He winced. “We’d better get back to shelter.” Taking her arm again, he let his hand slide down her wrist to grasp her hand. “Let’s hurry.”
Awareness shot up her arm and zinged through her body. Surely he’d taken her hand just to get them moving. But his touch awakened all sorts of feelings in her. Aroused sensations she’d lost. She felt warm and safe and protected. She’d forgotten this feeling of her hand in a man’s. His hand was bigger than any she’d held before.
Was the old saying true about men’s hands?
She stumbled.
He slowed down. “You okay?”
She nodded, biting her lip. Why did her brain keep going to raunchy land with him? He might be a flowers-and-poetry type of guy, not a shove-a-girl-up-against-a-wall-and-goat-it one. Her secret fantasy that she’d never shared with anybody. Hard and fast and kind of scary—overcome by passion. But that took trust, and she didn’t know how to do that. Either way, he looked like he could really kiss.
What in the world was wrong with her? “Do you have anybody, Malcolm?” she asked, trooping along behind him.
“Anybody?” He held another branch for her, keeping her hand in his.
“Yes. Family, girlfriend, cop buddies.” While he’d said he didn’t have friends, that couldn’t be true.
A gentle rain started to fall, and he lengthened his strides, keeping her with him. “No. No family, no girlfriend, no friends. Even as a cop, I was undercover for a long time. I had a handler, but we weren’t close. So I don’t have anybody.”
“Me either,” she whispered, which was almost the absolute truth.
Now she just had to keep it that way, no matter how warm his hand or how sexy his lips. Forget fantasies of hot and wild passionate encounters with a strong man. She’d learned the hard way that to survive, she had to remain alone.
Period.
* * *
Her hand felt tiny in his. Right. A police shrink had described him once as having overly protective instincts toward delicate women, probably because he’d never had one in his life and wasn’t sure what to do with them. Even his one serious girlfriend had been a badass cop. The shrink had defined his instincts as a weakness.
But he was also a cop, and Pippa was lying. Was it possible she was a brainwashed cult member? When it had come down to it, Angus Force had refused to hand over her file for twenty-four hours. Just long enough for Mal to decide whether he wanted in or not.
He didn’t.
But he was curious about Pippa. Was she crazy? Or did she need help?
He led her out of the forest and onto their mutual lawn. “I’m having trouble organizing the kitchen,” he said, letting his shoulders slump.
She moved up to his side, not pulling her hand away. “Trouble?”
He’d noticed her house was perfectly organized, so he nodded and gave her his best helpless-guy look. “Yeah. I’m sure there’s a right drawer for utensils and stuff like that, but what goes where, you know?”
“Oh.” She looked at the back of his small white clapboard house and then at hers. While hers had a brick patio and his stone, they were basically identical. “Well, I could help, if you’d like.”
That was the idea. He let his eyes widen just a fraction. “Would you? That would be great. I can offer you lunch.”
Her brow wrinkled, making her look cute. Very. “You said you can’t cook.”
“No, but I can order pizza.” That quickly, he was back on the job and leading her to his house. “Do you think organizational skills are inherited or taught?”
“Probably taught,” she said, just as the rain started to fall in earnest.
Interesting. “Who taught you, beautiful?” he asked, sliding open his back door.
Her stride hitched as she followed him into the house. “Probably my mom?” Her voice had been slightly tentative, so he needed to open up before she did.
“I always wanted a mom.” He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over a kitchen chair. The house had come furnished, and the kitchen set was wooden and comfortable. “Never got one.”
Sympathy flashed in her blue eyes. “I’m sorry.”
