She had to ask. Even knowing she was setting herself up for more pain, she had to try one more time, and if he wouldn't tell her anything this time then she'd know that she had to stop this stupid yearning after the impossible. She might not be able to stop the feelings but she could stop the hopeful expectations that led her to stare at him like a teenager staring at a rock star.
"I don't know who you are," she whispered, the sound thready and broken.
He glanced briefly at her, then tore a paper towel from the roll beside the sink and began drying his arm and hands. "Simon Goodnight."
She was so startled that she said, "That's not your name!" and almost laughed, then she almost cried, because at least he'd said something. She swiped at her eyes, wiping away the tear that trickled down.
He shrugged. "It is for now, just the way you're Andie Pearson, for now."
"Andie is my real name. Well, Andrea is. I was always called Andie, when I was a kid."
"Simon's my real name," he replied, blotting the blood that welled in the puncture wounds.
Which meant the Goodnight wasn't, and she was glad, because that was a helluva name to carry around. Why had he chosen it? Out of some sly sense of humor, or because it was so unlike him that it was, in a way, another layer of camouflage? She almost laughed again. Forget about Smith and Jones; they were Butts and Goodnight, and if that didn't sound like a vaudeville team she didn't know what did.
Then she stared at the blood on the paper towel, and the urge to laugh immediately shriveled to dust. "You need stitches. I'll take you to the ER."
"I can do it myself, when I leave here," he said in dismissal.
"Sure, why not do a Rambo?" she snapped, turning to the battered refrigerator and jerking open the freezer door. Taking out a pack of frozen peas, she tossed it to him. He'd turned to watch her, probably to make sure she didn't do anything other than what he was willing to allow, so he wasn't surprised by the toss and easily fielded the peas. "Then put that on the punctures so the edges won't swell, or you won't be able to show how tough you are."
He looked amused, not because he actually smiled, but just for a second the corners of his eyes creased a little. "Not that tough; I use an analgesic spray to deaden the area first."
Meaning he'd sutured himself before. Before she could quite get her head around that, he tilted his head toward the table.
"Sit down. We need to talk."
Automatically she started to take the nearest chair, but he took her arm with his left hand, picked up the overturned chair with his right, and positioned it on the far side of the table, closest to the wall, before urging her into it and taking the other chair himself. That placed him between her and the door, a habit that might have been ingrained but a move that was definitely deliberate. If she'd had any intention of running she'd have been pissed, or upset, but she was neither, because short of the house catching on fire she didn't think she could summon the energy to run.
Twisting around, he leaned back in the chair just enough to grab the dish towel she had hanging on one of the cabinet pulls. Wrapping the pack of frozen peas in it, he put the makeshift cold pack on the table and rested his arm across it. "Did you quit your job?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, because there was no reason not to tell him. She was both alarmed and angry that he was so damned hyper-intuitive, figuring out what moves she would make before she made them. This wasn't a game of checkers, laid out on a board with a limited number of pieces and a limited number of spaces. She could have done anything. She could have gone straight to the airport, or just started driving, and not come back here at all. But of all the things she could have done, somehow he'd known exactly what she would do, and he'd been here waiting for her.
"Maybe you can get it back." He flicked his glance at her, a quick touch of the dark opal gaze that in an instant cataloged everything about her. "You don't have to run. Salinas thinks you're dead."
Andie hugged herself again, covering her elbows with her hands and trying to retain what warmth she could. She was still icy cold, though at least her teeth had stopped chattering. "Then why did you hunt me down? Why have you been watching me?"
"I didn't have to hunt you," he replied coolly. "I've always known where you were."
"Always?" she echoed. "But how?"
"I followed you when you were released from the hospital."
He'd been there? All that time, he'd been there? She blinked at him, the light from the overhead fixture suddenly too bright and revealing, and made her own intuitive leap. "You're the one who paid my hospital bill!" she charged, her tone as hostile as if she were accusing him of cutting in line at the local Wal-Mart at Christmastime.
He gave a little flip of his hand, dismissing the charge as unimportant.
"Why?" she demanded. "I could have paid it. You know I have the money."
"I didn't want his money paying for your care." For all the expression or emphasis he put in the words he might have been ordering a hamburger, but that dark gaze was on her again and she felt the burning intensity of it. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, she knew only that suddenly she felt like squirming in her seat and a slow roll of heat began dispelling the chill that shook her.
"But...why? He hired you to kill me. If it hadn't been for the wreck, you would have-I know you would have, and you know it, too!" Her voice rose on the last few words and she broke off anything else she might have said, resisting the urge to yell at him.
"Maybe. I don't know." His mouth set in a grim line. "I could say I never took the job, and officially I wouldn't be lying, but I can't say for sure what would have happened if you hadn't had the wreck. As much as I'd like to think I wouldn't have done it, I have to say I don't know for certain."