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by Shandi Boyes

  A heavy groove indents the middle of Marcus’s dark brows as his cheeks pale. He looks like he is going to be ill at any moment. Or go on a warpath.

  “My lawyer?” Marcus asks. His tone harbors so much anger, the heat of his words is felt all the way to the soles of my feet. “The man who attacked you was my lawyer?”

  My mouth gapes as shock registers its intention. I’ve never been one to stereotype, but I’m still stunned the man who assaulted me is a lawyer. Although he was wearing an expensive suit and crocodile shoes, he seemed more like a mafia hitman than a lawyer. I’m also stunned a man with as much intelligence as Marcus would hire a person with soulless eyes to represent him. Marcus knows as well as anyone that a person’s eyes are the windows to their soul.

  Marcus’s intoxicating scent lingers in my nostrils when he stops to stand in front of me. With his eyes planted on me, he digs his hand into his pocket to produce his cell phone. My face cools when the heat of his gaze drops to the screen of his cell. His brows knit as his fingers tap wildly over the screen. He appears as if he is searching for something—or someone.

  My already dangerous heart rate accelerates when he spins the screen around to face me. It isn’t the image of a man in his mid-sixties displayed that has my heart walloping my ribs; it's the dark bleakness rapidly building in Marcus’s eyes. With a stream of unreadable emotions filtering through them, they don’t hold the same command as usual. Don’t get me wrong, they still cause an upwelling of desire to consume me; they just appear a little lost as well.

  “Is this the man who attacked you, Cleo?” Marcus asks me, his tone reserved.

  Air parts his lips when I shake my head. He looks relieved, and if I am not mistaken, reassured. His thankful response doesn’t last long when I advise, “He isn’t the man who collected my NDA.”

  My eyes float to the side when Jackson relieves Lexi from his firm grip. I watch her cautiously, knowing firsthand how quick her reaction times are. When it comes to protecting her family, Lexi responds with the swiftness of a cobra strike. One of her ex-boyfriends discovered that the hard way when he taunted Tate in the front of half their peers at school. He never lived down the day he was beaten by a girl before being dumped by the exact same girl.

  “Cleo said he was really big; at least double her width and a few inches taller.” Lexi stops to stand next to me, her eyes fixated on Marcus. “He had sandy brown hair tussled to the side and dark brown eyes.”

  The panic swishing my stomach stills as gratefulness consumes me. Although Lexi’s emotions are still teetering on the edge of a very steep cliff, I can also see her anger has cleared enough to know Marcus means me no harm.

  “Can you recall any more features of the man who assaulted you tonight, Cleo?” Jackson asks, stopping at Lexi’s side. “What he was wearing? Any identifiable marks?”

  I nod a little overeagerly. "He has a gold veneer on his right incisor tooth, and he was wearing crocodile-printed shoes."

  I can tell the instant recognition of my attacker's identity registers on Marcus's face. The sound of knuckles popping boom into the silence when he clenches his fists into balls and his teeth grind together as he works his jaw side to side.

  “Who is he?” I ask Marcus, my curiosity piqued.

  Before he can answer me, the front door of our home is kicked in, and two uniformed police officers race into the foyer. Their unexpected arrival warps the weathered wood on my front door so much, wood splinters shower the tiled floor.

  I jump out of my skin when their screamed demand, “Get on the ground!” roars through my ears.

  With the barrel of their guns pointed at Marcus and Jackson, two male officers dexterously move toward our huddled gathering at the side of the living room. When a third officer with sparkling hazel eyes enters my home, her eyes immediately rocket to Marcus. She stares at him like she knows him. Not in a way a standard fan would react when confronted with their idol—like she knows knows him—intimately.

  On the barked demands of her superior officer, she moves to the dumped gun sitting at the end of the hall. Once she has kicked the loaded revolver out of harm's way, she devotes the attention of her weapon to me. Ignoring the screaming protests of the male officers for him to remain still, Marcus moves to stand in front of me, once again protecting me from the line of fire. Although his protectiveness quells some of my anxiety at his connection with the female officer, it adds to the officer’s startled expression.

