After swallowing down three fingers of whiskey as if it isn’t scorching her throat, Regan utters, “I’m not agreeing to anything until you spell out your terms.”
I shake my head when she dips the whiskey my way, wordlessly asking if I’d like a drink. Although I am not officially on the job, I don’t drink when I’m on a case.
While Regan downs another hefty serving of whiskey, I scan her apartment. It doesn’t take long to note her lack of security. Except for the camera in the hallway, there isn’t a single safety measure in place.
“You need better security measures implemented in your home.” I sound pissed. Justly so. I am pissed—peeved as fuck. Regan is a beautiful, highly successful woman. She is a prime target for neurotic, insolent men with too much time of their hands. "You don't need cameras like the ones in the hall, but something more than a lock that can be kicked in without effort."
Regan grumbles something under her breath, but with a whiskey glass attached to her mouth, I miss what she says. Before she can swallow her fourth double shot in less than a minute, I swipe the glass out of her hand and place it on the circular table she is standing beside. She attempts to protest, but pressing my finger to her lips stops her.
I wait for lust to overtake the panic in her eyes before saying, “I want you to come stay with me at my apartment.”
“Nope. No. Nada. Uh-huh. No,” Regan replies, imitating Tracy Morgan’s character inCop Out.“That is not happening. I’d rather be mutilated than go anywhere with you.”
I ignore yet another rejection. “Then once better security has been installed, we can return here.”
“We? What do you meanwe? There is nowe!Youwalked out of here, leavingmehanging. I couldn’t even. . .” She paces on the spot, seemingly lost on how to voice the rest of her reply.
“You couldn’t even. . .?” I push along, unashamed. The best thing I can do for her in her panicked state is keep her talking. The faster she releases the tension in her stomach, the faster she’ll help me identify the person responsible for her anxiety. It will be a win-win for both of us.
My plan goes to shit when Regan locks her furious green eyes with mine. Her flaring nostrils and gritted teeth reveal she isn’t panicked—she’s frustrated.
The reason behind her frustration comes to light when she sneers, “Even with how badly you left me hanging, I couldn’t get myself off! Why do you think you heard ‘moans and groans’?!” She air quotes my earlier reference. “They weren’t happy ones! They were made in frustration!” She steps closer to me, aligning her thrusting chest with mine. “You don’t need to rush in and protect me, Mr. Fancy Pants. I haven’t come in over two months. I’m as dangerous as I can get, so you’d do best not to cross me.”
I’ve got nothing. No words. No reply. Just a raging fucking hard on that’s in the process of busting the zipper in my jeans. Thank fuck I wore jeans tonight as the flimsy fly in my suit wouldn’t have withstood the pressure.
Recognizing I’m five seconds from relieving Regan from her predicament, I mutter, “You need to pack quickly. The last bus arrives in twenty minutes.”
Disgust crosses Regan’s features. I don’t know if the mention of public transport is the reason for her greening gills or the fact I failed to acknowledge her inability to climax since I arrived in her life.
Upon spotting a tempestuous storm brewing in Regan’s eyes, I yank my cellphone out of my pocket. “Fine. If you don’t want to do things my way, I’ll call in Ravenshoe PD. At least you’re wearing black; the ink stains on your fingers won’t be obvious.”
The facts included in my admission cause Regan to balk. “Why would I be fingerprinted?”
Although she is asking a question, I don’t need to answer her. I can tell when she reached her own conclusion as she growled a curse word under her breath.
“You play dirty,” she sneers before pushing off her feet.
“You have no idea,” I mumble as I follow her through her palatial apartment.
Once she reaches her bedroom, she yanks down a bag before setting to work on packing her belongings. She hasn’t given in. The constant murmur of checking into a hotel assures me of this. There’s no way in hell she’s staying at a hotel, but since she is packing of her own free will, I have no reason to advise her of this. Not yet.
I stop grinning at the number of F-bombs she drops while shoving designer clothes into her bag when she enters her bathroom. Although not as clear as it was earlier, the evidence of the crime committed here tonight is still shocking. She didn’t just have her privacy invaded; her life was targeted.
“Come on,” I say, curling my arm around her shoulders to guide her out of the bathroom. “I’ve got spare toothbrushes at my place. Anything else you need we can get in the morning.”
I gather her bag off her monstrous bed and a coat from her closet before heading for her front door.
Regan remains mute the entire time, only shaking her head when I ask, “Do you want to drop by reception on the way out to request a new door?”
I manage to close the door, but with the wood swelling under my boot, it’s a tight fit. I doubt it can be reopened without a crowbar and a whole lot of muscle.
My swollen chest stops inflating when Regan advises, “I have a friend in construction. I’ll ask him to drop by tomorrow and replace it.”
I don’t know what compels me, but I can’t help but ask, “Does he happen to own this building?”
Relief swallows me whole when Regan shakes her head. “I’d rather my landlord remain unaware of my adventurous night.” Put off by my surprised expression, she quickly adds on, “He might raise my rent if he thinks I’m destroying the place.”
After a quick nod to hide my suspicion, I chaperone her to the elevator bank at the end of the hallway. We ride the elevator in silence, my thoughts elsewhere. Regan’s confession was one development I never anticipated. I thought she’d run to Isaac at the first sign of trouble. Instead, she’s hiding from him.
