What Are You Afraid Of? (The Agency #2)(22)

She pivoted away. She wanted to tell him to march his very fine ass out the door and return to California. He’d had his opportunity to be a part of her investigation and he’d refused.

But she wasn’t stupid.

She had many talents, but Griff was a tech god. And she suspected that he had the ability to tap into law enforcement resources. The sort of resources she didn’t even know existed. Plus, she was still jittery from the weird encounter with the stranger.

On cue, Griff reached out to grasp her upper arm. His touch was light, but it was enough to press against her tender wound.

A sound of distress was wrenched from her throat before she could squash it. Instantly Griff released his grip and Carmen started to blow out a breath of relief.

Then her eyes widened when she felt the belt of her robe being undone so Griff could peel the thin material off her left shoulder.

“Hey.” She glanced around in shock, her hands lifting to keep the robe pinned to the upper curve of her breast as he continued to tug the material down her arm.

Not that Griff was interested in her naked body. Instead, he was unwrapping the layers of tissue paper that she’d stuck to the thin cut to sop up the blood that had thankfully stopped leaking in the past couple of hours.

“What the hell?” he rasped.

“It’s nothing,” she said, taking a step back.

His gaze continued to study the gash that marred her pale skin.

“That’s a knife wound,” he growled.

Her brows lifted in surprise. Was he psychic?

“How can you tell?”

He reached to pull up the faded Green Day T-shirt that he had tucked in his jeans.

For a second, Carmen’s mind went blank. The hard ripples of his abs were sculpted to perfection. She liked her men to be lean rather than bulked up with muscles. It was no wonder she’d been physically attracted to him from the minute she’d seen him jogging on the beach.

Thankfully unaware of the unwelcome lust that sizzled through her veins, Griff pointed to the long scar that angled from his hip bone across his lower stomach. There were pinpricks of paler skin that attested to the fact that he’d been stitched up by a doctor who was more worried about speed than skill.

“What happened?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “My neighbor decided he wanted my bike when I was twelve. I disagreed. He ended the argument by slicing my stomach open.”

Carmen abruptly sat on the end of the bed, her knees feeling weak.

Delayed shock.

“Mine isn’t nearly so dramatic,” she said, relieved when her voice didn’t shake at the memory of the stranger grabbing her arm.

“What happened?” he asked.

She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not really sure.”

“Carmen.”

“I mean it.” She tilted back her head to meet his fierce glare. “I’d just checked in to the hotel and was walking to my room when some man bumped against me,” she explained. “I didn’t realize I was really hurt until I took off my coat.”

His jaw tightened, his dark eyes flashing as if he was personally angered that she’d been injured.

“Was he a guest?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I didn’t see him coming out of a room.”

“Did he go into the office?”

“I’m not sure.” She shivered. “I was in a hurry to get into my room and lock the door.”

“Did you notice any cars in the parking lot?”

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to remember back to the moment she’d arrived at the hotel.

“There was a pickup and a compact car parked at the far end of the hotel,” she said, picturing what she’d seen as she’d pulled to a halt in front of the office. “And I think there were a couple cars near the café. I didn’t notice any other vehicles.”

He moved to pull aside the heavy curtain, glancing out the window.

“The SUV near the office belongs to you?” he asked.

“Yeah. I rented it at the airport.”

“The pickup and the compact car are still here,” he said. “I can run the plates, but I doubt the man who attacked you would have been stupid enough to be staying here.” Allowing the curtain to drop back into place, he returned to stand directly in front of her. “What about the man? Did you notice anything?”

She paused, searching her mind for anything that might help. Then she grimaced. The memory was blurred. Like a Monet painting where nothing was quite in focus.

“No. It was freezing and I was in a hurry,” she admitted. “Besides, he was wearing a huge parka and a stocking hat, plus he had a scarf wrapped around most of his face. I could pass him on the street and not recognize him.”

She braced herself for the typical male response. The roll of his eyes. The patronizing smile that said Of course a woman was too emotional to recall details of her attack.

Instead, his expression was one of sympathy, as if he completely understood her inability to recall specific details.

“You’re sure it was a man?”

The question made her pause before giving a firm nod. That was the one thing she was certain of.

“Yes.”

“White? Black? Hispanic?”

“He had his head lowered, and with the scarf I really couldn’t see more than a sliver of his face, but I think he was white.”