  Her dark brows slant as her eyes frolic between Marcus and me for many heart-strangling seconds. Some of the panic prickling my spine eases when Marcus’s stern gaze is enough to have her adjusting the tilt of her gun so it no longer points at his chest.

  Unable to ignore the screamed prompts of the male officers for a moment longer, I hold my hands out in front of my body and drop to my knees. The heaviness on my chest alleviates somewhat when Lexi and Jackson follow suit. It would have entirely cleared away if Marcus didn't remain standing.

  Not wanting his naturally engrained dominance to cause him harm, I slip my hand into his clenched fist. Feeling the mad beat of my pulse pounding his palm, he drops his eyes to me.

  “Please,” I mouth, my weak tone expressing I am once again on the verge of tears.

  The utter confusion in Marcus’s eyes grows tenfold. I can’t tell if it's stubbornness or confusion delaying his usually receptive demeanor, but it takes me soundlessly pleading into his eyes for nearly a minute before he finally succumbs.

  The instant Marcus’s knees hit the hard tiled floor, the two male officers charge for him. They push him onto his stomach, cuff him, read him his rights, then drag him out of my house before a single protest can escape my lips.

  15

  “As I’ve stated numerous times the past two hours: the gun was fired accidentally. No one was in any danger.”

  When the eyes of the male officer questioning me slit in disdain, I shake my head in disbelief before my hands dart up to rub my throbbing temples. Halfway there, I realize not all the throb is from a headache I've had since Marcus was carted away from my house in the back of a marked police car hours ago.

  After saying a private prayer, I peer over my shoulder. Gratefulness pumps into me when I see Marcus entering the foyer of my home. He spots me in an instant, sitting on the lumpy two-seater couch in my living room. As he weaves through the crime scene unit swamping my modest home, my eyes go frantic, searching every inch of him for any damage. Other than a tempestuous edge of danger beaming out of him, he appears unharmed.

  Tears prick my eyes as I suck in a relieved breath. I’ve been panicked out of my mind the past two hours. No matter how many times I asked to be informed on Marcus’s whereabouts, no one fulfilled my request. The nerves making my skin a clammy mess relax when Marcus takes the empty seat next to me, and envelopes my hand in his. His eyes assess me with just as much vigor as I did him. His attentive stare alleviates the pain gnawing my chest and warms my heart.

  Once he is satisfied I haven’t been harmed, he transfers his gaze to the officer who has been questioning me the past two hours. “Goodbye,” he says, dismissing him with an authority that makes my pulse race.

  The officer attempts a reply, but Marcus continues talking, denying him the chance. “This investigation is closed. Mr. Gottle is waiting for you outside.”

  The officer’s throat works hard to swallow as his eyes drift to the foyer of my home. With my front door left hanging on its hinges, he has no trouble spotting a man with an angry scowl standing on the landing of my porch. His gaze looks as displeased as the officers did when I refused to press charges on Lexi and Marcus.

  Not speaking, the officer stands from his chair, gathers his belongings, and leaves the living room. The CSI officers who have been trudging through my house the past two hours soon follow suit. For how many police officers are on scene, anyone would swear there was a mass murder discovered in my house, not a simple misfiring of a gun.

  Before I have the opportunity to ask
Marcus who Mr. Gottle is, an attractive lady of Asian descent in her mid-thirties settles into the chair across from us. The fierceness of her black eyes and flawless skin is accentuated by the smooth lines of her well-tailored navy-blue pantsuit. After placing a leather briefcase on the ground next to her pump-covered feet, she removes an iPad from a pouch inside.

  Smiling, she lifts her pretty eyes to me. “Hi, Cleo, my name is Shian. I am an FBI agent from the New York Field Office,” she greets us, her tone friendly.

  A scratch impinges my throat as my nerves catapult to a new level. Why would the FBI be brought in on this case?

  “Is this the man who assaulted you tonight?” Shian queries, nudging her head to the switched-on iPad in her hands.

