To the Edge (16 page)

Yeah. His big sorry self had fallen back on that one every chance he got.

But he was on the clock here. And this wasn't about him.

Face grim, he walked into the living area and stopped in front of the sofa. Jillian watched the tube with blank eyes, far too intent on the television... especially in light of the fact that the plasma screen wasn't on.

He'd seen that look too many times to count. The hundred-mile stare. It was a staple for young soldiers after their first taste of combat. The numbing realization had set in that war was ugly, death was real, and in the end fate and luck might be the only things keeping them alive. He didn't like seeing it on her.

She wasn't a soldier. She hadn't signed on to fight the enemy. She hadn't asked for any of this. And he'd better tread carefully or he'd lose what little perspective he had where she was concerned, because what he felt in that moment went way past professional concern. Past sympathy. He felt possessive when he had no ownership. Felt a compulsion to take her in his arms again and let her lean on him for strength if she needed it when he had no business even touching her, unless it was to shove her out of harm's way.

What the hell was he doing? He scrubbed a hand over his face. Experiencing his own delayed reaction maybe. The way she'd looked earlier, walking toward him, carrying that damn dead bird. Christ. She'd been ghost white. Eyes wide with horror. For all he'd known the bastard had already gotten to her.... Hell, he'd expected to see blood. Hers. And that thought shot a fresh spike of anxiety buzzing through his head.

"Here." He held out the wine, waited the space of the deep breath he needed to get it together, and fell a little deeper into the fire when a slim, glittery strap slipped off her left shoulder.

Gezus save him, the only thing he could do was look. And want, and wait for her to set it right. The problem was, she didn't seem to realize she was about to fall out of the dress.

But he did. So when he reached out and hooked his finger under the strap, he wasn't sure if he was going to tug it up or down.

Just that abbreviated point of contact—the back of his finger to her warm, silky skin—shot a punch of arousal through his blood that was so strong and pure it damn near dropped him to his knees.

To beg no doubt.
Lean on me. I'll make it better. I'll make us both forget that life sucks and sex
—
hot, fast, and hard-will make it all go away.

At least for a little while.

What a dumb fuck.

When she glanced up and blinked as if momentarily surprised to see him so close, he tugged the strap back in place.

"Drink." He shoved the glass into her hand.

Then he backed the hell away. Way away.

Like an automaton, she lifted the wine and sipped.

"More."

After a deep swallow, she steadied herself, then met his eyes. "What does it mean, that this person would take such a chance?"

She'd had a couple of hours to let the scare build and breed and latch on like a leech and drain her self-control. A couple of hours to snap out of her shock, become hysterical, and lapse into victim mode.

Why me? Why is this happening to me? Why haven't you caught him? Why don't you do something?

He'd expected every one of those questions and more.

Tears, Wails. Self-pity. Once again, he'd underestimated her.

She was far from hysterical. Instead, she'd sucked it up and asked the hard question. The sensible question—the same one he'd been asking himself.

What did it mean? It meant the psycho was getting off on bringing the game closer to home. It meant more trouble. It meant she wasn't going to like what he had to say.

In the end, he didn't have to say anything. Her eyes were a little glassy, but she was with the program when she drew her own conclusions.

"It was a huge risk, getting that close to me with all those potential witnesses, with the possibility of getting caught."

There was a huskiness in her voice that suggested she was more pissed off now than frightened.
Atta girl,
he thought, impressed again with her ability to, if not roll with the punches, at least haul herself up by her designer shoe straps to brace for another one.

"Yeah," he agreed. "The move reeks of stupidity, confidence, or desperation—take your pick. Whichever, the game just got more dangerous."

She swallowed, gazed toward the windows that overlooked the city. "Some game."

When she met his eyes again, hers had gone soft and hunted and that sexy all-American-girl face was as white as her dress. Nothing like an up close and personal face-off with death to make a princess come to grips with her new and harsh reality that there was unrest in the peasant ranks.

She really hadn't accepted it, he realized then. Not until tonight. It wasn't just the gruesome message of the dead bird—hell, she had to have seen worse than that as a reporter covering everything from fires, to car accidents, to murder. It was that this episode had rattled her in a way the other messages hadn't. The bird's death represented a portent of hers. Until she'd seen that bird, she hadn't truly accepted that someone wanted her dead. The part of him that still felt regret felt it now for what lay ahead for her.

Sympathy and regret weren't going to keep her alive, though. He was. And right now, he needed more distance from those melting eyes that begged him to keep her that way. Trouble was, he'd already decided that distance was a luxury he couldn't afford.

White on rice. Green on grass. Sheets on a bed. Him on her.

He stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows where the lights of the city glittered in a sea of black. Headlights snaked along the eight lanes of traffic and reminded him that of the millions of people who lived in the sprawling megalopolis strung along the Florida coast, he would be the last man she'd turn to for anything but protection.

OK. So outwardly he'd reacted like a professional. Inside, though, his guts were still knotted in a fist of fear. For her. Not for his client. For
her.
Jillian. A woman who had somehow, over the course of the past twenty-four hours, started to matter when nothing had mattered in his life for a helluva long time. A woman who earlier tonight had reached for him, melted against him, clung to him like he was the one man, the only man, she trusted or wanted to trust to keep her safe.

And that path would lead nowhere.

The adrenaline rush was over and so was fantasy time. He was nothing but the hired help. That's all he ever would and ever could be.

