Falling Under Page 10

  He freezes with the clasp at his fingers, glancing up at me for two unreadable beats before finishing his task and then says, “Yes. Someone special gave it to me.”

  “Who?”

  “You’re nosy, aren’t you?”

  “Says the man who stalked me.”

  “To protect you.”

  “Then you’ll appreciate that I can’t protect myself without knowing the stranger in my house.” I counter.

  “My sister.”

  My brow furrows. “What?”

  “My sister gave me the watch.”

  “You have a sister?”

  “Had,” he says, his hands settling at his hips, as he firmly jumps past the sister topic. “What was the Excedrin for?”

  “Fighting with you gives me a headache,” I say, deflecting as he just deflected.

  “Don’t fight with me,” he suggests. “Headaches solved.”

  “Don’t give me a reason to fight with you. Work with me, not above me.”

  “I am working with you, detective. In fact, I’m going to take over your computer while you’re in the shower, and get it coded to match our data systems.”

  “How? Is Asher coming here?”

  “He can do it remotely.”

  “I won’t ask how. But fine. Do it. And don’t nose around my documents.”

  “I’d tell you not to nose around, but since you’re a saint, I’m sure you don’t do that, either.”

  His eyes glint surprisingly hard. “Don’t start thinking I’m anything close to a saint,” he says. “We’ll both end up disappointed.” And with that, he turns and disappears through the archway, his footsteps heavy before the bedroom door opens and shuts.

  I could blow off that comment about him not being anything close to a saint or I could let it lead me to naughty places that it’s hard not to go to with a man like Jacob King. Just as it’s hard for someone like me, who knows death, not to see the pain in his deflection over his sister. But most unpleasantly, with his anti-saint comment, my mind goes elsewhere: to the alleyway behind the restaurant, and to him burning Jesse Marks’s file—a man who killed his family. A man Jacob doesn’t want me to hunt down, and yet he has to know, I can’t turn away. Not from the Jesse Marks mystery and not, it seems, anything to do with Jacob King. A man who is a puzzle I want to solve, and perhaps, that’s why he interests me more than any other man in a very long time.

  I’m no damn saint, I think, exiting the detective’s bedroom, proven by the fact that I’d like to shut up her smart mouth with my mouth. Not to mention all the creative ways I could think of to get rid of her headache. Like spanking her pretty little ass for being such a pain in mine. All thoughts that a man protecting her should not be having. And yet, I am. Every fucking moment I’m with her.

  I shut the door, and damn it, setting aside the fact that I want to fuck her, I have no idea why I told her about my sister at all. Hell, why I told her about my life. Duty means being professional, unemotional—it means she’s unfuckable no matter how damn fuckable I want her to be.

  I round the island in the kitchen and press my hands to the counter. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” I grimace. Holy hell, now I sound like Blake Walker, who can’t fucking say anything but fuck, which is just more proof that there is something about this woman that affects me. I should remove myself from this assignment, and if I was a saint, maybe I would, but I don’t want to remove myself and even if I did, that’s not even an option. Not with Jesse Marks on her radar, and her potentially on the wrong radar because of Jesse Marks.

  Walking to the Keurig on the counter behind me, I grab a cup from the cabinet above the machine and then inspect the pods. I have a choice between chocolate and chocolate, because the detective has a sweet tooth. Not that I’m complaining. Chocolate works for me. I stick the pod into the machine, wait for my cup to fill, then step to the refrigerator where I open the door and pour in creamer. I shut the door again, and stare at that note on the door: You’re not ready yet. I assume it’s in her uncle’s writing and I get that the man was a great detective, but as far as I’m concerned, those are words that create hesitation in the face of danger and hesitation gets people killed.

  My cellphone buzzes with a text and I set my cup on the island and dig my phone out to find a message from Asher that reads: It’s done. She logged onto her computer and I took over.

