And his piercing eyes saw right into her soul.
She lost herself in it. She wanted to touch his face, to trail her fingers over every masculine detail, to feel the warmth of his skin. She wanted to press herself against his lean, solid bulk. She wished she had something to feed him, whether he was hungry or not.
Connor reached behind himself and shoved the door shut without breaking eye contact. She needed so badly for someone to know how lonely and lost she felt. Her mother was adrift in despair. Most of her friends were avoiding her. Not out of unkindness so much as sheer embarrassment, she suspected. But that didn't help the loneliness.
Connor saw it all, and it didn't embarrass him. His gaze didn't shy away. She didn't shy away, either, when he reached for her.
His touch was so careful and delicate, she could barely believe it was happening. Her eyes welled up. He smoothed away the tears that spilled over with a brush of his thumb, and folded her into his arms.
He pressed her face against the canvas of his coat. His hands stroked the length of her spine as if she were made of blown glass. He tucked her head under his chin. His breath warmed the top of her head.
She squeezed her eyes shut. He'd hugged her before, at her graduation party, at holiday gatherings, but not like this. Quick, nonsexual, brotherly hugs, but even so her heart had almost exploded out of her chest, it beat so fast and hard. His broad frame felt harder than she remembered, his muscles like tempered steel.
He'd been concentrated into the pure, potent essence of himself.
She wondered if the way she felt about him was written all over her face. He held her so carefully, vibrating with tension. Maybe he was afraid of hurting her feelings, or that she would misunderstand his friendly gesture and demand something he didn't want to give. All those years of romantic fantasies, all that heat, all that pent-up hunger, he had to feel it. Dad had said that he was psychic.
He'd seen everything: how lonely she felt, how needy. He stroked her hair, as if he were petting a wild animal that might bolt, or bite.
She didn't want careful, or gentle. She wanted him to push her onto the narrow futon cot, to pin her down with his big, strong body and give her something else to think about. Something hot and scary and wonderful. She could scream, she wanted it so bad. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck, pull him closer, and just gobble him up.
God, how could he not pity her?
That thought stung her. It gave her the strength to jerk away. She dug in her pocket for a Kleenex. "Sorry about that," she mumbled.
"Any time." His voice sounded thick. He cleared his throat.
She kept her face averted. He had to leave, and fast, before she burst into tears and covered herself with glory. "Um, I have to pack. I've got lots to do, so, uh…"
"Erin—"
"Don't start." She backed away, shaking her head. "I'm going on this trip, and I don't want a bodyguard, thanks for the offer. Thanks for the ride, thanks for the advice, the sympathy and the… the hug. And now, I really, really need to be alone. Good night."
He made a sharp, frustrated sound. "You need better locks. Hell, you need a new door. It's a waste to put a good lock on a door like this. I could kick the hinges in with my bad leg." He scanned her apartment, scowling. "I'll call my friend Seth. He can install something that—"
"And how am I supposed to pay him?"
"I'll pay for it myself, if you're short on cash," he said impatiently. "Seth'll give me a good deal. It's important, Erin. You're not safe here."
"Thanks, but I can take care of myself. Good night, Connor."
"Does your mother have an alarm system?"
She thought of the shattered mirror and clock. An eddy of sickening fear swirled in her belly. "Yes. Dad insisted."
"Then maybe you should go stay with her for a while."
She bristled. "And maybe you should mind your own business."
He frowned, and pulled a matchbook out of his jeans pocket. "Give me a pen," he demanded.
She handed him a pen. He scribbled on the matchbook and handed it to her. "Call me. Anything happens, day or night, call me."
"OK," she whispered. The matchbook was warm from his pocket. Her fingers tightened over it until it crumpled in her hand. "Thanks."
"Promise me." His voice was hard.
She tucked it into her jeans pocket. "I promise."
One last, searching look, and he finally walked out the door.
A sharp knock made her jump. "Use the deadbolt," he ordered from outside. "I'm not leaving until I hear you do it."
