Flirting with Disaster (Jackson: Girls' Night Out 2)

“I don’t see any photos,” he added.

“They’re all gone,” she said, and that was true enough. Her father was gone for good, whether he was alive or not.

“No pictures, even though they’re gone? I guess you weren’t close?”

“It’s com

plicated.”

“Yeah?” he pressed.

“Yeah.”

“So you don’t want to talk about your family.”

She set her jaw, preparing to lie or tell him off for prying or...something. She should never have kissed him. This was not a man whose curiosity could be easily brushed aside. But while she was chastising herself, he became distracted, staring down the double doors to her studio as if he were steeling himself.

“Come on,” she said. “The easel lights are off. It’s not so bad.”

He rolled his eyes as if he hadn’t been watching the doors as if they’d burst open and zombies would come shuffling out. She noticed he waited for her to open them.

“Don’t you have nightmares?” he asked as soon as he stepped in.

“Of course not.” Not because of her work, anyway.

He took a breath and moved quickly past the first few easels to the two-story wall of windows. “This is the weakest point in your security,” he said, testing the lock on the French doors that led out to a small deck. “But at least you have a slide lock here.”

He engaged the lock at the top of the door, pushing it into the frame. “Where does this lead?” he asked, flipping the light switch next to the door. Nothing happened.

“Sorry. It’s burnt out.”

“Could you replace the bulb tomorrow?”

“Sure. There’s a deck out there.”

He pressed his hand to the glass to see past the lights of the room. “Stairs?”

“Yes.”

“If it’s—” Something slammed against the glass. Before Isabelle could even yelp, Tom had shoved her behind his back and drawn his weapon. “Out of the room!”

“It’s just Bear!” she cried.

Tom was backing up and forcing her toward the door. “What?”

“It’s the cat.”

Bear batted at the glass slightly more gently this time. His big paw pressed against the window, the pink pads splaying out on the glass.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Tom barked. “That goddamn cat.”

“He just wants in.”

“Well, let him in.”

Isabelle rolled her shoulders, trying to release the tension that had latched in like claws. “He won’t come in here. He doesn’t like this room.”

“I’m not surprised!”