“Tell me more about this aunt of yours,” he says, his tone even. He pours the dark red wine into a glass by my plate.
A prickly sensation goes down my spine as my senses go on alert. This has always been a difficult topic. He has accused me of lying about my aunt so many times.
I swallow another creamy bit of pasta, knowing full well I won’t beable to eat anymore if this conversation takes a bad turn. I take a deep breath. “She took me in when my parents died.”
“A boating accident, right?”
“Yes. They were always big regatta racers. They liked going out in storms.”
Jax’s dark eyebrows draw together, creating his hooded look that always makes me a little afraid. “Even with you?”
“Not in storms,” I say. “Although it happened.” I can remember being wet and cold, the wind tossing our sailboat around. “My dad tied me to the mast once, to keep me safe. I wasn’t afraid. I knew the knots.” I smile at the memory.
“Sounds frightening for a child,” he says.
I shake my head. “Oh, no. I felt amazingly free, tied down, so that I could stare at the storm, the crazy waves. It was exhilarating. That loss of control in the face of such unstoppable power. It’s one of my favorite memories.”
Jax sits back in his chair, watching me. He lifts his wine glass to his lips and just holds it there. For a moment I’m totally mesmerized by this.
“So you do have memories of them,” he says.
I pick up the wine. Liquid courage. I get that now. It’s heavy and strong flavored. Jax probably doesn’t even know I’m only twenty and don’t drink. It doesn’t matter here.
“Sure,” I say. “I was eight. I can remember them.”
“Did they ever leave you alone with a babysitter or family friend?” he asks.
I don’t know where he’s going with this. “Sure, to go out sometimes. I had a girl named Lori who would watch me.”
“Just for evenings? Or longer?” He leans forward and sets down his glass, fully attentive.
“Just a few hours. Never overnight.” I pick up my fork then set it down again. My appetite is gone. This feels like an interrogation now.
“Did one of them go away for long periods?” he continues.
I try to think, my face hot. Suddenly I get a terrible, awful feeling that everything that has happened between us was to get this information from me — even last night. What do I know about Jax? Other than he is wanted by a lot of people?
My courage flees completely, and I can’t eat another bite.
“Did they?” he asks again.
“I don’t remember!” I say. “Why are you asking this?”
He seems to realize he’s being too harsh and sits back again. “It doesn’t matter. Not now. Eat, Mia. It’s good.”
I can’t possibly do it. My stomach is in knots. “Why do you want to know about them?”
His gaze shifts to his wine glass. He swirls the liquid easily. “I just want to know everything about you.”
I don’t buy it. I try to let go of my tension, but it doesn’t quite ease. I make a great show of cutting off another piece of meat and sticking it in my mouth.
He reaches across the table, his fingers lightly grazing the back of my hand where I’m holding the stem of the glass. “This is our down time,” he says quietly. “I won’t ruin it.”
My belly unfurls a little. I swallow. “What about your parents?” I ask. “Did they leave you sometimes?”
He tilts his head, as if trying to decide how to answer, then says, “Of course they did. They were Vigilantes. They had missions.”
I choke and snatch up my glass, breaking his touch. Does he think my parents were Vigilantes? I gulp champagne, realize the bubbles are making me cough more, and switch to wine.
