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Jeans. Just my jeans. Still half on, the waistband stretched taut against my calves. Christ, I’d fallen asleep with them around my legs?
Shifting on the rumpled bed, I yanked them completely off and then scanned the room.
Ronnie was not there.
A hot lump settled in my throat.
“Ronnie?”
Silence answered my call. Nothing to get too freaked out about. Our home wasn’t small. Perhaps she was downstairs in the living area or kitchen. Or in the gym on the bottom floor.
Maybe she was in the private shooting range on the same level. During the last seven days, I’d shown her how to fire a variety of small handguns. Maybe she was honing her skill. And skilled she was. If I didn’t know the truth of the matter, I would have bet good money she was a practiced marksman already. She rarely missed her target with any gun I gave her, except for a Glock. For some reason, there was something about a Glock that fucked up her aim.
Heart thumping faster than I liked, I climbed off the bed and hurried from the room.
“Ronnie?” I yelled, striding along the hallway. Perhaps she was in the room I’d set up as an office, ordering pizza on my laptop.
What time was it anyway?
I glanced at my watch. Fuck. After four. I’d slept for over three hours. Christ. She could be anywhere by now.
Beach.
The taunting thought scraped at my tenuous calm. I ground my teeth, glaring at my empty office. I thought I’d fucked the rebellious notion of venturing beyond the walls of our home from her. If she was at the beach… If she was exposed…unprotected…
“Fuck,” I muttered, spinning on my heel to head downstairs to the living area. “Ronnie?”
My voice bounced around the silence.
The living room was empty. So was the kitchen. An empty glass sat upside down in the sink, the only sign Ronnie had been there at some point. She’d had a drink of water before going wherever she went.
I clenched my jaw. Goddamn it, when I found her, I was going to turn her ass red with my hand. And then fuck her senseless.
She wasn’t in the home theater room. Or the laundry.
The lack of sound in the gym told me before I even reached the lower level she wasn’t there.
“Fuck,” I ground out again.
Okay. Time to get some clothes on and go looking for her outside.
I took the stairs three at a time, launching myself up into the living area again, gaze flicking towards the glass doors leading out onto the deck, and froze.
Movement.
In the bushes.
Chest tight, limbs loose—ready to coil—I crossed the living room, my stare fixed on the dense garden beside the grassed backyard.
The sun reflected off the glass of the door, hitting my eyes for a split second. But in that split second, I swore I saw the bush move again. Too high for an animal…
Ronni
e? Gardening?
I slid the glass door open. The sounds of birds and nature wafted on the still air. In the distance, waves crashed against the sand. Were those waves streaming around Ronnie’s ankles? Was she down there? Alone?
Chest growing tighter, I narrowed my eyes and studied the garden.
