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I get up, ruffling my hair in unease. “Was walking by, just picked you up, brought you here, was gonna call 911, but then you woke up.”
“Perfect.”
“How long was I out?”
“Half—”
“Two minutes,”Roey corrects me. Thank God for this man.
“Two minutes,” I say.
“Huh.”
Doesn’t look like she believes me, and I feel even more like a scumbag, wanting to yank the stupid glasses off my face. They create a barrier from the beautiful eyes in front of me, the ones I want to bring closer and get lost in.
I take a deep breath. “I’m not leaving you here by yourself,” I say with as much confidence as I can master. “It’s late. If you pass out again… Have you been drinking?”
“Good, good.”
She nods. “Yeah, but…”
“Want me to call someone?”
“No, I live right here. I’ll just walk.”
“You’re not walking by yourself. There are bad guys on the streets at this time of night.”
She stares at me.
Shit.
Roey chuckles in my earpiece.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” I say, motioning in a vague direction. Suddenly, I feel protective of her. I want to make sure she gets home safe.
I help her up, and we make small talk as we walk.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Jace Reed.”
“You kidding me, Shooter?”
I shouldn’t have said my real name, but Lucy Moor’s voice is hypnotic, and without thinking, I tell her that I reside in Costa Mesa, California, and that I’m in New York for work, renting an Airbnb in Southern Brooklyn. Which is true. That’s where we anchored for the last several months tracking Reznik. It’s close to Brighton Beach where he was spotted last.
Lucy Moor is not shy and way too trusting. She has a soft sweet voice and contagious laughter. Also, gorgeous legs which are not so stable—blame the sedative for that—and the highest heels I’ve ever seen that reflect the streetlights like disco balls.
I offer my arm for stability, still feeling like a dick, and she wraps her hand around it, leaning on me just slightly. I want to carry her in my arms as an apology for what I just did to her.
She’s breathtakingly beautiful when she smiles. I’m sure she has many admirers, rich fancy guys, a whole city of them. Probably a fancy-ass boyfriend, too.
We pause only five streets away from the park at the doors to Goldsling Towers.
I look up, scanning the building that holds seven-figure condos with a view of Manhattan across the East River.
“You live here?” I muse.
“Yeah, for now.” She shrugs and looks up, too.
