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“Ah… it’s nothing,” she said as she reached up and touched the Band-Aid at her temple.
It was probably a good idea to remind herself that she’d had a head injury recently.
“Let’s get you upstairs,” she said.
As they hit the carpeted steps, Darius’s bare torso became a serious distraction—and so was the fact that for some reason, he seemed to get stronger with every extension of his legs… to the point that, by the time they got to the second-story hallway, he was barely relying on her at all. Except no one could heal that fast. No one.
“Where do we go?” she asked.
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll just pick any guest suite.”
“So is your room somewhere else?”
“Yes, but here is good.”
He opened the first door they came to, and as the corridor’s light pierced into the darkness, she was not surprised at the glimpse of formal decor—and then he hit a switch just inside the room, and she got another eyeful of antiques and silk wallpaper and window dressings that were like ball gowns.
Where was his room? Maybe he didn’t want to take her there… but why?
“Can you tell me what happened tonight?” she asked as they stepped inside, one after the other.
There was a pause. “It’s a long story.”
“I understand if you can’t.” No, she didn’t. “Was anybody else hurt?”
“No.” His expression grew remote. “No one else was.”
Taking a deep breath, she found herself tensing up, as if she were about to be knocked off her feet—and not in a good way. “I’m not going to read about whatever it was in the newspaper tomorrow, am I.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I need to know…” Crossing her arms over her chest, she looked away and saw nothing of the bedroom. “Is it illegal, what you all are involved in? I don’t mind you keeping your privacy, but if it’s drugs, or something like that, I can’t—”
“It’s not that, I promise.” He put his hand over his heart. “We violate no laws, and we don’t hurt anybody unless they’re an imminent threat to our lives or the life of our… boss. And I know this sounds… ridiculous… but I’m going to have to use a movie line on you.”
“Which one? And it better not be from The Godfather. I really don’t want to hear anything about guns or cannoli right now.”
“We’re not the Mob.” He shook his head. “And the line is… the less you know, the safer you are. Seriously, Anne, this has nothing to do with the civilian side of things.”
Her brows lifted. “So you’re with the government? Exactly who is your boss?”
“I can’t tell you, I’m sorry. You’re just… going to have to trust me.”
Covert ops in Caldwell? she thought as she eyed him up and down.
“All you really need to know,” he said softly, “is that I will never hurt you. Ever.”
Anne thought about what his burns looked like. “Are you safe?”
“No, but I’m well-armed and well-trained, and I don’t take stupid chances.”
Abruptly overcome, she put her hand up to her mouth and blinked away tears. “You know what? In the next life, I’m coming back as an inanimate object. This human thing is just way too intense for me.”
“Anne—”
“No, I don’t want… to talk about anything like that anymore. I feel like my life has been spotlit for drama for way too long.”
Clearing her throat, she glanced down at the intricate, jewel-toned rug with a desperation that she couldn’t hide—and then she did what she could to wrench herself out of the tailspin. Walking around helped a little, and she decided that on that theory, she needed to go run a marathon.
Stopping in front of a dresser that had an inlaid design of flowers on every drawer, she reached out and traced the outline at the top level. “At least your boss has terrific taste in decor,” she said roughly. “Everything around here is like a stage set for an old Katharine Hepburn movie.”
“Yes, he does have a nice house.”
Aimlessly, she went over to check out the bathroom—okay, wow. The last time she had seen that much marble had been… well, never, actually.
Turning to face him, the yearning in his eyes was undisguised, and she teetered on the edge of an abyss. Then she realized he must be in pain, standing there with his back in the shape it was.
“You probably wish you could have a shower, don’t you,” she murmured, eyeing the dirt and the sweat and the smoke smudges that covered his chest.
He whispered something under his breath, something that sounded like, “It’s not the shower I want.”
But then, more loudly, he said, “Yeah, I wish I could get clean.”
“I’m sure it’s not allowed with your bandages, but how about I wash you on the bed? You know, with a hand towel? It won’t be as good, but—”
She lost track of what she was saying as she looked up into his face again.
