Trust Me (Paris Nights #3)(3)
Jake reached across the counter and closed his big hand gently around hers. Callused hand, covered with freckles and little nicks and scars. She stared down at it a long moment and took a slow breath, careful with that breath so that it wasn’t shaky. She couldn’t handle sympathy right now. She might curl up in a fetal ball.
She cleared her throat and pulled her hand away, setting a copper kettle on a burner. It was warmer in this part of the kitchen, but not warm enough. Still, she unzipped her sweatshirt and pulled it off, maybe so she wouldn’t huddle in its pretend protection.
Or maybe because the goose bumps that rose on her bared arms could be an invitation to Jake to rub those callused hands right up them and…
She caught that thought and stuffed it back down in a box called behave yourself and pulled out a pot. “Tea?” she asked him, filling the teapot with green tea and mint leaves and sugar. After all, he’d offered tea to her, when she needed it.
And sometimes being the one who offered the tea was a far greater need than actually drinking it.
His face relaxed in that infinitesimal way it did, a slight softening around the eyes and the corners of his mouth so that she could see the lines left from long narrow looks into the sun. He nodded.
“How long before you’re ready to go?” he said, while she made the tea. “Maybe I’ll hang out here until then and see you home.”
Oh, hell, that would be nice. It was going to be her first night sleeping alone. She’d spent the first few days huddled with her family while journalists had gathered outside the gates and her parents’ neighbors glared over the wall.
Her mother had hardly let go of her for three days straight—just grabbing her whenever Lina got anywhere near her, or anywhere too far, pulling her back in and holding on tight. Her father had paced the floor and muttered and gestured. And her grandmother had made du’a, praying for her and even for her cousin, and also a lot of mint tea. For the first four days, Lina had only left her parents’ house to talk to police and to visit Vi in the hospital, but she’d been going crazy that way, and she’d forced herself back into her kitchens two days before. Tonight, she was going to take one more big step toward reclaiming her life. She was going to sleep in her own apartment again. Alone, with monsters in her closet.
She eyed Jake.
Maybe…now here was a thought…maybe he wasn’t here out of suspicion of her but to help keep her safe. Had she been getting more death threats? Probably. She’d cut off all contact with social media a week ago, leaving it all in her poor publicist’s hands, but the counterterrorist teams were still monitoring all her accounts and trying to follow threats back to IP addresses to see if that gave them any leads. Or any warning, if someone tried to make those threats a reality. She used to just dismiss misogynistic messages on social media, but now that a misogynist had burst into her kitchens with an AK-47 and a suicide bomb, she had a very different perspective.
Some people brought their hate to fruition.
“The police will escort me,” she said. She had four officers guarding her right now, two of them currently stationed outside each entrance to Au-dessus. Her president would consider it a national failure if anything else happened to “les héros d’Au-dessus” under his watch. “But I appreciate it.”
Even though she knew Jake Adams might not even consider her on his side, she still felt safer around him. He emanated toughness and control.
He shrugged. “Nothing better to do today.”
Doubtful. At the very least, he could choose downtime. Play a video game. Watch a movie. Pursue bad guys instead of…well, her.
“Unless...” He eyed her speculatively. “You wouldn’t be interested in getting me into your gym, would you? I hear you box, and I’d love to get a workout in.”
Chapter 2
You’re such a damn masochist. Jake gripped Lina’s punching bag, for no reason whatsoever except that he wanted to feel every blow she gave it vibrate through his body. The gym smelled of grime and old sweat, a real boxing gym. And she hit that bag with blow after blow, too hard, wearing herself out on anger, passion, hurt, and her attempt to beat her life back into shape.
Every single blow aroused the hell out of him.
Not her fault she’s everything you’ve been craving. Leave her alone.
Fine time to hit on a woman, a week after she’d nearly gotten killed, while one of her closest friends was still lying in the hospital. No, it was better to let her hit on him instead.
One way or another.
“So you ready to go a few rounds?” she said, with a gleam in her eye. Her dark curls were caught in a ponytail, but two had escaped to cling to her temples. She shrugged up a shoulder to wipe away the sweat that trickled.
Really? “Do you think you’re up to my weight?” he said, warmth moving through him unexpectedly. Not quite amusement, not quite indulgence, but it carried with it a desire to lift his hand and tuck those curls back into her ponytail holder, to cup her cheek. He dug his fingers into the bag. He had volunteered for this, to be the guy on their team who kept an eye on her, but he might have taken on more than he could chew.
Or nibble. Or very, very gently nip…and taste…and—
She shrugged one shoulder. “If I can kick the ass of a black ops guy, imagine my street cred.”
“Civilian.” Was she testing him? Seeing what he did when she laid herself open to harm from him? He met that glint in her brown eyes with one of his own. “You sure you want to mess with me?”