We searched each other’s face, like Tristen was looking for clues to my feelings, too—although I was sure my emotions must have been obvious, written large in my eyes, whether I really wanted him to know or not.
“Jill,” he finally murmured, raising his hand and brushing my ever-wayward lock of hair behind my ear.
I sat stiffly, spine rigid, even as something deep inside of me started melting, tingling. I was afraid that if I moved, Tristen would move, too, and take away the hand that lingered behind my ear, and the melting would stop.
He kept studying me, eyes moving to my cheeks, my nose, down my throat to my hideous pajamas, and when he raised his eyes to mine, he seemed almost confused. Yet I was certain, absolutely certain, that I heard desire in his voice when he whispered, “You’re such a good girl, Jill.”
I was used to hearing that word in a mocking way. Jill Jekel the goody two-shoes, always good. But when Tristen said it . . . it sounded like the most beautiful compliment in the world.
His words barely registered, though. All I could think about was the feel of Tristen’s fingertips against my ear, and the warmth that was spreading, radiating from the very core of my body, as he drew the back of his index finger against my cheek and down along the line of my jaw with the same slow, deliberate confidence that had enabled him to wordlessly wrest control of a chemistry class or an out-of-tune keyboard.
My heart was pounding with anticipation—and fear.
I’d wanted this. I did want this. With him. A part of me had wanted it since that day in the graveyard . . .
But I’d never been kissed before. Would Tristen know? I knew that he had experience.
And he said he was dangerous. Darcy said it, too. Warned me . . . You’ll endup like your father . . .
The blood on the list so close to us . . .
I pulled back, just slightly.
“Jill,” Tristen repeated, voice huskier in his throat, his hand more firm as his fingers slipped around the back of my neck, drawing me closer. “Such a nice girl.”
“Tristen . . .” I knew I should stop him, had to stop him . . . Yet I allowed myself to be pulled, willingly lured. “Tristen . . .”
He didn’t answer me. He just continued to caress my throat in a way that gently but surely brought us even closer together. I smelled the familiar soap on his skin, heard tenderness in his voice . . .
Just one kiss. Then I’d push him away . . .
I closed my eyes just as Tristen’s rough, warm lips barely brushed against mine, the sensation nearly imperceptible and yet overwhelmingly powerful, causing me to melt and freeze and panic and press my hands against his chest.
No, it was wrong . . . The timing was wrong . . . He was wrong . . .
Had Becca hesitated? Becca of his dreams?
“Stop this instant!”
I thought I’d cried out.
But when Tristen and I abruptly jerked apart, I opened my eyes to see my mom standing behind the sofa, arms crossed, looking horrified and angry—and more alert than she had in weeks.
Chapter 35
Jill
“WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?” Mom demanded. “Explain this, Jill!”
My face reddened in shame. “It’s—it’s nothing!” I stammered.
Had it been nothing?
I glanced to Tristen but couldn’t read anything on his face. “It’s my fault, Mrs. Jekel,” he said, rising. “I came over to talk with Jill, and I’m afraid . . .” He shrugged, with a smile that was probably as close to “sheepish” as Tristen Hyde ever got. “What can I say except that I like your daughter? And I’m certain I’m not the first to try to kiss her.”
My face grew hotter, and I prayed that my mom wouldn’t contradict him. She knew I’d never had a boyfriend. Not even a real date. He was the first.
And did Tristen mean that about liking me? Or was he just placating Mom? What had happened—or nearly happened—between us?
“That’s all it was,” Tristen added more seriously. “One visit, one kiss—and barely that.”
Yes, barely that. Could I even say that I’d been kissed?
“Is this true, Jill?” Mom asked me. “Is this the first time he’s been here?”
I could tell that she was upset to think that something had been going on while she slept, drugged, upstairs. “Yes, Mom,” I fibbed. “Just tonight. And it wasn’t like we’d planned anything.”
But my mother’s attention had already returned to Tristen. She cocked her head. “You look very familiar. And sound familiar.”
“Yes,” Tristen said. “I’ve been told that I strongly resemble my father.”
Mom’s shoulders relaxed a little, as did the set of her mouth, and she nodded slightly in recognition. “Of course. You’re Tristen. Your father speaks of you often.”
“Complains about me, I’m sure,” Tristen ventured a joke.
“No, he seems very proud of you.” Mom tucked her hands into the pockets of her worn chenille robe and looked Tristen up and down, no doubt trying to reconcile the unwanted guest with the boy she’d apparently heard praised by Dr. Hyde. “Your father says you’re an accomplished pianist,” she noted. “That you show great promise as a composer.”
For once Tristen seemed uncertain, and I suspected he was surprised to hear that his father had bragged about him. “That’s nice to hear,” he finally said. “Although I’m afraid Dad wouldn’t be happy to learn that I’ve upset you tonight. Again—my apologies.”
Mom paused, seeming to consider her next move. “I suppose I might have overreacted. Especially given who you are, Tristen. I know you went out of your way to help us.”
“It was nothing,” Tristen said.
“No, it was very kind, what you did for me—and Jill. I—I should have thanked you sooner.”
When Mom actually thanked Tristen, I realized that he had seized control of even this situation like he always did.
My mother looked to me, eyes sad and weary. “I know it’s difficult for you, Jill,” she admitted. “I’m sure you’re trying to follow the rules, and I suppose I was home, technically . . .”
