Awaken to Danger (7 page)

origami bird.

She inched backward, then caught herself. This was her home, her life. She stood taller and stood him

down. "Stop trying to be charming."

His beautiful smile and laugh faded to a mere echo. "I thought you accepted my apology."

"I did." She wadded the tissue in her hand, tossing it aside with a final sniffle. Cold. Not tears. No more

tears over this man. "But you can drop the charming friend act. There's no going back to how things

were. You had your chance, and you blew it, dude."

His mouth went tight, his eyes dropping away from hers. Pausing. Holding. Right at her shirt level.

A damp T-shirt she now realized clung to her breasts that happened to be hyperaware of the sexy blond

hunk standing a reach away.

Carson's hands shook from resisting the urge to reach for Nikki and cup her breasts that he happened to

know fit perfectly in his palms.

And damn it all, why did he have to remember the feel and taste and texture of her in his mouth right

now? Washed-thin cotton clung to her skin and subtle curves, begging to be peeled up and off so he

could dip his head and lick away whatever water remained on her skin.

Water.

He needed to remember what had happened tonight, how she'd almost plunged to her death, would have

if not for the pool below. The thought alone served as an effective cold splash on his heated body. That

railing shouldn't have given way. This was a new complex with pristine upkeep. He couldn't ignore the

possibility that someone could have tampered with the balcony rail, someone who didn't want her to

remember what happened that night in Owens's VOQ room.

He could be wrong, but it was a helluva lot safer to err on the side of caution. "You shouldn't stay here

by yourself."

Her spine went straighter, which just so happened to press her peaked breasts tighter against the T-shirt.

Counting to ten—twenty—he set the origami bird on the counter.

She folded her arms across her chest. "If you're offering to hang out with me, I'll have to decline."

"I never thought you would agree to that anyway. And quite frankly, I don't think it would be wise."

She bristled to her full five feet ten inches tall. "Because you're afraid I'll jump your bones? Well, you can

be sure that even if I'd been the least bit tempted before, you've killed that spark."

Heard. Understood. And regretted.

"I'm more concerned with my own self-control." The words tumbled out ahead of his better sense. Not

really a surprise considering how he always seemed to lose his head around this leggy dynamo who could

outrace most men and kept a sarcophagus in her living room.

Her jaw dropped wide, started to close then went slack again. A bracing sigh later, she answered, "I

don't know what you're expecting to accomplish with a comment like that, but you made it clear the

morning after Spike's wedding that you don't want me in your life, and you didn't do it in a particularly

nice way. If you had a sister—"

"I do."

"You do?"

Her jaw went slack again, tempting him to kiss the surprise right off her face. Coming here had really

been a mammothly stupid idea.

But before he could drag his sorry, horny butt out the door she continued, "Quit distracting me. My point

is, if someone treated your sister the way you treated me, you would kick his ass."

"You're right." More than she could even know. He shoved away from the counter and her too-cute

sarcophagus and idealistic too-young heart. "And since I don't want
my
ass kicked by your brother or

father, it's best I don't stay here. I just had to see for myself that you're okay and make sure you're safe."

Did she have to look so damn conflicted? He was having a tough enough time resisting her when she told

him to shut up with all that fire and spunk he knew she brought to bed with her.

She skirted around the sofa full of inviting green pillows that would spread perfectly along the carpet to

make a downy lawn for all-night sex. "Good night then. Have a nice drive home."

"Fine, but you're not staying here, either."

Nikki stopped short. "Why do I feel the irrepressible urge to put my hands over my ears and shout,

'You're not the boss of me' ? Of course that would fit right in with your whole too-young-for-you

mantra."

God, he liked her sense of humor. "You're good."

She snorted. "That compliment came about seven months too late."

"I meant at distracting
me."

"Apparently not nearly good enough." She sagged to sit on the arm of the sofa. "Why are you so gung-ho

on my not being alone?"

"With everything that happened with Owens, I'm concerned your balcony railing giving way might not

have been an accident." He planted his boots deep in the plush carpet, the need to see her safe burning

even stronger than the need to see her naked.

* * *

God, she hated being afraid of her own shadow.

But Carson's words kept rolling around in her head the next day as she parked her small truck in her

parents' driveway. Late-afternoon sun dappled through the evergreens packing the yard surrounding the

two-story white wood home.

She'd brushed aside Carson's concerns the night before, told him she would double bolt her door and

think about what he'd said. She'd bristled out of pride and a need for independence.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

About halfway through her PowerBar at lunch, she'd come to the conclusion that safety was too

important. She wouldn't be one of those airheads in a horror movie who went walking in the dark woods

at night even when half her friends had already been whacked by some psycho with a gas-powered

garden tool.

So here she was with her truck and a suitcase full of clothes. She didn't need a reality check. She already

knew. Bad crap was happening. Gary was very dead and she'd darn near died falling off her balcony.

Even if it was an accident, she would have been more alert to her surroundings before this mess. Until she

could get her life settled again, she needed to be extra careful.

Her mother was worried anyway and in need of extra help with her difficult pregnancy. Why not take her

up on the standing offer to stay in the garage apartment?

She could still come and go as she pleased, but would have her brother nearby. Sure sometimes he'd

been a wormy little pest who once dumped all her makeup into the sewer. But now that he'd shot up to

six foot four inches, he made a fairly decent crime deterrent.

And she sure had plenty of time on her hands to help her mom repaint the new nursery.

Her principal had suggested she take a weeklong vacation.
Suggested
being a loose way of putting it.