Some game,
Jillian thought again, staring into her wine.
A deadly game.

A shiver rippled through her. She opened her mouth, shut it, then wrapped her fingers around the crystal stem of the glass. She didn't even know what to ask. What to think.

What to feel.

Except the fear. She had that part down pat. It had snaked into
 
muscle and bone and wound tight. She couldn't shake the memory of that poor dead bird from her mind—or delude herself any longer. The significance of the dead bird was painfully clear. Whoever had killed it intended for her to get a deadly message. He—or she—meant to kill her, too.

Before I'm finished with you,

you'll wish you were dead.

You 're going to get your wish. I promise.

She closed her eyes ... like she'd been closing her eyes on the truth ever since she'd received that first threatening note two weeks ago.

This wasn't a joke.

It was real.

"Hit you hard, has it?"

She must have looked a little cornered, her eyes a little wild, as she lifted her head and saw Garrett watching her from the bank of windows. His gaze suddenly softened. So did his voice as he shoved his hands deep in his trouser pockets.

"It's human nature to fall back on denial," he said. "It's part of the adjustment process. The key now is that you've got the picture. But it's also critical that you don't let yourself get mired in the possibilities of the threat. You can't let the fear paralyze you."

"Too late," she said with a tight, self-effacing smile. "Already crossed that line."

"Then you're giving him exactly what he wants." Garrett's voice broke through the wall of terror. "To get you running, get you scared. We're not gonna let that happen, OK?"

The facsimile of a laugh she pushed out was laced with barely controlled hysteria. "You're optimistic to a fault. I'm waaay past scared."

In a bit of a daze, she fought the images of bogeymen hiding in her closet, madmen lurking under her bed, danger in the eyes of strangers. Dead birds wrapped in pretty ribbon and paper.

"But you're pissed, too. "

Another laugh. This one actually held a trace of humor. "Oh yeah, that's somewhere in the mix. "

When he grunted, she swore she heard approval.

"You're going to be OK. "

She'd started to shiver.

Until she felt Garrett's strong hands grasp her shoulders, she wasn't aware that he'd joined her on the sofa. She stiffened but didn't resist when he gave her a shake, prompting her to look at him.

"You're going to be OK, " he repeated, and squeezed her shoulders.

"Right. " She drew a breath that was spiced with the scent of the man scowling down at her with eyes as blue as a summer sky. He still smelled of sage and sex... but now sea breeze was somewhere in the mix. Combined with the touch of his big hands bracketing her shoulders and his uncharacteristic show of kindness she felt an odd blend of comfort and unbalance.

No fair.

She had enough to deal with—why did he have to pick now to act like a decent human being? He was actually trying to be... nice to her. What was that about? It threw her, at a time when she was already standing on quaking ground. At this moment in time, she wanted nothing more than to lean into all that solid strength and masculine heat again like she had at Mar-A-Lago.

In his arms, she'd felt safe and sheltered and exactly where she'd needed to be. And the lines between what was and what she'd needed had blurred. She'd needed a man to hold her and he'd been there. But that was then. This was now. Now she had that part of the equation back in perspective. It hadn't been a man holding her but a paid protector.

Doing his job. Keeping her safe. Earning his pay.

She didn't care. She needed him to earn it again. Right now. She wanted his arms around her. And the fierceness with which she wanted to ask him to hold her again was almost as frightening as the death threat.

Oh God. This was not good.

She was losing control and she didn't like it. Control of her life. Control of her emotions. She wasn't so far gone, however, that she'd give in to a momentary weakness over the need for a pair of strong arms around her and forget she was dedicated to disliking the man.

"Jillian?"

His soft query brought her head up. The concern in his eyes tripped her heart... and went a long way toward eroding that dedication.

"I... it's OK. I'll be fine," she stammered, not knowing how to react to all this puzzling energy humming between them.

"You
are fine.
Say it. Believe it and it'll be true."

"Right. I
am
fine," she said, managing a little more conviction than she felt.

He gave her shoulders another unexpected and friendly squeeze.

"Well,
I'm
not." He shot off the sofa. "I'm starving. I think I saw a couple of eggs in the fridge. I make a mean omelet. You up for something to eat?"

She blinked up at him.
Was she up for something to eat?

"I... um... damn." She felt the sting of tears, the anger over the circumstances that had forced them. The helplessness of feeling totally vulnerable. The confusion over how to deal with this new, improved, and utterly baffling Nolan Garrett—not to mention her reactions toward him.

"This is bad, Kincaid. These are the easy questions. What's gonna happen when we get to the tough ones? Never mind. Let's try again. Are you hungry?"

She couldn't eat if her life depended on it, but his nodding head encouraged her to nod anyway.

"Good answer. And hell, let's live dangerously and add cheese. Clog that sucker with cholesterol."

She almost laughed at that—at his mercurial shift from taciturn antagonist to affable advocate—but if she laughed she might cry, and she absolutely wasn't going to let that happen.

"How good are you?" she asked point-blank, bringing his head up from the counter where he was cracking eggs in a bowl.

The sudden silence was so huge it felt like a physical presence in the room, electrifying the air with its energy.

Before her eyes he transformed from Mr. Sensitivity to stone-cold killer.

"No one's getting past me, Jillian."

The look of him stopped her heart while relief vied for equal billing with an unexpected compassion. What had he been through, she wondered, that he'd have no qualms about doing whatever it took to protect her, including killing for her if he had to?