Touch of Red (Tracers #12)(32)

“Don’t look at me that way,” she said.

“What way?”

“It’s not like you’re thinking. He never hit me or anything. If he had, I would have done something about it.” She took a deep breath and looked away. “I’ll call a locksmith tomorrow.”

“That’s good.” Sean set his wine aside and stepped close to her. “I don’t want you here alone tonight. And now I know what you’re thinking, but that’s not a line.”

She looked up at him.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” He held up his hands. “I’ll take the couch. I swear.”

She looked conflicted.

“Or you can have the couch. I’m offering friend to friend here. If Ric needed a place to crash, say if Mia threw him out—”

“Like that would ever happen.”

“If it did, I’d give him my sofa. That’s all I’m offering.”

“Thanks, but . . . it’s probably easier if I crash at my brother’s.”

“Where’s he live? I’ll take you.”

“Then I won’t have my car.”

“Fine, I’ll follow you.”

“Thanks, but that’s completely unnecessary.”

“I’m not actually asking here, Brooke. Wherever you go tonight, I’m going to make sure you get there safely, so there’s no point in arguing about it.”

“Fine. Thank you.” She set down her wine. “Let me pack a bag.”

? ? ?

Brooke pulled into her brother’s driveway and parked behind his Prius. It was like hers, but black—a detail that probably wasn’t lost on Sean, who noticed everything.

He pulled up to the curb and got out, surveying the condominium complex. The brand-new construction was meant to look old, and every redbrick unit had a black gas lamp out front.

“Who’s the yellow Mini?” Sean asked, eyeing the car at the top of the driveway.

“Owen’s girlfriend.”

Brooke glanced up and down the street, but didn’t see a single black pickup, oversize or even regular-size.

Sean followed her up the cobblestone path and opened the wrought-iron gate into the courtyard.

“Does your brother own a firearm?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “He’s a chemistry professor.”

“So, that’s a no?”

“That’s a no.”

“Alarm system?”

“No.”

Brooke pressed the bell, and chimes sounded behind the heavy black door. A faint yapping noise ensued, and Lin pulled open the door. With heels and hair mousse, she was five feet tall. At the moment, she wore pink pajamas—no shoes—and held a white Chihuahua in her arms.

“Brooke. Hi.” She adjusted her horned-rimmed glasses.

“Sorry to barge in.”

“No problem.” The dog yapped and squirmed. “Owen didn’t mention you were coming over.”

“Hey, Lin, Brooke’s coming over,” Owen called. He appeared in the doorway, grinning. “Sorry, I got sidetracked.” His grin faded when he saw Sean. “Owen Porter.” He reached around Lin and offered a handshake.

“Sean Byrne.”

Owen looked at Brooke expectantly. “So . . . you said something about a breakin?”

“Nothing stolen. Think we scared him off.” Brooke smiled. “I need to get a locksmith out tomorrow.”

Brooke could feel the tension coming from Sean as Owen ushered them into the foyer. The house smelled like popcorn, and Brooke remembered the two liked to watch movies on Saturdays in their media room.

“I don’t want to interrupt you guys or anything,” Brooke said. “I know where everything is, so . . .”

“Stay as long as you want,” Owen said to Sean. “We’ll be upstairs finishing our movie.”

Owen and Lin headed up the stairs with the Chihuahua trotting behind.

“You didn’t tell him?”

Brooke turned to look at Sean. “I didn’t want to get into it in a text message.”

Sean shook his head and turned to examine the door. The hardware was shiny and new. “Decent locks.” He walked across the foyer and examined the keypad. “They have an alarm system here.”

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s activated.”

His jaw tightened as he glanced around the house. It was expensive and spacious. More than enough room for two professionals and a miniature dog. Also, it was a safe neighborhood.

Brooke set her duffel down beside the stairs.

Sean surprised her by taking her hand and leading her into the darkened living room.

“Does your family know you’ve been having trouble with your ex?”

She sighed. “No.”

“Will you tell your brother, please?”

“Yes.”

He gazed down at her, and the moment stretched out. His eyes looked so serious, and she wished she knew what he was thinking.

“I’m sorry dinner turned into . . . all this other stuff.”

“Brooke.” He sounded exasperated.

And he was still holding her hand. His fingers were warm and strong, and she liked the feel of them folded around hers.

She tugged her hand loose, and he pretended not to notice.