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Still haven’t figured out if he broke in here or if he was telling the truth about knowing the people who own the place. Mixed signals there, wh
at with his vague “something like that” answers.
As if that matters anymore.
Storm drags me to the study and releases my hand. We crouch and scoot by the window. Sunlight dapples the rich wood of the floor, bringing out red and yellow streaks. I stare at it, unable to hold on to anything but this one question: how in the world was I found? I was so careful. I thought I was.
I think again of the gardener I saw, then the flash and the figure I thought I saw moving behind the fence. Again it makes no sense. If they’d found me, why wait? What’s going on? And if they’re after Storm…
A shot cracks through the house, and I flinch. My fingers clench around the handle of the Browning. One more shot. Something crashes in the direction of the kitchen.
Then I hear sirens wailing. They’re approaching fast. Several cars, from the sound of it. I glance at Storm. He’s crouched beside me, gun pointing up, his gaze flicking between the door and the window. His jaw is set, his hand on the gun steady.
More shots are fired, and I’m not sure where. Storm grabs my shoulder, squeezes. He’s such a solid presence. Gives me courage. Gives me strength.
The door in the main hall bangs open, and I jerk. Storm’s hand keeps me down as heavy steps sound, nearing us.
“Storm!” a man’s deep voice calls. “Where the hell are you, man? Place is clear, come on out.”
Storm lets out a long breath and stands up, pulling me with him. “In here.”
“Who’s that?” I mutter, my heart still racing.
We step out into the hallway, and a tall, blond guy in a leather jacket, jeans and biker boots is striding toward us.
“This is Hawk,” Storm says and lets go of me to grab the guy in a man-hug, complete with back thumping. “Good friend of mine.”
“Your only friend.” The guy grunts and turns his gaze on me. Light gray, it gives him a fierce air. His pale hair is cropped close to his skull. The dark lines of a tattoo climb up his thick neck. “So this is the girl.”
“The girl?” I glance from one to the other. Storm rubs a hand over his face. “What’s going on? How did they find me?”
“Your photo was all over the internet, sweetheart,” this guy, Hawk, drawls, eyes narrowing. “By the pool, with Storm in the background. How do you think that happened?”
“Reporters,” Storm spits the word out.
“The gardener I saw…”
“… was no gardener,” he finishes for me. “Someone must have seen us on the beach and reported it, then the vultures came around to investigate the rumor. I should have seen it coming.”
Reporters? Why would anyone report seeing us? It’s not like I’m anyone famous or anything. This is so weird.
I want to ask Storm about it, but he looks pissed, mouth a thin line, a smudge of dirt on his jaw, and when he takes a step back, his knee starts to fold beneath him.
Both Hawk and I reach for him.
He lets me wrap my arm around him and stops Hawk with a lifted hand.
A hand that’s still wrapped around the gun.
“Whoa.” Hawk lifts his hands. “Easy there, buddy. Put that down.”
“Maybe we can chat later,” I mutter. “We should be on our way.”
The feel of Storm’s hard body pressed to mine feels ungodly good, steadying me as much as I’m steadying him, and I try to ignore it. To ignore how the mere touch of his skin on mine both calms and excites me.
He clicks the safety on and points his SIG down. “Are you sure the place is clean?”
“The police are sweeping the grounds as we speak. I’ve called a car for you. Safer that way.” Hawk shrugs those broad shoulders. “If you’re ready to head home, that is.”