She pushed in the bolt. "Good night, Connor."
He was silent for a few seconds. "Good night," he said quietly.
She put her ear to the door, but could not hear any footsteps. She waited a moment, opened the door and checked. No one was there.
She was finally alone. She slammed the door shut. After his bullying and lecturing and intimidating her with that overwhelming macho charisma, she'd thought his departure would be a relief.
Instead, she felt bereft. Almost piqued at him, for letting her drive him away so easily. Yikes, how clingy and passive-aggressive of her. She was in worse shape than she'd thought.
But how incredibly sweet of him to care.
Connor leaned his hot face against the steering column. He couldn't drive in this condition. He would kill himself.
His heart was thudding, his ears roaring. He was on the verge of coming in his pants. If she'd leaned just one breath closer to him, she'd have felt his hard-on, pressing against his jeans like a club. Those amazing, liquid brown eyes that a guy could get lost in, Jesus. Her eyes on his face had felt like an embrace. He'd wanted to grab her and kiss her so bad, his muscles were cramping from the effort of holding back.
Maybe she would have melted against him and kissed him back.
Yeah, and pigs had wings and hell had a skating rink. The closer he stuck to harsh reality, the less liable he was to screw up.
It was so ironic. Right before the huge fuck-up that had landed him in a coma and killed Jesse, he'd been working up the nerve to ask Erin Riggs out for dinner and a movie. Ever since she'd turned twenty-five. That had struck him as the magic number. She'd attained the status of fair game. He was nine years older than her, which wasn't all that excessive, but when she was seventeen and he was twenty-six, he'd known damn well it would've been sleazy to hit on her. Once she hit her twenties, he'd been really tempted. She was so juicy and innocent—but Ed would've ripped his head off if Connor had gotten anywhere near his precious baby girl. There was that to consider.
But the main reason he hadn't made a move was because she'd been gone so much, on study-abroad programs and archeological digs; six months in France, nine months in Scotland, a year in Wales, etc. He'd had some casual girlfriends in the meantime, some of them nice women, but he'd always pulled back when they started talking about the future. He'd braced himself to hear about Erin getting engaged.
Didn't happen. She'd finished grad school, gotten her curator job, moved out of the group house with her college girlfriend and into her own apartment. Twenty-five years old, and amazingly, she didn't have a boyfriend. It was time. All was fair in love and war, and all that crap. If Ed didn't like it, he could shove it.
But the shit had hit the fan before he ever got a chance to follow through. When he woke up from the coma and found out that he'd been betrayed, and Jesse murdered, he had no energy to spare for romance. He'd loved his partner like he loved his own brothers. He'd thrown everything into getting back on his feet so he could hunt down Lazar and Novak, flush out the traitor and avenge Jesse.
All of which had culminated in hauling Ed Riggs into custody.
Damn, he couldn't help but think that putting a girl's dad in prison for murder pretty much wrecked his chances of getting a date with her on a Saturday night. Particularly considering the shape he was in these days. He glanced into the rearview mirror, and winced.
He'd always been lean, and he forced himself to work
out hard to compensate for the bum leg. He'd built back all the muscle mass that he'd lost in the coma, but he had no fat left on him at all. He could see every individual muscle and tendon moving under his skin when he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. A goddamn walking anatomy poster. The burn scars didn't help much, either. Neither did the limp.
He wasn't much of a prize. Working for his older brother, snapping pictures of unfaithful spouses. He had no future. He barely had a present. All he had was a past, and everything in it nixed his chances of getting into Erin Riggs's bed.
What an idiot. Lusting after an ivory tower princess behind a wall of goddamn thorns. He wanted so badly to claw his way into that tower, and find out what went on behind those big, serious eyes. He wanted to make her smile. She hadn't smiled tonight. Not even once.
