AllFreeNovel
Share Us
No comment there. She gestured to the sofa. “Want a beer?”
His gaze went to her bottle, sitting on the table, then he shook his head. “Water.”
Huh. She went to the kitchen.
He followed her, and the sense of him in her space, this man who embodied both mystery and the eerie aura of home sneaked under her skin and stayed there.
She didn’t hate it, or the way his presence made every cell in her body buzz.
He was a handsome man, even in his untucked state.
Oh, for Pete’s sake, calm down.
She filled the glass with ice, then water and handed it to him. He drank it down and set it on the counter.
“Want to talk about it?”
He shook his head.
Right. “Want something to eat?”
“If I eat, I’ll just…no.” His gaze had gone to a picture on her counter and he seemed fixed on it.
“That was taken a month ago, during my Dad’s annual birthday party.”
“Yeah,” he said, like he knew about it. Maybe he did because the event was sort of legendary in the force. A big blowout every year on the lake.
He’d been in the hospital during the party this year.
Rembrandt turned away from the picture and looked out to the backyard. “Samson has started on your deck.”
Last time he’d been here, Sams was working on the kitchen tile. “He pulled in Asher to help.”
“How is he?”
“Sams?”
“Asher. Did he get into any trouble sneaking back into the house?”
Ah, Rembrandt was referring to last month’s sneak and grab of Asher to do some hacking into a database of coffee distributors. “No,” she said and walked back into the dining room to grab her beer. “He seems to know the ropes. Has a ladder right outside his window, if that isn’t obvious. But my dad seems to have rules only for his daughter. Even if she is twenty-six and can fend for herself.”
Right then, Mariah Carey came on the radio, singing Always Be My Baby, and Rembrandt looked at her, his expression almost stripped, and raw.
“Are you all right?” She walked over to turn off the radio—
“Leave it,” Rem said quietly, his voice a low rumble. He leaned against her door frame, his hands in his pockets. He wore a five o’clock grizzle on his chin, his hair roughed up. And despite his youth, his gaze held something deeper, an appreciation, maybe, in his deep blue eyes. It sent a dark simmer under her skin. “You have paint on your chin.”
She touched her face.
“I got it.” He came over and used his thumb to wipe it away. Then he cleaned it on his already stained shirt.
“Rem—whose blood is that?”
“It’s the brother of a drug lord named Hassan Abdilhali.”
“What happened?” She touched his arm—oh, he had a nice bicep there.
He took a breath and moved away from her, something terrible in his eyes.
