His fingers brushed her jaw. She felt it down to her toes.
“But something tells me yours are a gift. One you’ve never shared with anyone.”
Danger. She bit her lip. Danger, danger. The man was one giant risk to her: mind, body, and soul.
“I’ll hit the shower,” she said.
He nodded. “You’re coming with me to the station today.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Until I’m satisfied that you aren’t in danger.”
“I can’t just hang at the station.”
He rose, big and handsome, and that bare chest with a light covering of dark hair was distracting. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“Hunt—”
“You call me Hunter,” he growled.
She pulled in a deep breath. “Hunter, what will I do at the station all day?”
“Bring your sketchbook. Your paints. I’ll be following up on your attack.” He tilted his head. “You’re sure you don’t know who it was or why they attacked you?”
It hadn’t been Walkson. “I truly have no idea.”
Hunt waited a beat, then nodded. “I’ll shower in the guest bathroom, and then meet you in the kitchen.”
He stalked out, and her gaze dropped to his muscular ass clad in those loose shorts. Finally, she dragged herself into the bathroom. It was as neat and tidy as the rest of Hunt’s place. The mirror informed her that she had dark circles under her eyes, but she barely noticed them, thanks to the bruises on her neck.
Holy cow. She stroked the skin there—it was purple and black. Ugh. At least thanks to the pain pills, she wasn’t hurting much.
Right, shower time, then breakfast. If she took too long, her bossy detective would come looking for her. She turned on the shower.
He’s not yours, Savannah.
He will never be yours.
She stepped under the water.
If he isn’t mine, why am I naked in his shower after sleeping with him half the night?
She pressed a hand to the tiles. Shut up, brain.
But Savannah was far more worried about her heart.
She had to leave soon, and the thought of never seeing Hunter Morgan again—never knowing the feel of his hands, the taste of his skin, the thrust of his cock—it hurt.
She groaned. She had to leave. Soon.
Chapter Seven
Hunt couldn’t dispute the fact that he liked seeing Savannah curled up in the guest chair in front of his desk.
The police station was in the Public Safety Building in the Mission District. It was a few years old, done in a modern style, with lots of glass and concrete. Unlike some of the other detectives, he kept his office sparse and his desk clean.
The only knickknack he had was a paperweight shaped like a police badge that Brynn had given him for his birthday one year. Outside, phones were ringing, and voices were raised in multiple conversations. There was always action around the detective offices.
He’d watched Savannah absorb it all as they passed through. She’d explored his office in thorough detail.
“I was expecting mismatched furniture and stained linoleum,” she said.
“You’ve watched too many old cop shows on TV. The city built this place a few years ago to house the police station, fire department, and arson team.”
“It’s fancy.”
His cell phone rang, and he saw it was Vander. He held up a finger and pressed the phone to his ear. “Hi, Vander.”
“I’m incoming with Ace.”
Hunt stiffened. “You found something?”
“A whole stinking pile of something. You know she’s wanted for questioning about a murder?”
Hunt’s hand clenched. “No.” He felt hot, then cold. His gaze shot to her—small, delicate, beautiful.
Savannah a murderer? Every instinct in him screamed that it was a lie.
But was he too close to make the judgment?
“It stinks to high heaven, Hunt. Some things are off about it. Wait, Ace has something else. You know she has a stalker?”
Hunt ground his teeth together, his eyes on the curve of her jaw. “I suspected something like that.”
“Hold tight, and we’ll share when we get to you.”
“Roger that.” Hunt slipped the phone away. “I have a meeting. Don’t leave this office.”
She saluted him. “Aye, aye, captain.”
“Smart ass.” He touched her cheekbone, because he couldn’t stop himself. He saw the spark in her eyes.
If she was a killer, he’d turn in his badge. He wished she’d confide in him though.
“I’ll be back,” he told her.
He took a moment to organize a meeting room, and soon Ace and Vander strode in. Hunt watched a female officer do a double take at the men. Vander was wearing a suit, and Ace was in suit pants, with a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a laptop bag slung over one shoulder.
Hunt waved them into the room and closed the door.
“Savannah was attacked last night,” he said.
Vander’s face darkened. “What happened?”
“Intruder at her house. Tried to choke her. I intervened, but the asshole got away.”
“How is she?” Vander asked.
“Bruised.” Just the thought of those marks again shot anger through Hunt’s veins. “She’s not a fucking killer. I arrest killers for a living.”
Vander sat as Ace opened the laptop on the conference table.
“We all know that the right circumstances can cause anyone to take a life.” Dark shadows stirred in Vander’s eyes. “But no, I don’t think your woman is a killer.”
Hunt’s hand flexed. “She’s not mine… Yet.”
Ace snorted. “Where did she sleep last night?”
Hunt stayed silent.
“She staying with you now?” Vander asked.
Hunt nodded.
Ace turned to the big screen at the end of the room and tapped his keyboard. “This is what I dug up. It was hard to find because it was buried deep. Her new name was generated by someone with talent. It would’ve cost a pretty penny.” A picture of Savannah’s driver’s license flashed up. “Savannah Cole’s background goes back ten years, but it’s only been active for the last four.”
Hunt frowned. “Someone created it four years ago, but went back and laid a trail for ten?”
Ace nodded. “Most people only go back a few years. Prior to four years ago, she was Susannah Hart.”
Pictures from some sort of party at an art gallery popped up on the screen.
Savannah’s hair was shorter, more silvery-blonde. Her smile… Hunt’s chest hitched. It was wide and open. She looked happy, not guarded.
“She was an up-and-coming artist in New York City,” Ace said.
Fuck. Hunt pressed his hands to the table. “What happened?”
“A young, blonde artist named Amelia Kerry was found dead in the gallery after Susannah Hart’s showing. She was also an up-and-coming artist, a rival of Susannah’s.” The next images were crime scene shots.
Vander’s face didn’t change, Ace winced, and Hunt’s lips flattened. It was brutal and bloody.
“Susannah Hart’s prints were everywhere, including on the knife beside the body.”