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Forget the riverside condo, he thought as he stepped inside. There was something about the place that fitted her just fine: the comfort, the solidness of everything, the coziness, even the faint leather/wood/vanilla scent that stirred in the still air. He could easily see her stretched out on the sofa, feet propped on the back cushions, an old Etta James record spinning on the turntable.
“Quick tour,” she said, and headed from the room. There were no hallways on the first floor. A small bathroom opened up next door, stairs climbing to the next story, the kitchen beyond that, and a doorway from the kitchen led into a tiny laundry room, then the front room opposite the living room. That room was an office: computer, scanner, two printers, file cabinets, framed photos and her college degree. Back in the kitchen, glass jars filled with candy and snacks lined the counters, and the table, like its smaller twin in the living room, appeared to have escaped the barn but not before the roof collapsed on it. The aged wood had some serious dings.
“Let me grab some comfortable shoes.”
Before he could tell her he was big enough and brave enough to walk home alone, she was disappearing up the stairs. Rolling his eyes, he stopped in front of the bookcase and flipped through her record collection. She’d claimed blues and jazz as her favorites, and they did make up the bulk of the selections, but her tastes were much broader. Country, zydeco, classical, gospel, rock, and everything else shared the smaller of the bottom two shelves.
A few thunks and thuds filtered from above before Alia came down again. She’d changed not only shoes but clothing, too, from the minimalist dress to a pair of snug-fitting running shorts and a tank top that left even less to the imagination than the dress had. Her shoes were, by far, the most substantial thing she wore.
Landry’s gaze skimmed the running shoes, then slowly glided upward. Soft, smooth, bronzed skin—one of his weaknesses. Long sexy legs—another. A flat belly, a gentle curve from hip to waist, the roundness of her breasts, strong arms...
The crazy thought drifted through his mind that he didn’t need an escort home. He could just stay here until dawn, appreciating everything that went together to make her so damn appealing. He could even just look and not touch...though he wanted to touch, to stroke, to hold and kiss and see where things went from there.
Which would be pretty much nowhere. She was a cop. She was working a case that, lucky him, kept bringing them together. She wasn’t about to risk her job—or disappointing her father, the admiral—by messing around with him.
“You’re not really planning to walk home with me.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” She didn’t pause in the act of shrugging into a nylon shoulder holster—cooler, he assumed, than leather on a muggy night. Once she’d adjusted it the way she wanted it, she pulled a lightweight hoodie on over it.
He swallowed hard. He’d never been drawn to delicate women in need of a big strong man to protect them, and Alia was a prime example why. She damn well protected herself, and he found that way sexier than a damsel in distress.
Beads of sweat were gathering across his skin, sliding down the center of his spine, and they made his voice thick, even though he tried to hide it with teasing. “What’s the plan? If we get mugged, you’ll hold them off while I run for help?”
She smoothed the jacket over the holster, then flashed him a measuring look, from his worn T-shirt all the way down to the ratty sandals on his feet. Her gaze was warm and heated him from the inside out. “I don’t know how fast you can run.”
“Doesn’t matter. I only have to be able to outrun you.”
She smirked. “Not likely. I’ll tell you what, if we get mugged, I’ll handle the bad guys. Then you can thank me later.”
He knew exactly what form he would want that thank-you to take. Blocking the image from his mind, he snorted. “I think getting to kick bad-guy ass in front of me would be reward enough for you.”
“It is my favorite activity,” she agreed as she opened the door, locking up behind them. For a moment, she stopped on the porch, still, a shadow among other shadows, the only sound her slow, even breaths. She stood, eyes closed, listening, and he watched her, also listening. Slowly other noises joined her breaths: his own breathing, a baby crying next door, the soft steps of the fattest orange cat he’d ever seen stalking across the neighbor’s porch. A helicopter buzzed overhead, navigational lights blinking in the dark sky, and a motorcycle roared a few blocks away, the two engines combined so powerful they seemed to vibrate the ground under their feet.
The whole quiet of it was relaxing. Give him a drink and a few hours’ use of one of her comfortable-looking chairs, and he couldn’t think of much else he might want.
