Perfect Victim (Nadia Stafford 3.6)

Yeah . . .

I should tell Cypher that I couldn't solve this. That, instead, I would protect Angela while the police did their job.

Except the investigation had been going on for months, and I didn't have "months" to play bodyguard. I could, presumably, swap out with Jack and go back to the lodge for the weekend, but there was no way I could do that hellish commute for more than a few weeks.

As I made notes, I glanced at Jack, reclined on the patio chair, eyes closed behind his sunglasses. Relaxed, at ease and looking utterly happy. Which made me happy. It really did. There'd been a time when, if someone showed me a snapshot of him like this, I'd have said he was obviously faking it--playing tourist to throw off some unsuspecting mark. But this was real, and it looked so good on him.

And yet . . .

Oh, hell. Let's be honest. As much as I loved seeing Jack relaxed, I couldn't help but feel the dig of unspoken expectations.

"Find anything there?"

"I'm working on it. Give me another twenty minutes, and then we'll order dinner and talk."

"No rush."

If I asked for his help, he'd give it, but otherwise, in our investigations, Jack settled into the role of junior partner. I was the "proper" detective. I'd been a cop, right? He knew I'd only been a constable, but that didn't matter. To Jack, I was the one who held a legitimate claim to law enforcement. He was "just" a hitman. A guy who'd operated on the other side of the law since he was a kid. Forget the fact that he investigated each and every job to be sure his client was being straight with him. That didn't count as detective work. Not to him.

I considered admitting I was in over my head. I imagined saying the words. I imagined him lifting his sunglasses, blue eyes glancing over at me, completely unperturbed. He'd tell me I was doing fine, that I always do fine, and I'd figure it out. Which wouldn't be just a pep talk to make me feel better. He'd believe it. He had complete faith in me.

No pressure.

I sighed.

The glasses went up, just as I imagined, pushed back onto his forehead, and his blue eyes turned my way, crow's feet in the corners deepening as he squinted against the sun.

"You okay?"

"Just . . ."

Feeling overwhelmed. Feeling inadequate. Feeling a little bit lost.

"Just getting hungry," I said.

His eyes narrowed a fraction, studying my expression.

"You need a break," he said. "Give me what you've got, and I'll take a look while you order dinner."

"What do you want?"

A shrug. "You choose." His lips curved in a smile. "I trust you."

Yep, no pressure at all.

We were on the bed, room service trays resting precariously on bunched-up covers. I'd ordered a few dishes for us to share. Jack had put some of each on his plate, and I couldn't tell if that was because he wanted to sample them all or because he didn't want to insult my choices.

Damn, I was in a mood, wasn't I?

"You okay?" he asked after ten minutes of silence.

I shrugged.

"Something's bugging you."

I took another bite of fish.

"The case?" he said.