With that bracing thought, he put the car in gear and headed toward his brother Davy's lair, down on Lake Washington. Davy would be pissed at him for showing up three hours late, but he would just grumble and throw a steak on the grill. His stomach twitched with approval, one of the first signs of life he'd gotten from that quarter in a long while. Davy and Sean had taken up the practice of calling him at regular intervals and reminding him to eat. Annoying, but he guessed he was lucky that somebody cared. Otherwise he would be lost in space.
His younger brother Sean's Jeep was parked in the driveway. He was going to get lectured from both sides. They were talking on the back porch as he opened the door. Their voices suddenly ceased.
Two pairs of green eyes almost identical to his own scrutinized him as he stepped out onto the deck.
"You're late," Davy said. "We ate."
"Novak's busted out," Connor told them. "With two of his goons. One was that guy I roughed up last November. Georg Luksch."
They listened to the water lapping against the pebbles under the deck for a long moment.
"You think he's going to want to play with us?" Davy asked.
Connor sank into a chair, bone tired. "It's what he lives for."
Sean buried his face in his hands. "God. I'm swamped trying to get this business off the ground. I don't have time to play with Novak."
"I'm less worried about us than I am about Erin," Connor said.
Davy and Sean's gazes narrowed in on him, like a couple of laser beams. He bore it stoically.
"What about Erin?" Davy's deep voice was low and wary.
Connor folded a scrap of paper he'd found on the table into an origami unicorn. One of his bored-out-of-his-mind-in-rehab activities that had evolved into a full-blown nervous habit "He had Erin in his clutches once. I pulled her loose. He's not going to forget that. Georg Luksch won't forget it, either. She's pretty, and young, and clueless. He goes for that. And he's going to want to punish Riggs for failing him."
"Erin is not your problem," Davy said. "You did your best for her. You didn't get much thanks for it. The most you can do is warn her."
"I already did."
Davy and Sean exchanged meaningful glances.
"You talked to her?" Sean demanded. "Tonight?"
Connor braced himself. "I went to her place," he admitted. "Followed her to her mom's house. Gave her a ride home."
Sean winced. "Uh-oh. Here we go again."
Davy took a swig of beer, his hard, lean face impassive. "How's she doing?" he asked.
"Not well," Connor said. "Like hell, actually. Since you asked."
"Look, Con," Sean began. "Don't bite my head off, but—"
"How about you don't even start?" Connor suggested.
Sean barged on, undaunted. "I know you've been carrying a torch for that chick for years, but your testimony put her dad's ass in jail. You cannot be her hero, dude. You're just going to get hurt."
Sean's words made him feel bleak and sad, not angry. "Thank you for sharing your opinion," he said. He unfolded the unicorn, and scribbled Claude Mueller's name, e-mail address, and the flight information that he'd memorized onto the paper. He pushed it across the table toward Davy. "Would you check these out for me?"
Davy picked it up and examined it. "Who is this guy?"
"This is the mysterious millionaire who has recently developed a passionate interest in Celtic artifacts. Erin's flying down to Portland, to be met and driven to Silver Fork Resort, where she will proceed to authenticate a mess of priceless relics for him."
"And what is it exactly that bothers you about this?" Sean asked.
"Neither she nor anybody she knows has ever actually seen the millionaire," he said. "He's always been too busy to meet with her since he started hiring her. Four months ago."
"Ah." Davy's voice was thoughtful.
"Find out who's paying for those flights," Connor told him. "And find out everything you can about the Quicksilver Foundation."
"I'll see what I can do."
"She's leaving tomorrow. I told her she needed a bodyguard, and she spit in my eye," Connor said. "Threw me out of her apartment."
"I don't blame her," Sean said. "A guy who looks like you is not a good fashion accessory for a bodacious babe."
"Bite me," Connor said wearily. He pulled his tobacco and papers out of his pocket.
"Did it occur to you to shave, or brush your hair before you inflicted yourself on her?" Sean lectured. "Jesus, Con. You barbarian."
Connor nodded toward his older brother. "Davyl's got beard stubble. Bug him for a while."
