No in Between (Inside Out #4)(31)

Dangerous.

For months I’ve had dreams and nightmares about how perfectly he personifies the word. Sleep-laden, alternate realities where I can vividly smell his musky male scent, feel his hard body against mine. Taste the sweet and sensuous flavor of him–like milk chocolate with its silky demand that I indulge in one more bite. And another. So good, I’d forgotten there’s a price for overindulgence. And there is a price. There is always a price.

The word dangerous bothers me, just like it had Detective Grant. It has always bothered me. Its use was a big part of what drove me to look for Rebecca.

Chris asked me if she feared anyone. She did. She feared Mark and the power he had to hurt her, but that isn’t so odd. I had that same thought about Chris last night.

I glance up and my gaze lands on the television as a photo of Ava appears next to a pretty blond newscaster. Scrambling for the remote, I turn up the volume.

“Guilty or not guilty? That appears to be the question with a woman who first confessed to killing a missing young woman named Rebecca Mason, and attacking another. Now our sources say that in tomorrow’s bail adjustment hearing she’ll change her plea to not guilty, claiming she was coerced to confess by someone threatening her life.”

An image of Rebecca replaces that of Ava. “The real question becomes ‘where is Rebecca Mason?’ So far there has been no body found, and without one, police will be hard-pressed to support a murder charge. Could the answer lie in the high-end art world she worked in? Or perhaps a link to underground sex clubs and billionaire clients? Our sources say it might just be possible. Tune in tomorrow night for a special report with Kali Wilson.”

The story leaves me shaken, and when the bed shifts I glance up to find Chris, fully dressed in a black long-sleeved T-shirt and black jeans, sitting next to me. “I guess it’s out now.”

His lips tighten. “It appears it is.”

“What do you think?”

He takes the remote from me and turns off the TV. “I think this is about to get very nasty.”

? ? ?

Forty minutes later Chris and I step outside of our building. He hands the attendant a large bill to retrieve our car, and the kid’s eyes light up at Chris’s generosity before he rushes away.

The instant he’s gone, Chris grabs the lapels of my coat and pulls it open, exposing my slim-fitting pale blue suit-dress to his sizzling inspection. My cheeks heat and I yank it shut. “Behave. We aren’t alone.”

“You look too damn f*ckable to be around Mark Compton. Tomorrow you wear a bag. A big, ugly one.”

I laugh but I don’t miss the underlining edginess to his mood or make the mistake of dismissing it. He’s not even close to over being pissed at Mark’s attempts to seduce me. I push to my toes and kiss him. “I’ll have a bodyguard,” I remind him. “Two, actually. You and Jacob.”

He seems to have more to say on the matter, but his cell phone rings and he snags it from his pocket. “Amber’s rehab facility,” he announces grimly. “It’s already after nine,” he tells me before answering. “Can you call Jacob and tell him we’re five minutes away?”

I nod, digging my phone out of my purse while trying to listen in on his conversation. By the time I punch in Jacob’s number, I hear Chris say, “Whatever it takes. Money isn’t an issue,” and I have the impression he isn’t getting good news.

“I’m here,” Jacob answers, not bothering with a greeting. “Where are you two?”

“Five minutes away.”

“I’ll be inside the gallery. I got here early. Your ‘Bossman’ let me in.”

I laugh at the nickname the staff uses for Mark, but it chokes out of me, as laden with tension as Chris’s body language. “Sounds like Ralph is there and teaching you his gallery slang.”

“He is and he did,” Jacob confirms. “Apparently ‘Bossman’ is code for ‘Asshole.’”

“I take it he isn’t in a good mood?”

“He has moods? I heard he only did ‘Asshole’ and ‘Asshole.’”

“He’s normally arrogant and difficult, but fair and rather generous with his employees. But right now, his mother has cancer, and Rebecca . . . she mattered to him.”

“Don’t worry. I have a high tolerance for *s. It’s a gift my father taught me.”

His remark hits a hot spot I’ve been silently nursing. I almost died last week, and my father doesn’t even know. “Your father must resemble mine,” I say, my tone cynical.

“I sure as hell hope not,” he says. “There’s a news truck out front. I’ll watch for you at the rear parking lot.”

Stuffing my phone back in my purse, I discover Chris is still on his, still listening intently to whatever is being said to him, his gaze cast off to the distance.

If he knows when the Porsche is pulled up beside us, and the attendant holds my door, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Concerned, I pause outside the car and wait, and it’s a good three more minutes before he ends the call, his jaw flexing as he slides his cell back into his pocket. I watch as he glances up and looks startled that the car is here; he’s rarely startled by anything. He heads toward the driver’s side and I climb in, allowing the attendant to shut me inside.