Jesus Christ. What are you doing?
“You’re safe,” I tell her quietly. “I’m right outside. Nothing’s going to get to you. I promise.”
Claire stares up at me with those big, beautiful eyes, and I feel something shift deep in my gut. Something dangerous.
I pull my hand back like I’ve been burned.
“Get some sleep,” I manage. My voice sounds like gravel. “I’ll be in the other room.”
I force myself to stand. To take a step back. Then another.
But I don’t leave. Not yet.
I pause in the doorway and let myself look at her one more time. The blanket pulled up to her chin now. The long trail of mahogany hair spilling across her pillow. The curve of her shoulder where the sheets have slipped down just slightly.
Something about knowing she’s an artist hits me where it counts. Creative and talented… and gorgeous.
I can imagine her sitting at that easel, working on one of her masterpieces as I sit nearby with a coffee in hand. Watching her work. Watching the way she bites her lip when she concentrates.
I can imagine pulling her away from her latest project and throwing her down onto the bed where she lies now. The faces she would make as I claim her with my hands and tongue and cock.
The way she’d gasp my name.
Stop.
My pants are becoming increasingly uncomfortable. I’m hard as a rock just from looking at her, and this is exactly the kind of shit that gets people killed.
She’s off-limits. She’s essentially a client. She’s vulnerable and scared and depending on me to protect her, not fantasize about spreading her thighs and tasting her until she screams.
You’re a professional. Act like one.
“Goodnight, Claire.”
I don’t wait for her response because I know I can’t. I need to put some distance between us before I do something stupid. Something I won’t be able to take back.
I retreat to the living room and drop into my chair, releasing a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My hands are still shaking. From the adrenaline. From the flashbacks.
From wanting her so goddamn bad it hurts.
I can still feel the silk of her hair between my fingers. Still see the way she looked at me when I tucked that strand behind her ear. Like no one had ever done something that gentle for her before.
The urge to protect her is overwhelming. Primal. It goes way beyond professional obligation.
And that scares the shit out of me.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to get my head on straight. I need to tell Boss about all this. I can’t put it off any longer.
I’d call—I really would—but I know Boss hates it when I keep him up so damn late. A text message is my best bet.
I pull out my phone, keeping my eyes locked on the screen, making sure I don’t turn my head and look toward Claire’s room.
A task that really shouldn’t be so damn hard.
Boss is one of only three people I ever text—him, Marco from the Delgado job last year, and my landlord. I shoot off a quick message.
Me: Hey, the client turned out to be a lowlife, and the woman he was having me harass is the actual victim. I’ll deal with the senator, but I’m not letting him hurt her.
It only takes a few minutes for the dots to appear. He’s probably sitting at that big oak desk of his, whiskey in hand, wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into this time.
