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Graham smelled like money and fame, not that she could exactly describe what either one smelled like, but she knew it when she sniffed it, the same way she knew that the future of her business depended on what happened next. She pulled in the few molecules of air his presence hadn’t already burned up. “I don’t really mind you mucking about in there like that, but I am curious what you’re looking for.”
He shoved the clutch back at her. “Something that’ll explain why you’ve been following me.”
She’d been so careful! Her mind raced. How had she given herself away? What rookie mistake had she made that had sunk her? All her hard work was for nothing—sleeping in her car, living on junk food, peeing into the Tinkle Belle, and—worst of all—spending her life savings buying Dove Investigations from her cheating, detestable stepmother. Dove Investigations—the detective agency her grandfather had founded, her father had built, and the one that would have been hers from birth if her father hadn’t been so bullheaded. Every sacrifice she’d made would be useless. She’d be forced back to life in a cubicle, right along with having to live with the knowledge that a pampered jock like Cooper Graham had gotten the best of her.
Acid churned in the pit of her stomach. She arranged her forehead in a confused frown. “Following you?”
He stood silhouetted against the framed Chicago Stars jersey displayed on the wall behind him. His blue, button-down shirt made his already formidable shoulders look even wider, and the rolled-up sleeves showcased the lean muscles of his lower arms. The expert fit of his dark jeans—neither too tight nor too loose—exhibited the long, powerful legs that had been designed by God to be steady, strong, and quick—much to the disadvantage of her Chicago Bears.
His gaze was as grim as an Illinois winter. “I’ve seen you parked outside my condo, following me to my gym, to here. And I want to know why.”
She’d thought she was being so inventive with all her disguises. How had he managed to see through them? Denial would be futile. She sank onto the couch and tried to think.
He waited. Arms folded. Standing on the sidelines watching the enemy’s offense fall apart.
“Well . . .” She swallowed. Looked up at him. “The fact is . . .” She released her breath in a whoosh. “I’m your stalker.”
“Stalker?”
A rush of adrenaline spread through her. She wouldn’t go down without a fight, and she shot up from the couch. “Not a dangerous one. Lord, no. Merely obsessed.”
“With me.” A statement, not a question. He’d been here before.
“I don’t make a habit of stalking people. This . . . quite got away from me, you see.” She didn’t know exactly how this tactic could save her, but she plunged on. “I’m not full-out barmy, you understand. Just . . . mildly unhinged.”
He cocked his head, but at least he was listening. And why not? Lunatics were always fascinating.
“I assure you, I’m only a bit of a nutter,” she said breathlessly. “Absolutely harmless. You don’t have to worry about violence.”
“Only that I have a stalker.”
“Not the first one, I daresay. A man like you . . .” She paused and tri
ed not to choke. “A god.”
The hard look in his eyes indicated he wasn’t easily swayed by flattery. “I don’t want to see you anywhere near me again. Got it?”
She got it. It was over. Fini. But still, she couldn’t give up. “I’m afraid that will be impossible.” She paused. “Until my new medication kicks in.”
The cleft in his chin deepened as he set his jaw. “What you’re doing is illegal.”
“And mortifying. You can’t imagine how humiliating it is to be in this position. Nothing is more painful than . . . unrequited love.” The last two words came out as a croak she hoped he’d attribute to adoration, because everything about him got her hackles up. His size, his good looks, but most of all, the arrogance that came from a lifetime of people kissing his taut butt just because he’d been born with natural talent.
He didn’t show even a flicker of sympathy. “If I catch sight of you again, I’m calling the cops.”
“I—I understand.” She was done. This had been a futile tactic from the beginning. Unless . . . She nodded at him with manufactured sympathy. “I understand how terrifying this must be to you.”
He leaned back ever so slightly on the heels of his cowboy boots. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“Rubbish.” Maybe she’d found the chink in his manly armor. “You’re terrified I might suddenly pop out at you when you’re walking down the street. That I’ll be armed with one of those odious handguns you insane Americans insist on carrying around like chewing gum.” And like the Glock in her car trunk. “I’d never do that. Good gracious, no! But you don’t know that for certain, and how would you defend yourself?”
“I think I could handle you,” he said dryly.
She managed to look puzzled. “If that’s true, why would you be concerned about a harmless twit like myself following you around for a bit?”
He no longer seemed quite so laid-back. “Because I don’t like it.”
She tried to appear both sympathetic and adoring. “So terrifying for you.”
