Gorgeous.
But it’s more than that. The vulnerability in her posture—the way she wraps her arms around herself like she’s trying to hold herself together—reaches inside me andgrabs.
My chest tightens. Pulse kicks up. There’s this irrational, bone-deep urge to cross that street, kick down her door, and put myself between her and whatever’s scaring her.
Which is insane. I don’t know this woman.
She doesn’t seem fancy or high-maintenance. The apartment is sparsely furnished. She’s struggling.
And she’s terrified.
I’m a rough guy with questionable morals. But I don’t scare helpless women for no reason. Not just to make some asshole feel better becausehe’sthe one who fucked up.
Time blurs as I keep watching. I feel strange about it. Normally surveillance is nothing.
But everything about this woman is igniting something in me that shouldn’t exist.
She’s beautiful. Lithe curves barely hidden by a thin white tank top and tiny shorts. My cock twitches, and I have to adjust myself, clearing my throat for no one.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I’ve seen her for a few minutes. Total. And I’m hard. Protective. Possessive.
It doesn’t make sense. But as I watch Claire a little longer, I fall deeper into that hole. The voice screaming at me to make sure Teddy fucks right off becomes impossible to ignore.
He’s a politician in election season. She probably knows something he wants buried.
Lowlife criminals in suits. They do what they want behind closed doors and play saint for the cameras.
That cold smile of his flashes through my mind. My jaw tightens.
Claire Andrews is an innocent woman in over her head, up against a wealthy predator who doesn’t play by the rules.
That doesn’t bode well for her.
And I don’t fucking like it.
I took this job so I didn’t have to question everything anymore. This was supposed to be straightforward.
It’s anything but.
I’m going to catch hell for what I’m about to do. But I can’t fight it.
I stuff the binoculars in my pack, sling it over my shoulder, drop it in my car, and head straight for her front door.
Small townhome. Old. Whoever designed it didn’t think people needed space to live.
I knock. Wait. No answer.
After a few minutes of silence, I hear a yelp behind the door.
My instincts flare.
The knob’s locked. Doesn’t matter. I pull out my pick set—old habit—and have it open in under ten seconds.
I slip inside and head straight for where I last saw her.
Her back is to me. When she turns and sees me standing there, she screams bloody murder.
