Keep Her Safe(110)

My stomach tightens. “You’re lying.”

“I’ve never forgotten him, or that night. It was . . . messy. I got a little community award for it a few months later, and your dad was there on his day off, front and center. He came up to me afterward and said that if I was going to be doing the police’s work, I should think about putting on muscle and becoming an actual cop. And then he told me to trust my gut, no matter what anyone else might say; that helping someone in need is never a mistake.” A sad smile touches Kristian’s face. “It was about a year later when his death hit the news.” Silence lingers for a long moment. “That whole thing? It never sat right in my gut.”

I desperately want to believe his story. “Why are you only telling me this now?”

He simply shrugs. And begins moving toward the gate leading to the front yard.

“Hey! How come you joined the FBI instead of the APD?”

“The badge is shinier. Make sure your guard dog is on alert. And that Noah’s extra close.” He winks.

I shake my head as I watch the cagey agent stroll away.

Wondering what else he hasn’t told me yet.



* * *



“What are you reading?”

I look up from the iPad to see Noah standing in the doorway of my room, his hands resting on the door frame above his head, his sculpted biceps and his long, lean torso all the more noticeable.

“A sixteen-year-old Kristian.” He wasn’t lying, after all. There’s an Austin newspaper article from 2002, showing a gangly but still handsome teenaged version of him accepting a medal from the mayor for saving the life of one Mrs. Sara Monroe. “He knew my dad.”

Noah’s face fills with surprise. And a hint of jealousy.

A selfish thrill courses through my veins before I’m able to tamp it down.

“See? They mention my dad in here.” I show Noah the article and quietly watch him read, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. My bottom lip was in that exact spot only hours ago.

Heat floods my core. If I hadn’t touched the floor, if I hadn’t felt something wet against my fingertip . . . I shudder at the thought of Stapley’s blood on me. It’s an effective way to temper these illicit thoughts I’m having about the guy standing four feet away from me right now, though. The intense ones that are becoming impossible to ignore, even with the threat of dirty cops looming over us.

Am I crazy for getting this involved with Noah right now? Am I setting myself up for guaranteed heartache? We’re in the middle of investigating my father’s murder and there’s a good chance that his mother played a part in it.

Noah was right, earlier. We need to take things slow.

I clear my throat. “So, what did Boyd say?”

Noah sets the iPad on the nightstand. “They’ll have a car patrolling the street all night. He’ll be there off-duty if he has to be. Stapley’s still being held and Mantis isn’t stupid enough to come here. What would be the point?”

“That doesn’t bring me much comfort.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Noah turns to test the doorknob, giving me his back. That gun is tucked into his jeans again. While I don’t have a lot of experience around guns, Noah seems confident in handling it.

“This lock is broken.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“You’ll need to stay in my room tonight. With me. I’d feel better having you right there.”

Oh God. And there goes my heart, pounding inside my chest again, with thoughts of where this night might lead. Where I want it to lead, if I’m being honest.

So much for taking things slow.



* * *



“What was this one for?” I tap the gold trophy closest to me.

“Regionals. I was ten.”

“And this one?” I eye the plaque next to it.

“I can’t remember. ‘Most improved player,’ I think?”

I let my gaze drift over the array of medals and trophies that line the metal shelf on the wall. A thin layer of dust coats everything. Someone kept them clean over the years. Just not in recent months.

I carefully lift one from 1999 and study it. “Is this the one you were holding in that picture?”

I sense Noah coming up behind me. “Yeah. That was my first trophy, ever.”

“It looked a lot bigger back then.”

“It’s the same size.” He reaches around to cup the small gold statuette within his large, strong hand, his fingers entwining with mine. “I just got a lot bigger.”

And I can feel his size, towering over me from behind, his body radiating heat.

My breathing grows ragged.

I clear the huskiness from my throat. “Where’s Cyclops?”

Noah settles the trophy back on the shelf and then wanders over to the doorway. He chuckles. “Looks like he’s ready for guard duty. He’s lying in front of the stairs. Probably the best place for him. He’ll warn us if anyone gets past the alarm again.” Shutting the door, he turns the lock.

Why am I suddenly so nervous? Why is the air in the room suddenly so dense?

“Is that loaded?” I nod toward the gun sitting on the nightstand, trying to distract myself, even as I steal glimpses of Noah—of his body clad in only a T-shirt and shorts; of his smooth stride as he walks toward the gun; of the muscles in his arms as they cord when he picks it up, to check it.