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Something inside her brain started circling, around and around, and she almost fell over.
“Hey.” Ben stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the chaos and holding her steady with hands on her forearms. “You okay?”
If anyone but him, any voice but that soft, reassuring tone, had asked the question, she might have lost it. The calm demeanor only held so long. With the adrenaline rush gone and the shock of what could have happened settling in, her mask slipped. She felt raw, as if someone had flipped her inside out.
She managed a half smile. It was forced, but she tried. “Do you want an honest answer?”
“Probably not.” A policeman tapped Ben on the shoulder and he waved the officer away.
Suddenly desperate, she grabbed Ben’s hand and pulled him back to face her. Through everything, he kept her centered. Focused.
His arrival had given her hope. He had sent her the signal when he needed her to fight off her attacker. Then he had saved her with a single shot.
For a woman who had seen so much pain and death on the job, it was the terror she’d experienced in her home this second time that threatened to break her apart. Smash her right into pieces on the floor.
After all those months of learning to handle her anxiety and dealing with the newfound issues of needing everything just so, she was plunged back into a cycle of spiraling fear.
But he, a guy trained to kill, the exact type she should have run from, had proved to be a lifeline. She searched her mind for the right words. When nothing came to her, she went with something heartfelt but simple.
“Thank you,” she said as she squeezed his hand.
He leaned in as those intense eyes softened. “You saved yourself. You called and left the line open, which let me know you were in danger. You nailed him in the stomach when I needed the distraction to get the upper hand.”
“I got lucky.”
“No, you used your head.” Ben warmed her hand in both of his with a gentle rubbing. “Without your fast thinking, this would have turned out differently.”
“So, the urge to heave up my dinner will pass?”
He chuckled, rich and as soothing as a sweet caress. “Eventually.”
A tall man with black hair and startling bright blue eyes walked over. He wore khakis and a polo shirt. Not a police officer but definitely in charge. Everyone certainly acted as if he was. He also looked familiar. Jocelyn knew the face, but the waves of exhaustion crashing over her now made finding the memory impossible.
He spared her a quick glance before launching into conversation. “You’re going to need to do an inventory, but nothing obvious is missing.”
Ben dropped her hand but rested his palm on her shoulder. “Jocelyn, do you remember Connor Bowen?”
Relief battled with the need to close her eyes as she leaned against Ben. The pieces from the past few months fell together—the hospital and the coma patient. Endless rounds of questions about when the man would wake up and how quickly the nurses could clear the floor if needed. “He’s your boss.”
Connor held out his hand and gave hers a shake. “That’s how I like to think of it.”
“No overturned drawers. Electronics are all here. I saw some jewelry.” Another man walked up, reading from a list and ticking off each item. “The bedroom is painfully neat.”
Yeah, that described her. Painfully neat. She decided to remind the guy she was sitting right there before he said anything embarrassing about how her underwear sat in stacks arranged by color. “Hello.”
Ben pointed at the newcomer. “And this is Davis Weeks. He’s basically the second in command at the Corcoran Team.”
She remembered the company name. Sort of.
“Ma’am.” Davis nodded, then launched right back into the rest of his speech. “There’s no identification on the guy. There’s a chloroform-soaked rag on the floor, so he came prepared and likely didn’t expect a fight.”
A bone-crushing tremor shook through her. “He tried that first, then went with the knife.”
Ben swore under his breath. “The important thing is he didn’t hurt you.”
Scared the crap out of her, but didn’t really touch her, unless you counted the small nick and the nasty bit of manhandling. His smell, the threats and the sick glee he took in saying them would stick with her for a long time. But as a critical-care nurse, she’d seen real injuries, blood spurting and watched as the life drained out of patients. Using that scale, she was pretty lucky.
She kept repeating that, hoping she’d come to believe it.
“You must have messed up his burglary plans,” Connor said. “Good for you.”
“No.” The word slipped out before she could think it through, but she knew she was right. This went beyond taking a television or rummaging through her wallet for cash.
