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“Sexy, huh?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “Everything about you is sexy.” Her cheeks don’t heat this time. She’s not flirting. She’s just being raw and real, and fuck, I need raw and real. I needher.
“Show me,” I reply softly, “when we get to my bed. Sleep now, while the air is calm.”
Her lashes lower and seconds pass before she whispers, “I can’t believe you really came back.”
I’m going to change that, I think. I’m going to make sure she knows that I won’t just come back. I won’t leave. Ever. I lay there and watch her for a good thirty minutes until I’m certain she’s asleep. Then and only then, do I grab the MacBook and try Walker again. This time I connect easily and go live with Blake.
Anything new?I type.
Nothing urgent enough to discuss while you’re in the air. Everyone is safe and secure. We’re gathering data to review with you when you arrive. Anything I need to know or relay to Adam?
We suspect Harper is being set-up as a fall guy who ended up too dead to defend herself.
My thoughts as well, he replies.
Isaac tried to break me and Harper up today. He told me some fucked up shit that was all lies. Harper suspects Gigi wanted to have her killed and set me up as the killer.
What do you think?he asks.
Gigi is an evil bitch, I reply, and I know that’s all Blake needs to hear, but I add,Keep her the fuck away from Harper’s mother.
He doesn’t immediately answer, and my fingers thrum the seat. What the hell is going on? A bad feeling claws at me and I’m about to nudge him when he finally goes live again.
Plot twist,his message reads. Harper’s mother is at Gigi’s house. I’m sending Adam to the door as a maintenance man to check on her.
Fuck,I think, barely holding back verbal reaction.
My gaze lands on Harper, beautiful in slumber, her dark lashes half-moons against her flawless skin. She’s trusting me to take care of her and her mother or she wouldn’t be asleep. Damn it, I have to act, and I’m about to piss Harper off again. sets hard and I type a reply to Blake:Get her mother out of there and I don’t care how you do it. Adam needs to throw her over his damn shoulder if that’s what it takes.
Chapter fifty-two
Eric
The alarm on my watch beeps and my eyes open, and for a moment, I stare up at the airplane ceiling, clearing the numbers cluttering my mind. It’s a process I learned in the military, a way I take control of my mind from the moment I start my day. Beside me Harper murmurs something and I rotate to face her only to find her dreaming and sound asleep. She’s so fucking beautiful and too good for the likes of me. If I’m honest, part of me pushes her to prove she’s as human and damaged as the rest of this damn family, because then we’d make more sense. But I’m coming to believe that it’s our differences that pull us together that can make us both stronger and better.
She’s mine now, even if she doesn’t know it yet. Mine to protect. Nothing else can matter until I ensure she’s safe. A thought that has me sitting up and checking for an internet connection again with no success. I store my MacBook in the seat pocket and lay back down, reaching out to caress Harper’s cheek. She doesn’t wake up. Right now, she’s with me, in the air, safe, and some part of her knows that.
Some part of her trusts me the way I told her I need to trust her. The problem is that I’m a fucking hypocrite. I’ve demanded honesty from her but I haven’t told her everything. I have my own secrets. Things she will not like, but I’ll have to share with her. And I’ll have to pray she can read past my history and see how she’s changed me. I need to build trust with her and damn it, that means keeping my promise to keep her mother safe, but I’m not on the ground. Adam is. I’m trusting Adam to keep my promise to Harper.
Adam is the one protecting her mother.
Adam
Denver, CO
A master of disguise.
It’s what I do, a skill I learned while on the road with my mother and her boyfriend, along with their pack of criminal friends during most of my youth. I’m dressed as a repairman in a blue jumpsuit with a pair of brown contacts over my blue eyes. My black hair is slicked back. I ring the bell of the stucco home wrapped in ivy and wait for an answer.
A mid-thirties brunette I know to be Celia Ramirez, Gigi’s housekeeper of five years answers the door. “Yes?”
“There’s a gas leak on the street.” I show her a clipboard. “We need to check the lines running in and out of the house to assure we aren’t on the verge of a catastrophic event.”
“Oh God,” Celia says. “That sounds terrifying. What do I need to do?”
“I’ll need access inside to determine where the pipes might be under pressure. From what I can tell from the maps, it’s the kitchen and the backyard that need attention.”
