In the Crossfire (Bloodhaven) (5 page)

“I’ll be up,” Isobel repeated. “Then we can talk.”

Naley hesitated, but one look at her aunt told her she couldn’t escape the inevitable. Isobel wanted to know what had happened to make Naley take off like she had today, and Kaya still hadn’t returned her call.

Naley capitulated. She rose from the sofa, grabbing her things. She bussed Isobel on the cheek, then waved at the tall, silent man standing apart from them.

“Bye, Liam. Thanks for staying. Maybe you can come over again sometime.”

Isobel saw the uncertain expression crossing Liam’s face and bit back another smile. He likely regarded social invitations the same way a human regarded a grizzly bear.

Naley scampered up the stairs. Isobel waited for the duotone beep that indicated her niece had scanned her prints and was safely ensconced in her bedroom, then faced Liam.

He was studying her bruises. Aside from a tic in the left side of his jaw, he didn’t say a word.

“Thanks for staying with Naley.”

He gave a small nod. He, too, must’ve sensed the strangeness of being inside her house.

“Naley must’ve been pretty adamant in her invitation.”

He paused before conceding, “She can talk.”

A lot,
was the unspoken addendum. Isobel gave a rueful smile. For all that Liam looked fierce and dangerous and determined to shut out the world sometimes, for some reason she could easily picture him helpless to deny a lost and lonely teenage girl.

“Yeah. I suppose normally she could’ve invited her friends over to chat up a storm. Over at her mother’s apartment in the city, I mean. Harder to invite them over here.”

“Because of the distance.”

“Among other things.” Like the intense, numerous background checks that were bound to take place, for one. Every visitor had to be vetted in advance before they could even approach within twenty feet of the perimeter.

Ever since Isobel had built her house here, Naley had never invited a friend over. And Isobel had to be honest: even if her niece
had
asked permission to bring someone over, she wasn’t sure she could’ve given it. A careless word could easily find its way to the wrong ears and end up a potential security risk.

It was one of the downsides to the job. Isobel knew it, accepted it. It was just the way it was.

To her credit, Naley had never complained. She’d never hinted of any dissatisfaction. Now Isobel wondered if maybe she was just too afraid to. Maybe she didn’t dare protest lest Isobel followed the way of the mother and left her to her own devices.

Isobel wondered just how much Naley had revealed to Liam this afternoon. “Did she mention what set her off today?”

He shook his head.

Isobel sighed. Naley could chatter away with all liveliness sometimes, but on other matters could remain as mum as a steel trap.

“Well, thanks again. Do you have time for me to enter your profile into the security system?”

Liam hesitated, then stole a furrowed glance at her.

“Unless you’re dying to flee the premises. I understand Naley’s black mustard sandwich packs quite a punch.”

The edge of that wide, tempting mouth quirked by the smallest degree. Then his expression sobered. “I . . . didn’t think you meant it.”

“Meant what?”

He shrugged, the movement pulling his T-shirt tight across his chest. Isobel took a moment to appreciate the sight. So sue her for being a red-blooded shifter female. She just had to make sure he didn’t notice her perusal, otherwise the reclusive wolf was bound to hotfoot it out of there.

Damn. She’d just returned fresh from a mission—a mission that hadn’t even gone to plan—still feeling the heart-pounding after-effects of adrenaline in her system. She needed a way to burn off that excess energy. Under ordinary circumstances—if Naley hadn’t been waiting at home for her—Isobel would’ve gone to one of the men on her list and ridden him until the adrenaline and edginess had dissipated. Until she’d worn him to the core. Until he couldn’t breathe and she couldn’t think.

Until she was panting and raw and had burned off this need that still sizzled beneath the surface of her skin.

And here he was, the strong, silent, sexy Liam Whelan, oh so tantalizingly within reach.

He stood there, shoulders wide, hips narrow, fists clenched, and Isobel wanted so much to scratch this itch and scrub away this hot, restless tension worming its way through her.

Gently, Saba. He’s your tenant, not your chewtoy.

Oh, the parts of him she would’ve liked to chew.

“I thought you were . . . being polite.”

His words called her back to the present. She stared at him blankly.

He hesitated, then dredged up, “In front of Naley. When you said you wanted to add me to the system.”

Isobel almost laughed in disbelief. “Liam, I can tell you I am never
polite.
Of course I want you in the system. I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

“Good quality to have.”

“I think so.”

Liam studied her solemnly, and Isobel could feel every inch of her prickle beneath his gaze.

“I suppose it makes it easier,” he murmured. “Having me in the system. Lets you track my movements more closely.”

She wouldn’t deny it. “Does that bother you?”

Liam was close-mouthed when it came to his personal details. Isobel had a feeling that if it hadn’t been painfully obvious from the start, he wouldn’t have mentioned his wartime service to her. Finally he shook his head, retreating into silence once more.

She led him into her office. After gaining access inside, Isobel began the process of inputting his profile, starting first with his stats.

Personally, she would’ve described his eyes as gunmetal silver instead of gray, that his dark brown hair was mostly bleached by the sun, that when he moved, it was with just as much the grace of a leopard as it was the predatory stalk of the wolf he was.

All that was true, but for purposes of the profile, she stuck to the basic facts. Facts were good.

Wolf-shifter, six-five, two hundred pounds. Gray eyes, dark brown hair, birthmarks on left elbow and back of his neck.

Spiderweb scars fanning out from the edge of his left eye. Thick scarring around both wrists, with tracks extending halfway up his forearms and down the back of his hands. Intermittent scarring weaving up his upper arms, vanishing beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt.

