Page 152

Think, Murphy. Think.

Because if he was right — and gut deep, he knew he was — Felicity wasn’t planning to walk away from Clearbrook.

She was planning to throw her life away.

*

Ronan sat with the conundrum for several days. He didn’t mention it to Felicity. Didn’t confront her.

Instead, he watched.

And the closer he paid attention, the more convinced he became that his instincts were right. The certainty settled in one evening after supper.

They were on the deck, watching the dogs roam the yard. She was smoking. Not something she often did in front of him. “If something happens to me, will you take care of Galina’s dogs?”

Ronan stilled at her question, looked at her. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.” Not if he had anything to say about it.

Felicity gave a brittle laugh. “I’m law enforcement, Ronan. Shit happens.”

She was studiously avoiding his gaze.

Staring out at the yard.

At the dogs.

Anywhere but him.

The question lingered between them a beat too long.

“Never mind,” she muttered, crushing out the cigarette.

He caught her wrist before she could pull away. “Yes.”

Her gaze snapped to his.

“If something happens to you,” he said quietly, “I’ll take care of them.”

He swallowed, debating whether to say more. Hell. “But I need a promise from you in return.”

She raised her brows. “What?”

His chest tightened. “Don’t do something foolhardy.”

Silence from her.

The kind that told him far more than words ever could.

She shoved her chair back. “Getting another beer. You want one, Marine?”

Ronan held her gaze for a moment. He shook his head. “Felicity—”

“Back in a minute.”

She disappeared into the house, leaving him alone with his increasingly disturbed thoughts.

Their lovemaking held an almost desperate edge that night, and long after Felicity fell asleep, Ronan lay awake staring at the ceiling, listening to her even breathing, the ladies’ wheezing, and the sounds of summer drifting through the open window.

Peaceful sounds.