Blow(36)

I bit my lip. “I . . . I wasn’t ever going to shoot you.”

“Why?” He didn’t even blink.

Because I want you madly. Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Because there’s just something about you. I couldn’t say any of those things. Blinking those thoughts away, I said, “Because I knew you weren’t here to hurt me.”

He stepped even closer. “No, you didn’t.”

All I could do was shake my head. I did know it. I could feel it.

“Listen, if you don’t plan to pull the trigger, then you never aim. If you think even for a minute anyone is a threat to you, I want you to shoot first and think later. This isn’t a game. These people don’t dick around. Do you hear me?”

I nodded. I was a little freaked out, but I wasn’t going to admit to that. I wasn’t sure just how much danger I was in. Maybe he was a little paranoid. Either way, I needed to stay strong. “Yes.”

His voice softened and his demeanor changed. “I don’t mean to scare you, but these guys are professionals. They creep around in the dark, lurk around corners, hide in alleys. Don’t go anywhere alone.”

“Who are these people? Are they going to come into my store?”

He shook his head. “They won’t do anything out in the open and they may not even be after you.”

“Then why are you telling me these things?”

“I just want you to stay safe. Do you understand? Stay safe.”

“I understand,” I said, sounding a little breathy.

His hands gripped my hips and he pulled me to him.

I went more than willingly.

His lips hovered over mine. “You have to stay safe,” he repeated.

Just then my cell phone rang. I jerked back and reached for it. It was Peyton.

“I’m on my way,” I answered.

“I can’t believe you’re not here yet. Did you hook up with Mr. Big Dick?”

“Peyton!” I admonished. “I’m just running a bit behind. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Okay, but when you get here I want all the details.”

“’Bye,” I said, trying not to smile and wishing there were details to spill.

He took my phone and hit some buttons. “Here’s my number. Call me if you need anything. If you can’t reach me, I’m at the Four Seasons. I’ll leave your name at the desk.”

I took the phone back. As soon as I shoved it into my bigger purse, he handed me my gun. “This too.”

I put that in my purse as well, and grabbed the smaller purse. I’d switch everything else later. “I’m ready.”

He nodded toward the front door and grinned at me. “Come on, then, let’s get you to work.”

I should have been scared.

And I was.

I should have been worrying about why all of this was happening.

And I was.

But right now I just wanted to bask in how much that grin melted me.





LOGAN


The clock was ticking.

Seven minus one. Six days left. Six f*cking days until Patrick makes his move.

Time had given me clarity. Whoever had been harassing Elle was doing just that. If Patrick were trying to strike, there would be no close encounters. And if it were Tommy . . .

With a shiver, I shook that thought away.

I’d know if it were him.

Lost in my thoughts, I glided into the parking lot of the garage where Elle’s car was towed last night. The place was more like a compound. There was a row of five bays on one side and five more bays directly opposite those, with an office connecting them. Once I parked, I looked toward the only open bay and saw O’Shea standing near Elle’s car. He had his kid in one arm and a piece of crumpled paper in his other hand.

Fuck.

I had hoped to beat him here and scope out the inside of Elle’s vehicle before he did. Whoever broke the window did so after I had seen the car—either on the way here or after it arrived. Still, my head was clearly not in the game last night. How the hell had I missed the piece of paper? Unless I hadn’t. When I checked the car last night, I know I looked around, including in the backseat, where I tossed some toys aside. It couldn’t have been there then.

Shoving my thoughts aside, I watched as O’Shea spoke briefly with someone near Elle’s car. The guy wore a blue quilted jacket but also had a tie on, so I assumed he was the manager. O’Shea seemed twitchy. He was bouncing the baby nervously on his hip. She was playing with the large silver rattle attached to a red ribbon that I moved off the seat last night. Despite the manager edging toward the door that must have led to the office, O’Shea seemed to have no interest in following him. The mechanic reached inside and pulled out a clipboard.

O’Shea turned and I put my hat on and slid down in my seat. I probably didn’t have to; my windows were pretty heavily tinted and he didn’t seem to be on alert. O’Shea had of out the bay when he stopped and turned back around. The manager was holding up the clipboard. O’Shea took it and scribbled something, his John Hancock more than likely, and then quickly walked out.

The manager wandered back toward the door and I watched as O’Shea shoved the paper he had been holding into his pocket and then loaded the baby in his own car. I needed to see what the hell was on that piece of paper. The way he was acting was shady at best, and instinct told me it wasn’t just a receipt for his dry cleaning. I wanted to follow him, but if Patrick was already tailing O’Shea, him finding out I was stalking O’Shea wasn’t going to be pretty.