Even if I wasn't entirely sure I needed protection, having it—havinghim—felt like the right choice.
I closed my eyes, but sleep didn't come easily. My mind kept circling back to the man down the hall. Broad shoulders with scars that told stories and eyes that saw everything. The calm way he'd taken control of the situation without making me feel incompetent. The small smile when he'd talked about his horses.
The heat that had flooded through me when he'd filled my doorway.
I pressed my hand against my chest where my heart was doing something erratic and uncomfortable.
This was professional. Temporary. A necessary precaution that would probably turn out to be overkill.
So why did having Rhodes Foster in my house feel more dangerous than any threat I'd received?
Chapter Two
Rhodes
I'd survived sandstorms in Afghanistan, cramped transport vehicles, and a ditch outside Kandahar with incoming fire overhead.
That goddam daybed almost broke me.
The mattress couldn't have been more than six feet long. My legs hung off the end, the thin padding offered about as much support as cardboard, and every time I shifted position—which was often, given the cramping in my calves—the metal frame creaked loud enough to wake the dead.
I'd gotten maybe two hours of actual sleep.
At five-thirty Wednesday morning, I gave up, extracted myself from the torture device masquerading as furniture, and made coffee.
The house was quiet around me. I stood at Presley's kitchen window, mug in hand, and mentally reviewed the security situation. No alarm system. Basic locks on doors. That four-foot fence in the backyard that anyone could vault in under threeseconds. The hedge along the side yard that provided perfect cover for someone wanting to access her windows undetected.
All fixable. I'd install cameras and motion lights today, upgrade the locks, add an alarm system by week's end.
My jaw tightened. Someone had thrown a brick through her studio window yesterday. Someone had left a threatening note the day before that. Someone was targeting her, escalating, and I needed to find them before they did worse. Before they hurt someone.
"Rhodes?"
I turned. Presley stood in the kitchen doorway in yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt, her strawberry blonde hair loose around her shoulders. No makeup, face bare, hair still mussed from sleep.
The thought hit before I could stop it: she was beautiful like this.
Professional. I needed to stay professional.
"Morning," I said. "Coffee's fresh."
"Thank you." She moved to the cabinet, pulled down a mug. "Did you sleep okay?"
I took a drink instead of answering immediately. "I've managed worse."
She turned to look at me, really look, and I could see her register the shadows under my eyes, the tight set of my shoulders.
"What time do you need to be at the studio?"
"Seven. The glass crew is coming back to install the permanent window."
"I'll head over with you, do a security sweep while they work."
She set down her mug, studied me. "You look exhausted. How tall are you?"
"Six-three."
Her face fell. "And that daybed is six feet long. I should've realized." She crossed her arms. "I have a king-sized bed that's actually long enough for a human being. You're welcome to share it."