  I won’t be telling the detective that Ash took it upon himself to hack her computer without her permission. I down a slug of coffee and set my cup aside again, about to reply to Ash when my phone rings with an unknown number. My jaw clenches with the certainty that this is the call I’ve been expecting. I answer the line. “Yes?”

  “We have a problem, Major King,” a male voice says. “And you’re in her house right now. That seems quite a coincidence.”

  “It’s an indication that I’ve ensured that she’s not a problem.”

  “That better be the case, Major. Handle her or we will.”

  The line disconnects.

  I inhale and let the air trickle from my lips, aware that any call I make immediately after that one, will indicate a potential communication about Jesse Marks. It will connect whoever I communicate with to the problem and that’s not an option. I set my phone on the island and open my MacBook, typing to Asher on iMessage. I’m connected to “Tat Dude” almost instantly and he lets me know. What’s up, big boy?

  Past life experience coming back to haunt me, I reply. I need to see Royce in person. No phones. No online communication.

  Fuck is Asher’s response, because he’s a man of brilliant words, and he’s also an ex-SEAL, who served on the elite Team Six. He knows what “past life” means. And that’s exactly why his only other reply is: When and where?

  The courthouse, I type.

  Confirmation pending, Asher replies.

  My lips thin and I sit there, thinking through the tasks ahead of me. I need to silence a woman who won’t be silenced, who I don’t want to hurt. That’s the complicated part, the not wanting to hurt her. Otherwise, I know how to make someone shut up and quit. I’m good at those things. Really damn good at those things. With my enemies, I look at it as pain for them equals results for me. However, Detective Jewel Carpenter is not my enemy, nor am I hers.

  Over the next half hour, I work to formulate part one of a plan of action, while downing my coffee, and making another cup. I’ve just gotten a message from Asher with my confirmation when the bedroom door opens. I shut my computer as Jewel, Detective Carpenter, damn it, walks out of her bedroom in a black pantsuit, with her long, blonde hair loose at her shoulders. I stand up and she walks toward me, her steps weighted when they’re normally light, her expression strained, but not angry. I know the tension etched in her face all too well, both from personal experience and observation: she’s in pain.

  She closes in on me and steps to the endcap of the island to my left. “Are we set?” she asks, indicating her MacBook.

  “Yes,” I confirm. “I can now officially share data with you.”

  “Did you snoop?” she asks, attempting her normal snark but her voice is weak, and the whites of her eyes are bloodshot.

  “There wasn’t time,” I say dryly, and testing her pain level, I push for more of that snark of hers I apparently like, because I keep asking for it. “But,” I add, “Asher downloaded all of your files for my review later tonight.”

  “Of course he did,” she says dryly. “Because you’re an asshole.”

  “I guess one of us already has a nickname.”

  “I have a few for you, actually,” she says. “But as directed, I marked saint off the list.” She walks to the counter, presenting me with her back, but I don’t miss her scooping up that Excedrin and slipping it in her bag. “We should head out,” she says, and when she would return to the endcap of the island, I don’t allow it.

  I snag her wrist. I would never randomly touch another woman I was protecting, but then, I’m no saint, and she’s not another woman. She’s the one f
ucking my head ten ways to Sunday.

  “What are you doing?” she demands, her crystal blue eyes wide, but of notable interest, is the ease at which she allows me to walk her to me. Which speaks of pain or interest, or perhaps a combination of both.

  “You have a migraine,” I say, my hands settling on her shoulders. “That’s why your hair is down when you wear it back to downplay being a woman. But you can’t risk the pressure on your head today making the pain worse.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I get headaches,” I say. “Which is why I know a beast of one when I see it.”

  “Mr. Green Beret gets headaches?”

  “I’ve had my head used as a punching bag a few times.”

  “Right,” she breathes out. “I shouldn’t have joked about that. You’re really a hero. You fought in real wars.”

  “You’re fighting in real wars, too, detective,” I say, damn near calling her “sweetheart” when that never happens to me.

