpered and braced herself for the sound of bones shattering.
“Don’t lie to me,” he growled in a menacing tone. “Who are you, and what the fuck do you want with me?”
A tear slid down her cheek. “Please… you’re hurting me…”
“If you don’t tell me the truth, I’m going to do a lot worse.”
She shuddered, growing nauseous from the pain. “All right, just let me go, and… and I’ll explain.”
He dragged her from the wall to the sofa and threw her down onto the edge. Her vision blurred as her head snapped back. Outside, the wind roared and the waves crashed against the shore; thunder clapped above. The sound of her own heartbeat drowned them all out, though, her mind scrambling for a feasible lie.
He flipped on the lamp, the dim light streaking the room in sharp yellow lines that slashed the walls, dust moats floating in the light.
With a grunt, he pressed the gun into her chest as he towered over her, a hulking shadow dressed in all black—black leather jacket, black T-shirt, black jeans—his black eyes making him look even more intimidating.
She rubbed at her arm, which throbbed from his punishing grip. What had she been thinking?
She was an amateur, had been a fool to break in.
But if she’d found something concrete, she would have had the story of her life. She’d finally win the respect she wanted and prove she could do hard-core stories.
“I’m waiting,” he said in a lethal tone. “Who are you?”
“Annabelle Armstrong,” she said.
His voice was just as husky and dark as the rest of him. She’d never seen a man with such raw intensity. His shaggy hair added to his renegade look, the raven locks shimmering in the light. His nose had been broken at least once, and a razorlike scar stretched from his ear down his neck into the top of his T-shirt.
God, he was sexy.
He closed in on her again, rammed his broad face in front of hers, eyes gleaming with coldness. “Go on. You’ve got five seconds before you become shark bait.”
Her breath rushed out, but she met his steely gaze with as much courage as she could muster. “You know who I am, Quinton.”
“An intruder, that’s what I know.”
“Then maybe you should call the police,” she said in challenge. “Or are you afraid they’ll find out who you are?”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” he hissed.
She inhaled against the pain in her wrist and arm. If he was going to kill her, she wanted the truth first. “Why? Because you’re a cold-blooded killer? Some kind of monster or demon?”
His gaze fell to the book she’d dropped in her haste to escape, and his eyes turned that same strange glittering silver they had the night before.
“You believe in demons?” he asked with an ominous eyebrow raise.
“No, I deal in cold, hard facts, blacks and whites. Demons are mythical legends people made up to explain the unexplainable.” Her voice cracked, but she forged on, determined not to let him intimidate her. “History and research have shown that people who might have once been deemed possessed or demonic were in reality suffering from a mental illness such as schizophrenia, or another
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