One to Protect (One to Hold 3)

When I answered her, my voice was quiet. “I’ve had to kill people.”

She hugged herself close against my chest. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to bring up painful memories. We don’t have to talk about it.”

Wrapping my arms around her, I pulled her up slightly so I could kiss her neck. “Have I told you how amazing you are?”

A laugh bubbled in her throat. “You always say that. I’m not so amazing.”

Rolling us so she was on her back, I looked down into her beautiful face. “You’re smart and beautiful. You’re incredibly busy, but you make time to show up here—”

“When I know you need me.” Leaning down, I kissed her jaw as she continued. “You’d do the same for me. Besides, I can work from anywhere.”

“Then work from here.”

“You can work anywhere, too.”

Our old argument. Neither of us chased it any further—not on our last morning together. We were counting down the hours before we’d be apart again, and instead, I focused on trailing my lips down to her collarbone, past the floating heart, lower to her breasts until we were lost in our special place once more.

Now, sitting at my desk remembering, the only thing strong enough to spoil the afterglow of our weekend is this new case… and her old scar. That damn silver line, a constant reminder of what that fucker did to her. Even worse, it reminds me he’s still out there walking around free.

In my line of work, I know how those assholes are. They all have some fucked up notion their victims belong to them—only them. My fist is clenched on the desktop, and I focus on relaxing it.

Sloan will pay for what he did to Mel. I intend to make sure of it, but she’s right. Letting him spoil our present gives him too much power. I’d rather put that aside, in my “To Do” file, and focus on my weekend with my little family—sheer red lingerie, loads of sex, and n

onstop affection—hell, I should have a shitty week more often.

Shitty week…

I turn to my computer and stare at the report on the screen. As much as Mel wants to know, I can’t bring myself to tell her what I’m investigating. It’s not that I want to hide my work from her. She could probably help solve half the cases on my desk. I don’t want her to be afraid, and I don’t have a reason to make her worry yet.

Patrick’s in Wilmington watching over her for me, being the guard he is when I’m not there, and I’ve got tabs on Sloan. We’ll know if he leaves the city or makes any threatening moves. Privately, I wish he would. Nothing would make me happier than taking him out in an act of self-defense. With his record, not a jury in the world would convict.

Nikki snaps me out of my reflections. “I’m headed to the coffee shop. Can I get you anything?” She’s standing at the door in one of her usual, too-tight wrap-dresses.

It takes me back to her first day here, assigned by my aunt Sue’s temp agency. I was still grieving Allison. Three years had passed since my first wife died, but time didn’t matter. I didn’t want a replacement wife or a girlfriend or an outlet or anything, and the idea that my aunt might’ve selected this woman for any of those reasons got under my skin like nothing else. I didn’t need help getting over my wife. I had no intention of getting over her ever, and Nikki’s appearance pissed me off.

The reality is, despite her former, inappropriate assertions that I needed to “get laid,” she never once made a pass at me. She’d actually seemed more interested in Stuart, my first partner and Patrick’s older brother.

I suppose after all this time I should put the past behind us. It doesn’t make sense anymore now that I have Melissa. Everything has changed.

She’s waiting, and I exhale. “No. Thank you.” The departure from my usual, impatient tone makes her pause, and I continue. “You’re always thoughtful, Nikki. I appreciate it.”

Her mouth drops open and then quickly closes. “I’m… um… well.” She stops stammering, pokes her lips out duck-face style, then nods. “Okay, then. You’re welcome.”

Turning on a stiletto heel, she heads out of the office, and I grin. That may be the first time I’ve had Nikki at a loss for words.

Back to my computer, I pull up the file I’ve been studying for ten days—the one that’s had me so distracted. I keep telling Patrick we don’t do domestic work, yet I always end up being the one old friends or acquaintances call when they need help.

That’s how it started—a runaway case for a friend of a friend.

I was culling through mug shots of beat-up teens and file photos of dead girls. Patrick would say this is the worst part of our job, but truthfully, I don’t mind it. I can see past the tragedy to my role here, giving people closure. I know what it’s like to need it, and I don’t mind helping people get it.

Then I saw Jessica Black. Dead.

The name was so familiar, but I couldn’t place her at first. Staring at the photo, trying to think, I’d been struck by her appearance—fair complexion, petite frame, and long brunette waves. She looked a lot like Melissa—minus my fiancée’s bright blue eyes.

I’d clicked on the thumbnail to read the report. Runaway. Missing five years. Arrested for prostitution several times. Found beaten once. Badly. Now deceased under mysterious circumstances.

Minutes passed as I stared at her photo. Why was she so familiar? She wasn’t from Princeton. Her hometown was listed as Raleigh. Shaking my head and chalking it up to overprotectiveness spurred by her similarity to Mel, I closed the document and went back to searching for the runaway.