Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(13)

“Get in the car, Skye,” he commands softly, the rich, velvety quality of his voice spreading through my body far too easily, and I melt like honey in the sun.

“Because I choose to,” I say, not about to be the victim with any man ever again in my life, “I will.” And on that note, I cut my gaze and slide into the low-slung seat of the fancy car.

The door doesn’t immediately shut, and I can feel the warmth of Jason staring at me, willing me to look at him, but I do not. Finally he shuts me inside, and moments later he slides into the driver’s seat. The scent of him, tart spice and wicked masculinity, tingles in my nostrils, and in turn, I tingle all over. Without looking at me or saying a word, he puts the car into gear, almost as if he fears I’ll dart away before he can. And perhaps I should. Most likely, this is a mistake. Even if he’s an honest guy—and my gut says he is—if what he says is true, I’m allowing myself to become immersed in a crime in progress. But that also means he’s the victim—and protecting victims is exactly what I want to do with my life.

Every victim needs a good bull in their corner, and while I somehow think the word victim would infuriate Jason, I decide I’ll be his bull, at least for now. What I won’t be is another notch on his belt, no matter how sexy that belt might be, or how hot he looks behind the wheel of the car he’s now pulling away from the curb. I mean, good Lord, the man and car combined are one heck of a beast I might—or might not—be smart to reckon with, and I’m suddenly aware of how out of control I’ve allowed myself to become.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“My place is about ten minutes away.”

“Your place. As in your house?”

“Would you rather hear we’re going to a dark alley?”

“It’s daytime, so that wouldn’t be possible.”

He gives me an amused look. “A dark closet?”

“A public park?” I suggest.

“I don’t like leaving my files in parks,” he says dryly. “In case it actually rains.”

The city practically sits on top of the ocean but gets hardly any rain—like I’m sitting on top of my dreams and can’t get out of the damn bed. “So you live here in the city?”

“For many years.” He glances at me. “But you’re new to town.”

It’s not a question but rather a statement of fact that could be an assessment based on my sparsely decorated town house, but I decide it’s more likely a second option. “Somewhat,” I say. “And I assume Molly told you that, unless you found out who I am by way of some sort of private investigator, not the storage unit attendant.”

“Molly likes to talk.”

I purse my lips. “She certainly does.”

He cuts a quick corner and flies up a hill, sending my stomach to my feet. “You’re scaring the crap out of me,” I complain, grabbing the door handle.

“Life is short. Live like you’re dying.”

“Isn’t that a Tim McGraw song?”

He flicks me an amused look. “You know your country music.”

Not interested in that comment becoming a question I don’t want to answer, I redirect the topic. “Is that what gambling is to you? Living like you’re dying?”

“Poker’s a sport at my level. It’s not about gambling; it’s a war of minds. A competition to see who is the best. And yes, there’s cash on the line, but the title of champion is the real prize.”

“Aren’t you afraid of losing the money you’ve made?”

“Unlike some of the players, I’ve invested my money smartly, and I don’t play foolishly or desperately.”

I glance at his profile, noting his fierce two-handed grip on the steering wheel. “Smart,” I say, but my mind has moved elsewhere. “Why didn’t you bid on the unit yourself?”

“My manager was afraid she’d show up and there’d be an incident. When she didn’t, I decided you were my path to Stephanie.” He pulls up to the front of The Millennium, the tallest residential building in San Francisco. “It was a long shot, but I had to take it.”

“I don’t know her,” I say as my door is opened by a doorman, as is Jason’s. “I promise.”

“But you have her unit,” he says. “You’re still the closest path to her I have.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

“That’s why we’re here. To make you sure. Let’s go upstairs.”

I nod and he exits while I do the same, murmuring a greeting to the man at my side and stepping on the curb. Jason, in turn, pauses to speak to his attendant before rounding the car in all his jean-clad sexiness. “Ready?” he asks, joining me.

“For that proof,” I say honestly, hoping to get past any worries I have about Jason besides him being too sexy for me to handle. “Yes. I am.”

“Then let’s go get it,” he says, motioning me toward the sliding glass doors.

We start walking, and he is close, so very close, and when his hand settles intimately, possessively even, on my back, a shiver of anticipation slides down my spine. And he feels it. I know he does, because he leans in close and murmurs, “Cold?”

“No,” I say. “Just afraid you’re a crazy person, which in turn makes me a crazy person for coming here.”