Unless I reallywasin danger.
But I wasn’t. I led a quiet, simple life, not the kind that had people hunting me.
Water. Water was what I needed. Or maybe I needed a distraction. I threw back the covers and padded to the door, slipping into the dark hallway. A thin strip of light came from downstairs. Izzy or Tristan must have left a light on.
I yawned as I took the stairs, heading for the kitchen. A soft tapping sound grew louder as I approached—rhythmic, deliberate, like fingers on a keyboard.
When I rounded the corner, I stopped.
Garrett sat at the breakfast table, hunched over a laptop. Only the under-cabinet lights were on, so the screen’s glow cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the furrow between his brows. He looked different without the scowl, just as focused and intense, but almost peaceful.
And shirtless. I held my breath. He was definitely shirtless.
He glanced up before I could retreat, his hands stilling over the keyboard.
I was a deer, trapped and unable to take my eyes off his headlights.
Pecs, Grace. They’re called pecs. And they’re just muscles. Everyone has them.
I swallowed hard, trying not to stare at the expanse of muscled torso on display. He wore nothing more than a pair of black athletic shorts, and holy mother of all things holy, this man was sex on a stick. My gaze caught on a sprawling tattoo decorating his right shoulder—some military thing with too many images to make out, other than a trident, a mermaid, and a tropical flower. Another design wrapped around his left arm, made of intricate lines that danced up his shoulder in blacks and blues.
For a split second, the covers of my romance novels flashed through my brain—the ones with brooding warriors whose abs were impossibly defined. Except Garrett’s weren’t airbrushed or exaggerated. They were real, marked with at least one scar that told a story I desperately wanted to read. He ran a hand over his short beard, and another thought crept into my head, of what his beard might feel like against my cheek. Was it bristly? Or was it soft?
He cleared his throat, and I nearly died of embarrassment on the spot.
“Um…”God, that was eloquent.I forced my eyes up to meet his.
He frowned. He’d absolutely caught me staring. “Can’t sleep?”
“Just needed some water,” I said, suddenly conscious of my thin pajama pants and oversized T-shirt. And my lack of a bra.Myheadlights weren’t showing, were they? I gestured vaguely toward the fridge. “Sorry to interrupt. I didn’t realize you were here.”
“I crashed on their couch,” he said, closing the laptop slightly. “It’s closer to the airport for tomorrow.”
I nodded, moving toward the cabinet for a glass. “That makes sense.”
Did it? If he had a hotel in Brenton, he was exactly as close to the airport from there as he would be here. One side of town versus another might add five minutes to the drive to Lansing. Or was this about the job of escorting me to London already being in progress? Had I signed an invisible contract when I agreed to take the private jet?
I could feel his eyes on me as I filled my glass from the filtered pitcher in the fridge. When I turned back, he’d reopened his laptop, but he didn’t look down.
“I take protection seriously,” he added, as if he’d heard the questions in my head.
“I gathered that when you pulled a gun in my apartment.”
“Standard procedure.”
The little round table had four chairs, and I deliberated before settling on one next to him. Directly across would have been too confrontational. “What are you researching at”—I glanced at the microwave clock—“one thirty in the morning?”
He hesitated, then swiveled the laptop so I could see the screen. An article about Fabergé eggs filled the display, with photos of ornate designs in gold and jewels.
“I wanted some background on what we’re dealing with,” he said. “Especially the history of recovery. When the Third Imperial Egg was found in 2012, the guy had no idea what he had. It sounded a lot like your experience.”
“Yeah, I read his story.” I took a sip from my glass. “He’d bought it at a flea market for about thirteen thousand, and planned to melt it down to make a profit on the gold content.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Good thing he didn’t.”
“It was estimated at around thirty million.” My stomach clenched. With so many millions, I could outfit The Velvet Bean with the best equipment, new furniture, cut prices, and still add staff. “It sold privately, so no idea what it sold for in the end.”
He nodded. “I didn’t see any reports of violence or danger. Ideally, everything goes smoothly in London for you, too.”
