“Why?” Her expression showed confusion.
’Cause I won’t be able to stop myself from touchin’ ya.
The words made it as far as the back of his throat before he closed his teeth on them. She tilted her head and there was a plea in her eyes, a request that spoke without words.
He couldn’t deny her.
He’d never been able to deny her.
“I’ll stay until ya fall asleep,” he relented.
The smile she gave him then, that sweet smile that was quintessentially Eliza and just a little lopsided, winged across the space between them and hooked into his heart.
Well, the hard, cold stone that acts as my heart,he silently corrected.
“Let me put on pajamas.”
She was off the bed in a flash. Too quick for her scrambled gray matter, because she wobbled and threw out a hand to steady herself.
He instinctively caught her fingers and rose to support her elbow. “No sudden moves with a concussion,” he warned. “Sends the room spinnin’ like you’ve had too much wine.”
She bit her lip and the sight nearly drove him to his knees. How many times hadhewanted to do exactly that? Catch that plump bottom pad between his teeth and give it a quick nip before soothing the sting with his tongue?
She made a face. “Something tells methishangover is going to kick my ass.”
He winced. “Wish I could tell ya otherwise, but experience says you’re probably right.”
“Great,” she muttered and let go of his hand to walk over to her dresser. She fished her pajamas from the top drawer and then disappeared into the bathroom.
Curling his fingers around the space where her fingers had been, he sank down on the mattress.
What the hell are ya doin’, Fish? You should be callin’ in Britt or Hewitt. Yeah, Hewitt’s perfect for this job. He’ll slouch over there in the chair and read until she falls asleep.
Just about the only time Hewitt Burchdidn’thave his nose pressed between the pages of a book was when he was at the controls of a helicopter or sitting atop the black marvel that was his custom Harley.
Fisher was about to go search for the former Night Stalker—the nickname given to those in the 160thSpecial Operations Aviation Regiment—when the bathroom door opened.
One look at Eliza and he knew he wasn’t going anywhere.
Staying with her was dangerous.
Leaving her was impossible.
6
Northwestern Memorial Hospital
“That sorry sonofabitch left survivors.”
Yang grunted his agreement as he sat in the lobby of the large hospital building and watched people shuffle in and out of the automatic exit doors. There were those who wore smiles and carried flowers, no doubt headed to the maternity ward to congratulate someone on a new arrival. Others wore the haggard, downtrodden expression of loving someone who was desperately ill or actively dying.
Most people loathed hospitals. Loathed the idea of disease and death. Not Yang.
Disease and death were as common as birth and life. Asinevitabletoo. Which meant they were nothing to fear. Plus, he didn’t know of another place where one could witness the full gamut of human emotions—from the highest of highs to the lowest of lows. And for someone who’d made a career of studying people, it was a bit of an academic experience.
“He was not a professional,” he said matter-of-factly. His eyes narrowed on the petite, blond FBI agent when she stepped from one of the four elevators. He knew she was FBI from the way she carried herself, with an air of authority.
Others probably looked at her and saw little more than her long ponytail and lack of height. But Yang knew better than to judge a book by its cover. He recognized the expression in the lady agent’s eyes. It was one of whip-sharp intelligence.
