Midnight Fire Read Online Free Page B

dismissively.
    Summer drew in an outraged breath—her security system was
not
crap!—then clamped her jaw shut.
    And then it occurred to her...if he thought her security system—which was top of the line, thank you very much—was crap, he was used to breaking into places. Into places with a better security system than hers.
    “Listen, Summer,” Jack growled, stepping forward.
    Startled, she stumbled, trying to scramble away from him, then at the last minute turned it into a smooth pivot and said the first thing that came to her mind.
    “So,” she said crisply. “It’s been a long, lousy day and I haven’t eaten. I’m hungry. Do you want to talk about this over food?”
    The surprise in his eyes was genuine. He nodded and followed her into the kitchen. In the bright light of the kitchen Summer got her first good look at him and oh, God.
    He was gorgeous. In a totally
Prison Break
kind of way. How could he possibly be more attractive than he’d been as a boy and a young man? This man didn’t have anything classically handsome. His blond hair was shorn to stubble, the only hint of the color a glints of gold under the overhead lights. His face was filled out, all hard angles and planes, weather-beaten skin showing lines around the mouth and eyes. Cheekbones hard and chiseled, the skin hollowed out under them. He looked older than his thirty-four years, like he’d been a prisoner of war in a far off land.
    In all these years, she’d dreamed of encountering Jack again. She’d be polished and successful, courted by many men. He’d look dissipated and puffy, all those years of partying finally catching up. Unrecognizable, paying the price for years of debauchery. She’d squint, saying
Hey Jack?
Is that you?
Nice to see you.
And feel absolutely nothing at all.
    Not like now, where she felt strong fear and an equally strong attraction to this man she barely recognized.
    Summer began preparations for the meal, movements brisk to keep her hands from trembling. She caught glimpses of him out of the corner of her eye as she pulled ingredients from the fridge and the cupboards, the way you catch glimpses of a solar eclipse. Because it hurt to look at it directly.
    Disturbingly, Jack came closer to her, leaning his back against her counter, watching her. She could feel his body heat, smell him. He smelled of soap and nothing else. He’d washed the homeless vet off him.
    She chopped zucchini and onions fast, put them in a pan to sauté, took out fresh farm eggs from her shopping bag, whisked them with some grated parmesan. Not speaking, aware every single second of Jack watching her.
    She pulled out romaine lettuce, shredded it and washed it under the faucet. There were a thousand things she wanted to ask but held off. How would he react to questions? Would he think she was interviewing him for an article?
    An article. What a kick ass article it would be, too, headliner stuff. She could almost see it, could write the article in her head.
    Jack Delvaux Found Alive Six Months After the Massacre.
She’d have a million clicks, be on every talking head show, maybe be nominated for the Pulitzer.
    Then again, maybe Jack would kill her before that happened.
    “Nice,” Jack said finally.
    “What?” Startled, Summer looked him full in the face for the first time since he’d scared the hell out of her. She saw him through the scrim of time, the beautiful boy superimposed over the potent, frightening man, then she blinked and the scrim disappeared and all she saw was this Jack, in the here and the now, powerful and intimidating.
    As she stared at him, the corner of his mouth turned up. He wasn’t smiling but the expression lightened up a fraction.
    “I said it’s nice, someone cooking for me. That hasn’t happened in six months. Since even before the Massacre, as a matter of fact.”
    For a second, the veil ripped away and she saw yet another Jack—weary beyond belief, a man who had lived on the streets for six months. Or at