She suspected a parent or two had complained after getting wind of what happened the night Gary died.

Whatever
had
happened.

Gossip could be hell. As much as she wanted to dig her heels in, she could see the principal's resolve.

Pissing off her boss now wouldn't be wise.

Her whole life was crashing down around her. She needed control over something. At least she could still

tutor her at-risk high schoolers or she would go nuts.

She threw open her truck door, stepped out and reached into the back to heft up her suitcase. Carson

was right. She was lucky to have a family support system. Her parents had worked hard to build this for

their kids and finally for themselves, too. She wouldn't settle for anything less when it came to building her

own life.

And suddenly she couldn't help but wonder what sort of childhood had Carson had. He'd mentioned a

sister and a love of tapioca, but nothing else.

Before she could tap on the screen, the front door swung open. Her tiny mother stepped into view with

an unmistakable belly and a headful of dark curls lightly streaked with silver. "Nikki!" She swung the door

wider, her gaze skating to the suitcase on the plank porch. "I'm so glad you decided to take me up on the

offer of some pampering."

"The garage apartment—no pampering, though, please. I was hoping I could help paint the nursery." She

reached to pat her mother's stomach and stifled thoughts of having kids of her own. Now definitely

wasn't the time. "How's my little sister?"

"She's doing—" Her mother paused, eyes narrowing. "Wait. How did you know it's a girl? Did your

father spill the beans in spite of our decision to wait to tell everyone when he gets home?"

Nikki pulled her hand back and hefted her suitcase. "Lucky guess. I figured I had a fifty-fifty shot of

getting it right and tripping you up."

"Brat." She swatted her arm with her gardening magazine. "Your father always did spoil you."

"And you need some spoiling today, too. Now how about put your feet up and I'll come down to check

on you once I stow my gear over the garage?"

Nikki backed down the steps and over to the outside stairs leading to the garage apartment her father

had modified. If her dad was here now, no doubt J. T. Price would worry about everything with Owens.

He was concerned enough with what few details he'd been told.

Her father was overprotective, always had been. She'd actually felt sorry for the poor skinny high school

boys who made it to her front porch only to be confronted by her six-foot-four-inch weight lifter father.

He didn't scowl. But he didn't smile at those fellas, either.

What a sucky welcome home he would have if she didn't get this mess straightened out. While she wasn't

some woman in desperate need of daddy's approval, she also wasn't overly thrilled at the prospect of

worrying or disappointing him, either.

One day at a time. She would have to trust the OSI and Special Agent Reis to do their job.

Meanwhile, the best thing she could do for her parents— and for herself—was keep life level, help her

mother out with some yard work. Not stress about what she couldn't control.

Her cell phone buzzed in her black backpack purse slung over her shoulder, and with an instinctive

awareness she didn't want and couldn't escape, she knew it was Carson checking up on her again.

"Hello, Major, what can I help you with?"

Carson stepped deeper into the OSI agent's office, hoping for a few answers from Reis, who was

currently slipping a tie over his head and tightening it to start his day. The guy stored ties in his office? A

kindred workaholic, which boded well for solving this case faster.

And please God, clearing Nikki.

She hadn't answered his phone calls in two days, but he couldn't blame her. She'd left a message for him

with his secretary, insisting she didn't need to speak to him directly, but that she was fine and staying at

her mom's.

At least she was camping out where her college-aged brother could keep his eyes open. Carson refused

to feel guilty for checking in with Chris, any more than he would feel guilty about stopping in to

fact-check with Reis. "I'm here for an update on the Owens case and anything you may have uncovered

about Nikki Price's accident."

His gut still burned from even thinking about Nikki plummeting from that balcony.

Distraction. He needed it. Pronto. So he studied the room for hints about this man who held Nikki's life in

his investigative hands.

Framed soccer field posters from around the world splashed the walls with color—one even including a

photo of Reis with a soccer trophy and bottle of champagne. He didn't need to avert his eyes from the

liquor as he had in the early days on the wagon.

He could even remember now how Cabernet had been his vino of choice with steaks and Pinot Noir had

accompanied him on more than a few sailing trips. He didn't crave as he used to, but the thoughts still

crowded his mind.

Reis shoved aside an old carryout box marked from a gourmet deli. "How's Ms. Price doing after her

tumble from the balcony?"

"Fine, barely rattled other than a cold from the freezing water."

"So you've spoken to her?"

Why was he asking? Reis probably already knew anyway. Carson avoided the question and simply

stated, "Seems mighty coincidental to me, her railing giving way."

"Could be an accident."

"Or it could be someone trying to kill her before she remembers what happened."

"Do ya' think?" Reis quirked an eyebrow.

What an ass. But being openly antagonistic in return wouldn't get the answers he needed. "Excuse me for

being slow on the uptake, but I fail to see what's so damn funny."

Reis rocked back in his chair underneath an autographed photo of Pele. "What's so damn funny?

Watching you, Major. I've seen you work a crisis without flinching, with a calm I'd expect from someone

more seasoned. But when it comes to a woman, you're just as human as the rest of us."

Well hell. While it might be true—all right,
was
true— what did this have to do with anything? He'd be

irritated if he didn't admire the guy's no-bull attitude and sharp eye. "Call me Cro-Magnon, but it pisses

me off when a woman— any woman—is in danger. It's my job to protect. I can't turn that off just

because I'm not in combat."

"That's the only reason I'm not chewing your ass for thinking I'm idiot enough not to have considered the