Standing in the Shadows (McClouds & Friends #2)(18)

She wondered if the way she felt about him was written all over her face. He held her so carefully, vibrating with tension. Maybe he was afraid of hurting her feelings, or that she would misunderstand his friendly gesture and demand something he didn't want to give. All those years of romantic fantasies, all that heat, all that pent-up hunger, he had to feel it. Dad had said that he was psychic.

He'd seen everything: how lonely she felt, how needy. He stroked her hair, as if he were petting a wild animal that might bolt, or bite.

She didn't want careful, or gentle. She wanted him to push her onto the narrow futon cot, to pin her down with his big, strong body and give her something else to think about. Something hot and scary and wonderful. She could scream, she wanted it so bad. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck, pull him closer, and just gobble him up.

God, how could he not pity her?

That thought stung her. It gave her the strength to jerk away. She dug in her pocket for a Kleenex. "Sorry about that," she mumbled.

"Any time." His voice sounded thick. He cleared his throat.

She kept her face averted. He had to leave, and fast, before she burst into tears and covered herself with glory. "Um, I have to pack. I've got lots to do, so, uh…"

"Erin—"

"Don't start." She backed away, shaking her head. "I'm going on this trip, and I don't want a bodyguard, thanks for the offer. Thanks for the ride, thanks for the advice, the sympathy and the… the hug. And now, I really, really need to be alone. Good night."

He made a sharp, frustrated sound. "You need better locks. Hell, you need a new door. It's a waste to put a good lock on a door like this. I could kick the hinges in with my bad leg." He scanned her apartment, scowling. "I'll call my friend Seth. He can install something that—"

"And how am I supposed to pay him?"

"I'll pay for it myself, if you're short on cash," he said impatiently. "Seth'll give me a good deal. It's important, Erin. You're not safe here."

"Thanks, but I can take care of myself. Good night, Connor."

"Does your mother have an alarm system?"

She thought of the shattered mirror and clock. An eddy of sickening fear swirled in her belly. "Yes. Dad insisted."

"Then maybe you should go stay with her for a while."

She bristled. "And maybe you should mind your own business."

He frowned, and pulled a matchbook out of his jeans pocket. "Give me a pen," he demanded.

She handed him a pen. He scribbled on the matchbook and handed it to her. "Call me. Anything happens, day or night, call me."

"OK," she whispered. The matchbook was warm from his pocket. Her fingers tightened over it until it crumpled in her hand. "Thanks."

"Promise me." His voice was hard.

She tucked it into her jeans pocket. "I promise."

One last, searching look, and he finally walked out the door.

A sharp knock made her jump. "Use the deadbolt," he ordered from outside. "I'm not leaving until I hear you do it."

She pushed in the bolt. "Good night, Connor."

He was silent for a few seconds. "Good night," he said quietly.

She put her ear to the door, but could not hear any footsteps. She waited a moment, opened the door and checked. No one was there.

She was finally alone. She slammed the door shut. After his bullying and lecturing and intimidating her with that overwhelming macho charisma, she'd thought his departure would be a relief.

Instead, she felt bereft. Almost piqued at him, for letting her drive him away so easily. Yikes, how clingy and passive-aggressive of her. She was in worse shape than she'd thought.

But how incredibly sweet of him to care.



Connor leaned his hot face against the steering column. He couldn't drive in this condition. He would kill himself.

His heart was thudding, his ears roaring. He was on the verge of coming in his pants. If she'd leaned just one breath closer to him, she'd have felt his hard-on, pressing against his jeans like a club. Those amazing, liquid brown eyes that a guy could get lost in, Jesus. Her eyes on his face had felt like an embrace. He'd wanted to grab her and kiss her so bad, his muscles were cramping from the effort of holding back.

Maybe she would have melted against him and kissed him back.

Yeah, and pigs had wings and hell had a skating rink. The closer he stuck to harsh reality, the less liable he was to screw up.

It was so ironic. Right before the huge f*ck-up that had landed him in a coma and killed Jesse, he'd been working up the nerve to ask Erin Riggs out for dinner and a movie. Ever since she'd turned twenty-five. That had struck him as the magic number. She'd attained the status of fair game. He was nine years older than her, which wasn't all that excessive, but when she was seventeen and he was twenty-six, he'd known damn well it would've been sleazy to hit on her. Once she hit her twenties, he'd been really tempted. She was so juicy and innocent—but Ed would've ripped his head off if Connor had gotten anywhere near his precious baby girl. There was that to consider.

But the main reason he hadn't made a move was because she'd been gone so much, on study-abroad programs and archeological digs; six months in France, nine months in Scotland, a year in Wales, etc. He'd had some casual girlfriends in the meantime, some of them nice women, but he'd always pulled back when they started talking about the future. He'd braced himself to hear about Erin getting engaged.