“We barely spoke three sentences.”
It was more than three sentences. At least fifteen.
“When something didn’t sound right to you, it was written all over your face. You hadn’t quite perfected the poker face you’ve worn for us most of the time.”
“Most of the time.”
“Yeah, it slips when your little comes out.” I shrugged to show her it was no big deal.
“I . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“The way you blinked back tears of joy when the raid of the hotel in Spain was complete and it was announced we saved fourteen girls gave me some insight into your character, but when you broke down once we discovered two other girls had been murdered by the men holding them captive, it took everything in me not to go to you and hold you until your tears stopped.”
“Patrick.” She whispered my name.
“I think your little spoke to me in a way that made me feel you needed rescuing yourself. I was disappointed when I heard you left the FBI, but then you showed up on our doorstep. It felt like fate.” The explanation sounded ridiculous in my head as I said it. “I saw you and wanted you, and I hoped you might have wanted me, too.”
“I didn’t come here for you.”
“Yeah, I get that now.” A bit of a blow to my ego, but all wasn’t lost. “But I still feel a need to take care of you. To protect you, even from yourself.”
“I can take care of myself.” Her voice rose another octave.
“Can you? Let’s recap the trouble you have gotten yourself into in the last few weeks. You have infiltrated a multibillion-dollar company by getting close to the sixth, maybe seventh most powerful person in said company to gather evidence of all the company’s wrongdoing, of which you have found none. You attempted to convince Rayna and Tinley that they were being held captive despite all the evidence to the contrary. And you have been insubordinate to all your superiors with no justification. Did I forget anything?”
She remained silent.
“From what I understand, you had this workable theory prior to your exit from the FBI; why didn’t you share it with them?”
“I didn’t want to be right.”
And there it was.
Kylie’s arms dropped to her side. She leaned forward, studying the floor, and tapped the wooden coffee table with her toe.
“Are they okay?” She peeked at me but looked away when I caught her eye.
“Rayna and Tinley?”
She nodded.
“They will be.”
“They hate me.” A tear fell from her eye and slid down her cheek before she hung her head again.
“They don’t hate you.” I sat next to her. “They don’t understand.”
Her head whipped up. “They aren’tactuallychildren, you know.”
“Exactly.” I nodded. “And they have made informed and uncoerced decisions to live a lifestyle they love with men who would and have the means to do anything for them and to make them feel safe about their choice. If you had asked them that, you might have gotten the answers you’re looking for faster. I think that’s what they’re more upset about.”
Kylie was doing it again—pulling back, shutting down, the warmth draining from her face the way light leaves a room. I recognized the retreat. I had seen it before, in her and in others, and it never got easier to watch. Something tightened in my chest.
“But you can make it right.”
“How?” Tears streamed down her face. She hugged herself.
“Kylie.” I turned and faced her. I left her chin and stared into her eyes. “You’re killing me. Let me hold you, please.”