"Davy's another story." Sean's voice was elaborately patient. "Davy irons his shirts. Davy eats. Beard stubble is a very different fashion statement on Davy."
Davy stroked his stubble and gave Connor an apologetic shrug.
Connor looked at Davy. "Speaking of food. You promised me a steak."
Davy looked startled. "You mean, you actually want some?"
"I'm hungry," Connor said.
Sean's jaw sagged. "So having Erin Riggs spit in your eye stimulates your appetite, huh?" He sprang to his feet. "One rare T-bone coming right up. I'll nuke you a baked potato, if you want."
"Make it two," Connor said. "Lots of butter and sour cream and chives. And don't forget the black pepper."
"Don't push your luck." Sean's grouching was belied by his huge grin. He kicked open the screen door and bounded toward the kitchen.
"When do you need the Mueller info?" Davy asked.
"Tomorrow morning. I'm taking a road trip down to Portland."
Davy's face darkened. "To meet her plane? Oh, Christ. Forget the hero routine just this once. Call Nick. They're the ones who should—"
"I already tried Nick. They think Novak's back in Europe."
"They probably have good reason to think so," Davy growled.
"I've got a bad feeling," Connor said. "She can't go meet this guy all alone. If Ed were around, it would be his job to look after her, but—"
"But Ed's not around," Davy cut in. "And that is not your fault."
"It's not Erin's fault, either." Connor avoided his brother's gaze as he finished rolling the cigarette. "And I don't blame myself."
Davy slammed his beer bottle onto the table, a rare show of temper for his self-contained brother. "The hell you don't. You can't save the whole world, lamebrain. Get your own life back on track before you go racing off to rescue some damsel in distress."
"I didn't ask for your opinion on my love life," Connor retorted.
Davy's lowering eyebrows shot up. "Whoa," he said. "Back up two steps. Who said anything about your love life?"
Connor cupped the cigarette in his hand and lit it. He took a deep drag and exhaled, to calm himself down before he dared to speak.
"Leave it alone, Davy," he said.
"Watch it, Con," Davy said. "You're treading on shaky ground."
Sean burst through the screen door and passed Connor a cold beer. "Food'll be out in a few," he announced.
"Thanks," Connor muttered.
Sean looked from one brother to the other. His eyes narrowed. "Did I miss something?"
"No," Davy and Connor said, in unison.
Connor finished his cigarette in grim silence. Davy for once had the good sense to nurse his beer and keep his mouth shut.
Sean kicked open the door a few minutes later and placed a loaded plate in front of Connor. He dug into it without hesitation.
His two brothers silently watched him consume a twelve-ounce steak, two big baked potatoes, a sliced tomato, and three big hunks of hot, toasted French bread slathered with garlic butter.
Connor finally noticed their fixed stares. "Cut it out, you guys," he protested. "Quit watching me eat, already. You're inhibiting me."
Davy crossed his arms over his barrel chest. "Give us a break. We haven't seen you eat like that for sixteen months."
"It's awesome." Sean's face was unusually serious. "That's a week's worth of calories for you, Con. All in one meal. Check you out."
Connor mopped up the last of his steak juice with a hunk of bread. He felt a vague stab of guilt. "You guys shouldn't worry. I'm fine."
Davy snorted. "We'll see how fine you feel when you get back from Portland."
Sean frowned. "What's this about Portland?"
"He's going to be Erin's welcoming committee when she goes to meet the mysterious millionaire who may or may not be Novak," Davy told him. "He wants to guard her luscious body. Personally."
"Oh, Christ. You don't say. Well, finish your dinner, then. You're going to need your strength. What hardware you taking?" Sean asked.
"Just the SIG. And the Ruger SP-101, for backup."
"Want some company?" Sean asked.
Connor glanced at him, startled. "I thought you were busy."
"I'm not too busy to watch my brother's back," Sean said.
Connor's mouth twitched. "Think I need a baby-sitter, huh?"
"Interpret it however the fuck you want."
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