  “I’m not,” she says.

  “You are. Just a different kind.”

  “I investigate. I ask questions. You put your life on the line every day, and I need to take a moment right now to say, that despite all my Green Beret comments, I respect your service.”

  “Does that mean you’ll stop fighting with me?”

  “Are you going to stop fighting with me?” she challenges.

  “Good,” I approve.

  “Good? How does that fit the context of the conversation?”

  “You’re still sharp enough to deliver verbal punches so this should do the trick.” I reach in my pocket and present her with a BC powder, which is just powdered aspirin. “Have you ever tried these?”

  “No, but you actually carry those with you? How bad are your headaches?”

  “Bad enough,” I say, not really interested in where a more detailed answer would lead her. “The powder works if you catch the headache early enough, but it tastes like shit.” I open the thin rectangular package for her. “Toss it back and then down the coffee. The caffeine boost will help the powder work faster, and you’re going to want something that tastes good anyway.”

  “I’ll try anything at this point.” She downs the powder and makes a horrible face that is adorably sexy.

  “Help,” she chokes out, accepting the cup in my hand. “Wait. It’s yours.”

  I laugh and order, “Drink it,” and she doesn’t need to be told twice.

  She tips it back and gulps several swallows. “That really was nasty.”

  “Yes,” I say, taking the cup from her and setting it on the island, “but by the time we get you to the courthouse, your headache will be bearable.”

  “Eck.” She makes another face. “I can still taste it.” I laugh again, I can’t help it. She grabs the mug again and gulps more coffee, looking over the rim to glare at me. “Really? You chose to finally laugh and it’s at my misery?” She sets the cup down and punches my shoulder. “Your nickname fits. Asshole.”

  “Finally laugh?”

  “Yes. Stop being the robot you think you have to be to protect me. It doesn’t work for me and it has to suck for you.”

  I stopped being a robot to the job the minute I met this woman, but I don’t think sharing that is the right decision. Instead, I move on, glancing at my watch instead, and noting the time. “We should go.”

  “Fine. I get the blow off I was just delivered. Continue the robot routine and I will continue to pretend you are not doing it, until you stop doing it.” She grabs her Mac, sticking it into the bag resting at her hip. “Are you taking your Mac?”

  “I need to be mobile,” I say. “I’ll leave mine here.”

  “Mobile,” she repeats, facing me again. “To protect me.”

  “Yes,” I confirm. “To protect you. Be it by way of providing BC powder or be it to end a bigger asshole than me that means to hurt you.”

  “Thank you,” she surprises me by saying, her mood instantly serious, and when I look at her there is a punch of awareness between us, and far more in her eyes now than pain. A soft, warm something that says she let me pull her close, because she wants to be close, the way I want her close. But then I already knew that. We’ve been fire and ice from the moment we met. “For the BC powder,” she adds, “and for pulling your gun this morning to protect me, even if I didn’t need protection.”

  “That’s a good thing. The not needing the protection.”

  “Yes,” she says. “Agreed. Jacob, no one knows about my headaches, so can you—”

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “I appreciate that,” she says. “I—Is that why you left the Army? The headaches?”

  “No. I had them for years before I left. Adrenaline will kill even the worst of a headache, which I’m sure you know.”

  “Yes. I know. Do you tell people that you get headaches?”

  “I don’t tell people anything about me.”

  “But you have me,” she says, and I shouldn’t be surprised at the observation. She sees things. She gets things. She gets me like I do her, even if she doesn’t realize that yet. Or ever. Fuck. Where the hell am I going with this woman?

  “You have me,” she repeats.

  “You just nag it right out of me.”

  “Asshole,” she says, but it’s more of a tease than an insult at this point.

  “Yes,” I say, “but I’m your personal asshole for now. Let’s talk about what comes next.”