  I swallow to relieve my scorching throat before accepting the iPad she is holding out for me. After scrubbing my hand over my tired eyes, I drop them to the black and white mugshot presented on the screen. Anger bubbles my veins when the abhorrent face of my attacker reflects back at me. Although my emotions are still on edge from a stressful week, I have no doubt he is the same man who attacked me.

  “Yes. That's him,” I confirm to Shian, nodding.

  My confession tightens Marcus's jaw muscle so much it nearly snaps, and his grip on my hand also firms. His anger snowballs until it reaches fever pitch. It's so strong I swear steam is billowing out of his ears.

  “Who is he?” Although I’m interested in discovering the identity of the man who attacked me, I am beyond exhausted, rattled by the mass upheaval in my life the past week, much less the past two hours.

  With New Jersey firearm laws being some of the strictest in the state, I’ve spent a majority of the last two hours wrangling a mountain load of paperwork in the attic, seeking my dad’s Firearm Purchaser Identification Card he used to buy the gun Lexi fired. After a spate of robberies in the area, years ago, my dad thought a firearm was the only opinion left to keep his family safe. When my mom had other ideas, the gun was stored in the safe bolted to the floor of their walk-in-closet. Tonight was the first time it’s been removed since that day.

  When Shian attempts to answer my question, Marcus sweeps his hand across the front of his body, cutting her off. After sending a quick text on his cell, he places it into his pocket and locks his eyes with mine. “The man who attacked you was a bodyguard for my band a couple of years ago.”

  “How long ago?” Shian interrogates, her interest piqued. She keeps her gaze bouncing between me and Marcus while she secures a small, lined notepad out of her breast pocket, preparing to jot down any information Marcus relays.

  Keeping his eyes fixated on me, Marcus answers, “Around two years.” He carefully brushes a loose strand of hair away from my temple before continuing, “The studio let him go after he got a little rough-handed with some female fans.” His eyes drift between the bruise on my cheek and the small cut in my lip as he mutters, “I was unaware he was an associate of my lawyer. If I had known, I would have never had him collect your NDA.”

  “I know,” I enlighten, not requiring any more information than what his forthright eyes are relaying. “You don’t have to explain it to me.”

  Shocked by my unruffled reply, Marcus recoils, like my response physically shunted him. Clearly he was expecting me to react poorly to his confession. I lift my hand to rub at the heavy groove between his eyes. The anxiety playing havoc with his beautiful gaze fades from my caring gesture.

  Although he hasn't directly said it, I know he harbors unnecessary guilt over my assault. I can feel it deep in my bones. He doesn’t need to feel guilty. He may be a man of many talents, but that doesn’t mean he needs to take responsibility for the actions of those surrounding him. Especially the actions of a man old enough to know better.

  Like it does every time we are together, the vibrancy of the room quickly shifts from tense to teasing as I once again become trapped by Marcus’s alluring eyes. His gaze makes me needy and hot, and I shamefully writhe in my seat. I am practically panting, my hunger for him incapable of being leashed.

  The fire is doused when Shian coughs, demanding our attention. Mortified, I slide my eyes back to Shian to issue her a silent apology. I can't believe the power Marcus has over me. Only he could make me forget we are sitting in a house full of people processing a crime scene. I shouldn't be surprised, though. When he is in my presence, it's as if the entire world no longer exists.

  My brows scrunch when I notice the curve of Shian’s lips. Although her expression is pulled taut, there is no mistaking the joyful gleam radiating out of her eyes.

  Blaming her odd response as a consequence of my childish squirms, I ask, “Is that all you need from me? I am exhausted and in desperate need of a shower.”

  Smiling, Shian stands from her seat and gathers the iPad from my hands. Once she places it in her suitcase resting on the side of my lumpy couch, her impressive eyes meet mine. “Yes, that's all I need for now, Cleo. I have your contact details if I require any further information.”

  I sigh. I’ve requested similar entreaties numerous times the past two hours. Not once was my plea approved. Although astounded Marcus’s celebrity status extends to the FBI, I’m happy to use any leverage he has if it means I can crawl into my bed and forget this week ever occurred.

  When Shian holds her hand out in offering, I stand from my chair to accept her gesture. Shian's handshake is sturdy and robust, robust enough my teeth clang together when it rattles up my arm.

