Best Kept Secret (Rochester Trilogy 3)

“Then bed,” Paige says, and there’s such relief in her voice that it makes me tear up a little.

I concentrate the hardest I ever have on shampooing her hair and listening to her stories about the bath toys and asking questions about the shells on the beach. It’s hard, because Beau hovers nearby, not quite out of hearing distance but not close enough to touch. I can feel his presence on the second floor of the inn. I know he wants more than what I’ve given him. I know I want more than what he’s given me. But first it’s bath time, and then bed.

He comes back into Paige’s room while we’re reading a story. Her head rests on the pillow. She’s already half-dozing as I finish the book and close it. Beau pulls up her covers, businesslike but affectionate, and then the two of us walk out into the hall. Paige’s door clicks closed behind us.

The constrained man from the kitchen disappears, and Beau’s hands are on me. He pulls me into his bedroom and palms the door closed, his hand resting just above my head. I’m backed against it. Cornered. Which means I can’t back down.

I can’t let him do this yet. I duck out from under his hand and find space in the center of the room.

“Why?” His voice is gruff, and relief flashes across his eyes. “Why did you come back?”

“To help.”

His eyes search mine. “To help Paige?”

“In a way. And to help Emily.”

Beau’s shocked, his eyes wide. Was it true, what she said? Did she bring me here because he cares about me? “What?”

“She came to see me.”

He blinks. “She’s really alive, then.”

“Yes, she’s really alive. She came to my apartment in Houston, and we talked. About a lot of things. What she’s been doing all this time. And about you. She’s been living in her friend’s cabin and hiding all this time.”

Beau runs a hand through his hair, obviously worried about her. “Those places aren’t insulated. You can’t stay there for the winter.”

“She didn’t feel like she could access her money. It would just give her away.”

“Em should have known better than that.” Em. Hearing him use a nickname for her hurts. He sounds indignant, and concerned. He cares about her. It’s written all over his face. The surprise in his eyes. My old fear from the plane feels cold and bitter. What if he loves her? What if he’s still in love with her? “She should have known she could call me. Whatever she did—we could have sorted it out.”

“She didn’t think that was an option. That’s why she came to talk to me.”

His eyes narrow. He seems more dangerous than ever, in this small room. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because I didn’t need you.” I ignore how good it feels to have him in my sight. I ignore the rapid shift in his breathing and the way he’s blocking the door. I give him a cool look. “I can handle some things, you know. I’m not made of porcelain.”

Beau knew it, too. He sent me away knowing I’d be able to take care of myself. He can’t be surprised to find I’ve actually done it. His eyes rake down over me, as if he’s expecting to find another person wearing my clothes and my face. “Where did she see you?” he demands.

“My apartment.” It’s hard to breathe when he looks like this. Handsome and domineering. It’s like an ocean swell has crashed through the window. “She came to my apartment.”

“When?” Beau doesn’t raise his voice, but his tone is hard.

“As soon as I got back home.”

“I called you.” His eyes blaze. “I called you, and you said everything was fine.”

“It was fine.”

“It wasn’t fine if a dead woman was standing in your apartment.”

“Actually, she was sitting at first. At my desk. She sat there until she got up and pulled a gun on me.” His hands flex at his sides and his whole body tenses. He looks me up and down, then again, scanning for something. Searching. “What are you doing?”

His eyes come up to mine, and I see that he’s not furious—or that he is furious, but he’s also worried. Horror is written in his face. “Goddamn it, Jane. You should have told me. That should have been the first thing out of your mouth.”

It occurs to me that he’s checking for bullet wounds. “She didn’t shoot me,” I insist. “And I wasn’t going to walk in here and say that in front of Paige. What’s important is that I believe what she said. She’s telling the truth about what happened to her. Next time—”

“There won’t be a next time,” he growls. “You think you’re walking out of here again? You’re not.”

I think he might lock me in here. Physically block the way out, he’s so angry. He’s not going to move out of the way until this is over. “It’s not going to be like that.”