A Kept Woman

He turned to see her admiring a contemporary leather sofa, plumped with faux-fur pillows.

She reached for the tag. “It comes in ivory and black. I prefer the ivory, don’t you?”

He moved forward, wishing he’d had the sense to keep his mouth shut, to keep his private life private.

“It’s twelve-hundred dollars.”

“I know. Can you believe it? At that price, I should get the love seat and the matching chair, too.”

He could only stare. “The love seat is nine-hundred bucks. And the chair and ottoman are another grand.”

She looked up. “So?”

“So get a grip.” Had she forgotten that WITSEC had put a conservative cap on her moving expenses? Or that a figure from the Bureau of Labor Statistics determined the amount of her monthly allowance? This wasn’t a high-dollar gig.

“Just imagine how it would look in my house.”

Zack shook his head. He’d had to discourage this kind of spending before. Career criminals didn’t have a clue. They didn’t know how to make their stipend last. And neither, apparently, did Natalie. “I already warned you about being on a budget.”

She ran her hand over the top of the sofa, caressing the upholstery with a lover’s touch. “This is Italian leather.” On a moaning-type sigh, she plopped her butt down, wiggling into the cushions. “You should feel how soft it is.”

He wasn’t about to get orgasmic over a piece of furniture. “How about this?” Attempting to redirect her focus, he walked over to a couch he’d spotted earlier. A simple, durable design with a three-hundred-dollar price tag. “It’s almost the same color.”

She followed him, making a disgusted face the entire way. “That’s taupe, not ivory. And I want leather.”

“By the time you throw in some tables, lamps, a TV, a DVD player, a stereo and the rest of your bedroom outfit, you won’t be able to afford a twelve-hundred dollar couch. Let alone a love seat and matching chair.”

She crossed her arms, but somehow she still managed to look pretty—long and lean and feminine.

“Don’t pout,” he told her.

“I’m not,” she argued.

Okay, so maybe she wasn’t, but her lips were full and thick, glossed like sugar-glazed cherries. And to make matters worse, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d indulged in dessert.

She glanced back at the ivory sofa she’d caressed, her voice wistful. “I want that.”

And he wanted to find out if she tasted as good as she looked, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. “I already told you. You can’t afford that.”

“I’ll use some of my own money. In fact, I’ll pay for all of it myself. I’ll buy my own furniture.”

“Bad idea.” He took her arm and guided her away from a salesman who’d been watching them. Or watching her, he should say. The old guy couldn’t keep his eyes to himself. “You have a business to consider, Natalie. You’ve got to get your priorities straight.”

She didn’t respond. She just gazed at him with disappointment in her eyes. And suddenly she reminded him of a wounded child. A street-smart little girl who wasn’t so smart.

He moved closer, close enough that no one could overhear. “How old were you when you met him?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Him. Lover-boy.”

She tucked her hair behind her ears, fussing with the Goldilocks strands. “What does that have to do with a couch?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I’m not discussing this here.”

“Then I want the whole story when we get back to your place.” The truth, he decided. Not the rumors. Or the pieced-together profile he’d read in her file. “I can’t help you if I don’t know who you are.”

“They already made me talk to a psychologist.”

“Where you probably lied through your teeth.”

She turned away, and when she marched back over to the leather sofa, he almost gave in and let her buy the damn thing. Almost, he thought. But not quite.

Once she realized she’d lost the battle, she refused to shop for the rest of day. Zack ignored her temperamental attitude and took her straight home, intent on having the truth-versus-rumor conversation.

The moment, the very second he pulled into her driveway and parked the car, she leaped out, determined to ditch him. He had to give her credit for trying, even if she didn’t have a chance in hell at out-maneuvering him.

He caught up with her and took the keys out of her hand, unlocking the front door and gesturing for her to go inside. She made a beeline for the kitchen and started making the noisiest pot of coffee he’d ever heard, slamming cabinets in her wake.

“I take mine black,” he said.

“Well, bully for you.”

He leaned against counter. “I’m just trying to help.” Trying to understand her, he thought.

“I don’t want to talk about David.”

Zack moved to stand beside her, to take the glass carafe out of her quaking hands. “He hurt you.”

She turned to face him. “He made promises he didn’t keep. So what? Your wife did that to you, too.”

He ignored the emotional dig, the familiar jolt of pain it caused. “Just tell me how old you were when you met him.”

“Seventeen.”

“Son of a bitch.” Zack searched her gaze, probing deeper. “Did he touch you? Did that bastard—”

“No.” Uncomfortable, Natalie stepped back. Did he have to look at her like that? Did he have to make her feel like a victim? “David and I didn’t start dating until I was eighteen.”

“But you met him when you were underage?”

“Yes.” She took the carafe back, determined to keep busy, to make the coffee her system needed. How many postnightmare days could she survive without turning into a zombie?

“Was it at one of his strip clubs?”

She nearly spilled the water. “Who told you that?”