Into the Fury (BOSS, Inc. #1)(30)
Val glanced away. Walking to the front door, she pulled it open, letting in a rush of cold night air. “Thanks, Ethan. I really appreciate everything you’ve done. I’ll see you at the airport on Tuesday.”
He’d been putting off this moment. He had a feeling this wasn’t going to go well. He walked over and closed the door. “Obviously, you still don’t get it. I’m not going anywhere. Not until they find the bastard who killed Delilah Larsen.”
Her dark blond eyebrows drew together. “What are you talking about? I’m exhausted. I need to get some sleep. You checked the house. There’s no one in here. Now it’s time for you to leave.”
He just shook his head. “I’ll take the sofa. If it makes you feel any better, there are five other women under personal protection tonight in Seattle, including your friend Megan.”
“Megan?”
“That’s right. I don’t mind the couch, but I could really use a pillow.”
She cocked her head, eyeing him with suspicion. “Who’s with Megan?”
“Dirk Reynolds. She’s in very good hands.”
“‘Good hands?’” She glanced down at the big hand he’d jammed into the pocket of his jeans and he couldn’t help thinking how good he could make her feel if only he could touch her. When the corner of his mouth kicked up, her shoulders stiffened. “Are you telling me I don’t have any say in this?”
“Not if you want to keep your job.”
“I need this job and you know it.”
“A lightweight blanket would be nice, too.”
She made a huffing sound and flounced away, and Ethan couldn’t stop a smile. She was going to be even less happy when he told her she’d have to leave the bedroom door open. He was a very light sleeper, so any little sound and he’d be wide awake.
On the other hand, considering the skillful way the killer had entered Delilah Larsen’s condo, Ethan was giving her a break not insisting he sleep in her room.
Val returned with a pillow and a blanket, tossed them on the couch, which looked comfortable but about six inches too short. With a sideways glance, she turned and marched back down the hall. The sound of her bedroom door slamming shut made him grin with anticipation for the coming confrontation.
Ethan couldn’t remember the last time a woman had made him grin.
Chapter Twelve
Val overslept Sunday morning. Maybe it was staying up into the early hours last night. Maybe it was the pressure of her first-ever fashion show, one being televised across the country. Maybe it was being questioned by the police about a murder.
Whatever it was, she rolled out of bed at ten fifteen, feeling nearly as tired as she’d been when she’d finally closed her eyes. As she grabbed her robe and pulled it on, then walked out into the hall, it took a moment to remember that Ethan Brodie had spent the night on the sofa.
When she saw him standing in the kitchen with his phone against his ear, bare-chested, barefoot, and wearing only his jeans, the shock hit her like a hot flash twenty years too early.
Oh my God! She knew she shouldn’t be staring at all those beautiful muscles, at a chest carved in granite and a set of bulging biceps that made her mouth water, but she couldn’t force herself to look away.
“You’re up earlier than I expected.” He reached for the pot of coffee sitting on the counter and poured her a cup. When she didn’t walk over to get it, he carried the cup into the living room and pressed it into her hand.
Fascinated, Val turned as he walked past her and watched the view from behind, the broad back and slim hips, the long, jeans-clad legs and big, manly feet. She didn’t look away as he pulled a clean dark blue T-shirt out of an orange canvas duffel and dragged it on over his head, making all those gorgeous muscles flex and tighten as he moved.
Once he was covered, she seemed to regain her wits enough to take a drink from the steaming cup in her hand.
“Sleep okay?” Ethan asked mildly as he started back to the kitchen, unaware—thank God—of her former near-catatonic state.
“Yes, thank you.” Knowing he was close by, feeling safe and protected, she had fallen deeply asleep and hadn’t stirred till morning. But she didn’t tell him that. He was in her space too much already.
He folded his blanket and set it on the sofa, placed the pillow neatly on top of it. She watched as he zipped his orange duffel closed and set it on the floor next to the couch.
“I see you came prepared,” she said with a trace of irritation. She didn’t like being ordered around, no matter the reason.
“I keep a go-bag in my car—a couple of T-shirts, a razor, deodorant, enough underwear to last a few days. I dropped by my apartment yesterday during the rehearsal and packed a suitcase to take with me to Dallas. It’s in your hall closet.”
“If you’re planning to stay here that long, you must not think they’re going to catch the killer any time soon.”
“I hope they do. I was on the phone with Lieutenant Hoover when you walked in. I was hoping the cops would find fingerprints, footprints, DNA—something useful at the crime scene. But the place was clean. This guy knew what he was doing. That makes finding him a whole lot harder.”
She glanced down at the laptop sitting on her mahogany dining table and wandered in that direction. She and Mom had hit local yard sales to furnish the duplex. They’d stumbled on the Duncan Phyfe drop-leaf table and four matching chairs, and Val had instantly fallen in love with the set.