No in Between (Inside Out #4)(13)

She’d started out infatuated and then fell in love, and suddenly I’m angry with Mark for not seeing what he had with her, before he lost her. Even more for trying to push her away by involving Ava and Ryan, and possibly others, in their intimate moments.

I step forward, stopping when we are toe-to-toe, but he speaks before I do. “Ms. McMillan,” he says in that low baritone that’s both sultry suggestion and hard steel.

I lift my chin and meet his stare, and I see the barely masked heartache in the depths of those shrewd gray eyes. I see love lost, and my anger is ripped right out of my chest. “Mark,” I whisper, bleeding for him, with him. “It’s good to see you.” Without any conscious decision, I wrap my arms around him and press my cheek to his chest. He doesn’t hug me back but I don’t care. It kills me to realize that Rebecca finally taught Mark what it is to love, and she’ll never even know.

“Ms. McMillan,” he warns tersely. “Now is not the time for affection.”

I step back and put my hands to my hips. “Why don’t you return our phone calls?”

His expression is unreadable, the pain I’d seen minutes before carefully banked. “I’m certain you’re aware that I’ve had my hands full.”

The stranger joins us, his piercing blue eyes finding mine. “This is Tiger,” Mark says. “My attorney.”

“What is it with you men? Do you have a problem using a person’s actual name?”

“You must be Sara,” Tiger comments. “It’s a name I earned, so it’s the one I favor.”

Taking the bait, I ask, “And how exactly did you earn it?”

“I’ll rip your throat out if you cross my clients,” he replies, and I don’t like the subtle threat, real or imagined.

I narrow my eyes at him. “You said ‘you must be Sara.’ How did you know that?”

Mark answers, “I told him of your propensity for too much conversation.”

“Does he know of your propensity for arrogance?” I challenge.

“He does,” Mark confirms, his jaw flexing tightly.

I realize that I’ve hit a nerve of self-blame, a nerve that has to be raw. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “It slipped out. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

He gives me one of those heavy-lidded looks. “Not a problem, Ms. McMillan. I also warned Tiger that you tend to be painfully honest.”

“There’s nothing wrong with honesty,” Tiger comments.

I cut him an irritated look. “There is if it hurts someone.” I turn toward Mark. “Can we talk alone for a minute?”

“No private conversation,” Tiger replies.

I gape at Tiger. “You’re protecting Mark from me?”

“I’m protecting you both from prying eyes,” he says, his tone all business. “Save the hugs and personal conversation for elsewhere.” He glances at his watch. “It’s three. We need to get to our meeting room.”

Three. It hits me now why the police wanted to move us to two fifteen. They were trying to prevent us from running into Mark, and I wonder why. Was it by Mark’s request? I open my mouth to ask, but Mark’s gaze has gone beyond my shoulder, staring intently.

I turn to find Chris standing in the doorway of the interview room, locked in an intense staredown with Mark.

When his attention shifts to me, his eyes are unreadable and his expression stone. He says nothing, but I know what he wants. I walk forward and stop in front of him. “Chris—”

He gives a short shake of his head and then backs into the room. Inhaling, I steel myself for what is to come, and follow him inside to discover two detectives sitting at the table.





Five



Chris and I reclaim our seats, and the relief I feel when he reaches for my hand under the table is immense. This interview is daunting enough without worrying that whatever just happened between him and Mark out there will affect us.

“Nice of you both to finally join us,” the detective directly across from me says. I don’t need to see the badge clipped onto his shirt that reads “Grant” to recognize the sarcastic, cigarette-roughened voice of the man I’d spoken to on the phone while in Paris. His wrinkled white shirt, loose black tie? and rumpled salt-and-pepper hair have that hard-edged, hard-living look that completes the package.

“I told you not to go there,” David warns. “She was attacked. She deserved a f*cking one-week escape from where the shit went down.”

The second detective, a woman with Barbie doll good looks who sits across from Chris, glares at David. “Do you have to talk like that?”

David snorts. “Afraid someone might find out you like it, Detective Miller?”

I suck in a breath at the smart-ass remark. Chris is stone-faced, but the slight quirk to his mouth says he’s amused, and I try to be comforted by his lack of concern.

Detective Miller makes a disgusted sound, crossing her arms over her navy-blue blazer and white silk blouse. “You’re a real *, David.”

I blink in disbelief.

“Language, Detective,” David chides her.

The look they give each other seems more like a simmering connection than scathing distaste.

Detective Grant levels me with a stare that brims with accusation. “Running off to another country is not something a victim does when they want to put a potential murderer behind bars, Ms. McMillan.”