“You can’t always spend the day at the station.” As much as he wanted that. “So, if I can’t be with you, you’ll have a bodyguard.”
Her eyes went wide. “Bodyguard?”
“I’m running Walkson down. The asshole will make a mistake, and I’ll nail him. Ace from Norcross is insanely good with computers and is helping.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “Walkson is smart and cunning. He looks so…ordinary. Everybody falls for it.”
Hunt leaned closer. “Will you tell me? About his attack?”
She shook her head. “It’s in the past.”
“It’s not. He’s driving your future.”
“I don’t care about my future, as long as my family is safe.”
“Your mom and brother.”
She nodded.
He slid his hand up the side of her face. She leaned into him, but only for a second, before she pulled away.
She pasted on a fake smile. “Is dinner ready? It smells good and I’m starved.”
“I will keep you safe, Savannah.”
Endless gray eyes met his. She stroked his stubbled cheek. “And I’ll keep you safe.”
His muscles tensed. He clamped his hands on her thighs. “You aren’t leaving.”
She didn’t say a word.
A timer dinged. Cursing under his breath, Hunt headed to the stove.
“Let’s eat.” She leaped off the island to set the table. She pulled things out of his drawers. “Oh, my God, you have napkins. The real cloth kind.”
“My mom helped me furnish the place. I hate to burst your bubble, but I’ve never used those napkins.”
She rolled her eyes. “Men.”
“Savannah, about Walkson and having protection—”
“Can we drop it? For now?” Her eyes pleaded with him. “Let’s just enjoy our dinner.”
Hunt released a breath. “Yeah, okay.”
They ate and he watched her get edgier, fidgeting in her seat. After dinner, he cleared the table, then came back and gripped her shoulders. She was so tense.
“What do you need?” he asked.
She dragged in a breath. “My sketchbook.”
He got it for her, and she moved to the couch. As he cleaned the kitchen, he watched her with her charcoal, feverishly working on the paper.
He loved how absorbed she got. It was the only thing in the world for her right now. With the bombardment of information and stimulation these days, so many people had lost the ability to do that deep focus.
But as he stacked the dishwasher, he saw the quick glances she shot his way, her gaze lingering on his rolled-up sleeves.
Hunt hid his smile. Savannah Cole was going to be under him, in his bed, very soon.
He dropped down on the couch beside her, reaching for a stack of unopened mail that he’d brought up earlier.
Mmm, Savannah’s cute, bare feet with painted nails looked a lot more enticing than junk mail and bills.
Instead, he grabbed her feet and pulled them onto his lap.
“Hey,” she said.
“Relax.” He started massaging.
“Oh.” Her eyes fluttered. “Damn, that’s good.”
He worked his thumbs into the balls of her feet. She moaned.
Hell. His cock was half hard around her anyway. It didn’t need much more encouragement.
She tried to keep sketching.
“What are you working on?” he asked.
“Whatever catches my interest.”
He grabbed the sketchbook.
“Morgan! Give it back.”
He held it without looking at it. “Can I see?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
Hunt flicked it open and heat shot straight to his gut. Unruly emotion filled him.
She’d been sketching him. In various poses.
Him, standing in the middle of a crowd, in a suit with his holster on. He looked very in charge.
Him, barefoot and shirt untucked, at the stove cooking.
Him, sprawled in a chair, a faint smile on his face.
The final one was his hands running over a woman’s naked body. Shit. Desire hit hard. She hadn’t sketched all of the woman, but the slim lines matched Savannah.
She fidgeted. “I’m an artist and you’re a good subject. It doesn’t mean anything.”
He looked up. “We both know that isn’t true.”
“Hunt, we can’t do this. It’s a very bad idea.” She set the sketchbook on the coffee table.
“You mean you’re scared.”
“Yes, damn you. For about a hundred different reasons.”
When she moved to shift her feet, he grabbed her calves and dragged her across the couch toward him.
“Hunter—”
“I love it when you say my name like that. Breathy, needy.”
Something flared in her eyes. “I do not sound breathy or needy.”
Then she shocked the hell out of him by straddling him.
Damn. He really liked that. He clamped his hands on her hips.
“I bet I can make you sound breathy and needy,” she said.
In about ten seconds. “You’re welcome to try.”
She pressed her tongue to her teeth and moved her hips, and accidentally knocked his mail off the couch.
A note fluttered to the floor, written in red ink.
You can’t have her.
She’s mine.
You’re dead.
Every muscle in Hunt’s body tensed.
Savannah turned frozen like ice. “No.” She shook her head. “No, no, no.”
All Savannah could hear was her heartbeat pounding in her ears.
Hunt slid off the couch and snatched up the note carefully, by one corner.
She couldn’t see it now, but the words were seared into her brain.
Walkson liked to write in blood.
Her vision swam. Hunt strode to the kitchen and put the note in a plastic Ziploc bag. She wasn’t going to have a panic attack, dammit.
She sucked in a breath and rose.
“I’ll have it processed,” he said. “We might get a print.”
She shook her head. “There won’t be any. There weren’t any on the old ones he sent me.”
Hunt’s green gaze was piercing. “He’s not going to get to you.”
She was more worried about Walkson getting to Hunt.
Hunt opened a cupboard. “I’ll call it in, and I’ll take the note to forensics in the morning.” He pulled out a bottle. He splashed amber fluid into two glasses.
He brought one over to her.
“What’s this?” She took the glass.
“God’s gift to mankind.” He sniffed the liquor. “Blanton Gold. Bourbon.”
Her nose wrinkled. “I don’t like bourbon.” But she knocked hers back. She needed it.
Heat filled her cheeks as the alcohol hit her system. Hunt sipped his.
He seemed so calm.
“He’s targeting you,” she snapped.
Hunt sipped again. “Savannah, I’m a cop. I carry a gun. I’m former Delta Force. I’m no easy target. Walkson has made a big mistake this time.”
She bit her lip. She had to leave. She’d known it all along. “He’ll attack you when you least expect it. It’s how he got me.”
“Tell me.”