  “Yes. Let’s. To be clear,” she says. “I’m not stupid. The butterfly freaks me out, as it should. If it turns out to be a real problem, I’ll be glad you’re my shadow.”

  “But you’re still concerned that my nearness will make your slayer attack elsewhere,” I say, seeing where she’s leading me.

  “You have to admit that’s a concern.”

  “What I know is that whoever this is, is fixated on you. Whoever this is, is also smart enough to drop that butterfly by the door without Walker knowing. And we’re damn good at what we do. That means this person is damn good, too.”

  “If this person really left the butterfly,” she supplies.

  “We all have to assume they did.”

  “I don’t disagree,” she says “Like I said. I’m not stupid.”

  “And we have to assume that the slayer will eventually come for you,” I continue. “But I am not easy to go through which is why I don’t give two fucks about being a trigger when there could be ten others, and my distance leaves you exposed. I’m staying close. Don’t argue. You won’t win.”

  “Thanks to this headache, I really don’t have it in me to argue with you and potentially the judge at the hearing this morning. So, what’s the plan right now, this morning?”

  “I say we go with your plan. If I was your protector, I’d hide. I’m not hiding. I’m just the guy you’re fucking.”

  She blanches. “Not literally.”

  “Fine. I’m the guy you’re dating.”

  “I don’t date,” she says. “No one would believe that.”

  “All right then,” I say. “I’m just the guy you’re fucking.” I arch a brow, and there’s a question there I shouldn’t be asking, and yet, I wait for her answer.

  “Fine then,” she says, her eyes warm, her voice hinting at a rasp that tells me what I want to know. “We’re fucking,” she adds, and with those words, her gaze meets mine for a jolt of a moment, before she rounds the island and heads for the door.

  Running from the connection, she wasn’t running from a moment ago, and I make a decision right then. I can’t let her run. She might run to the wrong place, and end up dead. And so, I pursue her, grabbing my jacket as I go, and I’m at the door by the time she’s there, opening it for her. She exits, and I lock up, catching up with her on the stairs, stepping to her side where I intend to stay. We head down the stairs in silence, and me pulling on my jacket does nothing to dilute our little conversation about fucking that is in the air, right along with an expecta
tion of danger. Every step we take, I’m more in tune with her and with my gut feeling. She’s in danger, and after that phone call, not just from the slayer. We reach the end of the steps, and I pause at the door, and make another decision.

  “Me first,” I say, my intent to shield her, and I don’t give her time to object. I step outside and I rotate to face her, forcing her to step directly in front of me. The instant she does, I reach for her, one hand at her hip, the other under her hair at her neck, dragging her close.

  “What are you doing?” she demands, sounding breathless, her hand flattening on my chest. Holy hell, I really like her hand on my chest.

  “Showing anyone watching that this just got personal for me,” I say, leaning in, our lips a breath a part.

  “Don’t kiss me,” she whispers, a moment before I would.

  “Sorry, detective,” I say. “But this is for your own good.” I close my mouth down on hers, and I intend one quick slide of tongue to tongue but my intention goes full-on to hell and quickly. The minute I taste her, I need more. My hand slides to her back, between her shoulder blades, and I deepen the kiss. Drinking her in, savoring the sweetness of a woman who is all fire and ice. And she tries to be ice now, stiff for just a lick, before her arms soften. Until she is responding, sinking into the kiss, a soft little moan escaping her lips that is the submission I didn’t know I craved from her. I feel it in my cock. I feel it in the adrenaline coursing through my veins that is too hot, too demanding for right here and now. I drag my mouth from hers before I go too far, and I want to go too far.

  Our lips part and we linger there a moment, breathing together, the heat between us damn near combustible. “I don’t—” she begins.

  “I did,” I supply, “and I don’t have any regrets.” I take her hand and we head down the stairs, and yes, I feel the eyes of the Walker team, but there is more. I feel the eyes of the enemy, heavy, attentive, and calculating.