  After gathering her bag, Shian shifts her eyes to Marcus. “I’ll coordinate with a contact I have at One PP to have the perp brought in for questioning. With the footage Hunter obtained from the alleyway, it should be an open and shut case.”

  “Will Cleo be required to testify?”

  Shian runs her hand down Marcus’s forearm. “We won’t know until the perp is brought in, but hopefully not.” She turns her pretty eyes to me. “Cleo seems to have enough on her plate, so I’ll keep our contact to a bare minimum.”

  Gratefulness spreads across my chest as relief filters into Marcus’s eyes.

  “Okay, great.” Marcus’s short reply is unable to hide his appreciation for Shian’s assistance.

  “Let me walk you out,” Marcus suggests to Shian as he gestures for her to leave the living room before us. “I have a few minor things I need to discuss with you before you leave.”

  “Thank you,” I mouth to Shian, beyond grateful for her assistance.

  Shian dips her chin in farewell before sauntering out of the living room, forcefully removing the remaining CSI officers on her way. Marcus waits for her to be out of earshot before floating his eyes to me.

  “I’ll join you in a minute?”

  His deep tone is laced with uncertainty, and I’m unsure if he is asking a question or stating a fact. There is one thing I do know, though. With my nerves still touchy from a stressful week, I don’t want to be alone right now. Call me a coward or any other derogative word you like. I won’t put up a protest. Until you have been through what I’ve been through, you can’t judge my actions.

  Reconnecting my eyes with Marcus, I nod while weakly stammering, “Please don’t leave me.”

  For the quickest second, a flare of emotion blazes through Marcus’s eyes. It doesn’t last long. Only quick enough to assure me I’m not the only one baffled by our bizarre relationship. He is as confounded as me.

  Leaning in, he presses a kiss to my temple before following Shian onto my front porch. After having my house crammed with more officers than I realized Montclair PD had, I take a moment to relish the serene quietness. An aroused smile curls on my lips when I feel the heat of Marcus’s gaze on me the entire time. Even though he is shadowed by the darkness of the night, I know he is watching me. There is no mistaking the heat of covetousness.

  Stupidly grinning, I push off my feet and head down the hall. My steps are sluggish, weighed down by an exhausting day. It feels like every dramatic event that could happen in my life decided to flood me at once. Although I've been strug
gling to dig myself out of the woeful hole I've been living in the past four years, I'd rather claw my way out one fingernail at a time. I'm sure it would have been a whole lot less antagonizing that way.

  Just before I enter my cramped bathroom, the faintest hum of chatter filters through my ears. Always inquisitive, I stop outside of Lexi’s bedroom door and prick my ears. Guilt replaces some of my anxiety when I hear a noise I haven’t heard in years: Lexi’s quiet snivels. Although frustrated she put everyone’s lives in danger this evening, I know she only reacted the way she did because she loves me as fiercely as I love her. I can’t be angry at her for that.

  Incapable of leaving things on a sour note, I knock on Lexi’s door before opening it. “Everything okay?” I ask, popping my head into her room.

  Lexi’s head lifts off Jackson’s bare chest. Her eyes are teaming with fresh tears, and her pupils are filling her cornea. “We’re fine. Are you?” she queries, her words as brittle as cracked glass.

  My heart clenches in my chest. The last time her face matched this level of devastation was when I caught her in my arms outside of the elevator the night of our parents’ deaths.

  Hating the pain marring her face, I pace into her room while mumbling, “Yes. I’m fine.” My assurance doesn’t come out as I’m aiming for. “Marcus is handling everything.”

  As Lexi’s bottom lip drops into a pout, she scampers across her bed. In no time at all, she slings her arms around my shoulders and hugs me tightly. Her brisk movements infuse the air with her Roxy perfume. I inhale deeply, letting her familiar smell soothe the unease circling my windpipe.

  “I’m so sorry,” she apologizes, her warm breath tickling my neck. “Please don’t be mad. I didn’t mean to take things so far. But when I saw the marks on your face, I just. . . snapped.”