He dipped his chin and backed off. “Thank you, Ms. Valentine.”
“Cressida.”
He stared.
“You can call me Cressida. Nobody calls me Ms. Valentine, like we live in the nineteenth century.”
“Just doing my job. It’s a professional courtesy. But Cressida it is.”
She blinked, then widened her eyes, almost accusing. Oh. He hadn’t offered her the same use of his first name. He cleared his throat. “Please, feel free to call me Braden.” He didn’t require that she address him as “detective” to do his job.
But she gave him a funny look.
He allowed a half grin. “You got a problem with my name?”
“Not at all. You don’t look like a Braden. I thought that the first time I heard your name.”
He stifled an incredulous laugh. “I’m not entirely sure I want to ask what name you’d give me.”
She was the one to laugh, but it was a good laugh, and all the awkward tension dissipated. She chewed her lip while she squinted. “I don’t know. Maybe an Aiden or a Bradley. No, I take that back. Youarea Braden, after all.”
“Whatever you say, Cressida.” Honestly, he’d never met anyone withhername. “You should get some rest. If you need anything at all, here’s my number.” He handed her a card he tugged from his jeans pocket. “If, that is, you can get a signal. I’m going to see what I can learn on your case and hopefully get your things returned to you.”
Her face brightened with that news. “I hope to hear from you soon.”
He turned and walked toward the lodge. At least this cabin was close and not one of those more isolated, deeper in the woods. His thoughts turned to Octavia Dane. He needed more information, especially now that her daughter had been attacked.
Braden dreaded making that call. It was better to keep that generous but conniving woman as far away as possible.
5
After the door shut, Cressida stared at the space where Detective Braden Sanders had stood—empty now of his presence. But she could still see him—his steel-blue eyes. Wide shoulders and protective demeanor. She let her mind dwell on him because that was better than reliving the cold shock of ocean in her face.
The gasp for breath.
Her aching, screaming lungs.
She tried to shake off the terror of those moments early this morning, and let the warm leather cocoon her. Wait. She glanced down to see that she still wore his leather jacket.
“What? Oh no!”
Cressida quickly shrugged out of it. The leather was worn and soft under her fingers. She couldn’t let him leave without it. Opening the door, she glanced up the trail, could see the parking lot and the lodge, but no Braden. Well, that was just great. She shouldn’t have let him go without his jacket, especially since he was on his motorcycle, but she’d put up a strong front for him too long and now she was ready to collapse.
Her entire body ached. Nothing an emergency room doctor could do for it that a hot shower and rest wouldn’t fix. Her psychological state was another matter. Bottom line, she didn’t have the energy to chase after Braden. If he wanted his jacket, he’d come back for it. And if he didn’t, she’d make sure to hand it over the next time she saw him.
Now that Detective Bradley Cooper—Braden Sanders—was out of the way, Cressida could do what she really wanted to do three hours ago. She moved to the bed and collapsed. Sobbed into the pillow. Because a woman had to shed the tears sometimes, and she’d been attacked. She might know a therapist or two she could call—a friend of a friend of a friend back in DC. She hadn’t been back in just over a year, and yet DC seemed like a lifetime ago.
And today’s events seemed like her entire life had passed before her eyes—like she’d heard happens. Fortunately, she lived to talk about it, which only put her in more danger.
Good. Bring it. She was all for living to fight another day.
As for Bradley Cooper ... No, she definitely shouldn’t start thinking about him as Bradley Cooper, though he bore some resemblance. Maybe Detective Braden Sanders was kind of a rogue womanizer too, for all she knew. He had that quality about him—dimples and that scar on the right side, hidden by a thin layer of whiskers. And those sharp eyes.
Oh, Cressida.What is happening to you?She closed her eyes. She’d been attacked. Felt the physical and psychological scars to her bones. She had a mission to focus on. A reason to be here. And this man. This detective—out of the blue—had distracted her, and that distraction had nothing at all to do with the actual investigation he would conduct. But maybe it was a good distraction given the day she’d had.
She hadn’t exactly chartered the cruise and traveled toHidden Bay with concerns about her safety. But today had left her completely unsettled. Captain Malloy’s words came back to her.
“It’s not safe ...Watch your back.”