Whatever he’d gone through, it’d been so severe that ordinary shifting hadn’t been able to heal his scars completely. Medical advances had grown by leaps and bounds in the seven years since the war, yet he’d chosen not to hide his marks with cosmetic surgery.

If this had been a more comprehensive profile, Isobel would’ve gone ahead and documented every physical aspect, no matter Liam’s level of discomfort. Asked him to lift up his shirt so that she could record and photograph other birthmarks and scars that might exist. Measured them down to the precise centimetre. Categorized them according to the assigned scale.

But this wasn’t, and so she didn’t. Neither did he offer.

She scanned his prints and retina. She didn’t own Council-grade digital radiography equipment to enable a full-body scan, but she was as comprehensive as possible using what equipment she did have. Later, when he’d gone home, she would link his profile to the background files she’d retained on him. That should provide a sufficient basis to start with.

All throughout the process, Liam never said a word.

He let her snap both full-body and close-up shots. Lifted his chin to the light when asked. Made no demands nor peppered her with questions.

Instead, he continued to watch her, his gaze sharp and intense, following her as she moved around her office.

It sparked a heat of awareness between Isobel’s legs, twisting low and tight. It reminded her that she’d been too consumed by work lately, and hadn’t had a hot and heavy rut in far too long.

Because that was the thing with Liam: sometimes he didn’t—wouldn’t—meet the other person’s gaze. He’d stare at their nose, or their collarbone, or just above their ear. Sometimes Isobel thought it was a distancing technique, something he did to avoid getting involved. Or maybe it was due to whatever hell he’d gone through in the past.

And then there were times, like right now, when he’d meet the other person’s eyes head-on. A resolute, single-minded stare. When Isobel got the full impact of those eyes, there was no denying the sharpness and intelligence behind them, or the frisson they invoked along her spine.

One never really knew where one stood with Liam, Isobel thought. There were times he was a total mystery to her. And Isobel, who’d always prided herself on being able to decipher any suspect’s body language—something that could make all the difference in her line of work—was disconcerted to find Liam utterly inscrutable.

He watched her closely, but he wasn’t protesting, so that was something. For all she knew, he was counting down the minutes to push past her and escape into the night. For now, he acted as if he had all the time in the world to spend here with her.

She picked up the nearest reading material—a weapons catalog—and handed it to him.

“Could you please read that?”

Liam frowned down at page thirty-two.

“Out loud,” she clarified, initiating her voice recognition software.

“I think you’re enjoying this,” he remarked, right before launching into a description of the latest advancements in rocket-propelled grenades.

Isobel half-expected him to bolt at the prospect of speaking continuously for a full thirty seconds, but he took it like a champ. He’d never be an orator, of course—his discomfort was obvious from the first stiff sentence to the rusty fade of the last—but there was something in the roughness of his voice that appealed to her.

Damn. She’d better break this dry spell and pick someone from her list. Fast.

She typed a series of commands into her computer. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Liam glance at the framed picture on her desk, the one of the regal Afro-Dutch man in uniform and the striking blonde woman in pearls. He cast a surreptitious look at Isobel.

“My parents,” she said succinctly.

She waited for him to make one of the usual comments—that she had her mother’s eyes, her father’s bone structure. Liam, being Liam, only nodded in acknowledgment. He didn’t say a word.

He never was one for inane comments.

Isobel gave him his access code. He listened carefully, then repeated it for her benefit.

She nodded. “You’re all set. Enter this along with your prints whenever you enter the premises, even if one of us is in. Though needless to say, you’ll only be authorized to enter limited sections of the house, and only if Naley or myself are present.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Pardon?”

Isobel saw his jaw working.

“I wouldn’t enter,” he said gruffly. “Without you around.”

“I know.” Isobel gave her best non-threatening smile; she’d been told a couple of times that her smile was less cat-ate-the-canary and more cheetah-ripped-the-antelope’s-guts-out. “I meant no offense.”

“I wasn’t offended.”

“It’s not like I expect you to host raves here during the weekend.”

Liam glanced away. A line bisected his thick brows.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You don’t have a lot of visitors over,” he said slowly. “I guess I’m . . . just processing being one of the chosen few.”

“It’s not as if you’re a total stranger. You’ve lived here for over a year. If we were ordinary neighbors, we would’ve traded keys by now. Watered each other’s plants while the other was away. Got together for a barbecue. That kind of thing.”

“But we’re not.”

“Ordinary? No. But I’m fine with that.” Isobel shrugged. “If it makes you feel better, I have absolutely no compunction about slitting your throat if you ever turn out to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Pun thoroughly intended.”

Liam’s eyes flicked quickly to hers, then just as quickly away. But his mouth did twitch in a ghost of a smile.

She walked him to the front door. Neither of them spoke until he stepped over the threshold. Isobel caught him examining her face once more.

“You okay?” he asked.

Isobel was surprised. The cuts and bruises were negligible, really. She’d almost forgotten about them herself.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ve been in worse shape than this.”

He didn’t look reassured.

“They’ll be all healed by morning, Liam. You know that.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She didn’t know what to make of that. Before she could say another word, Liam pushed off the steps and strode down the driveway, heading for the front gates. Isobel watched his tall frame get smaller and smaller in the darkness. Before he could reach the gates, she placed the flat of her hand on the control panel by the front door and tapped twice on the screen, initiating the gates’ unlocking mechanism.

She saw Liam draw to a halt. Then, moving slowly and more carefully, he pushed one gate open just wide enough to step through. He shut it, then looked up toward the house.