That, he really didn’t like.
“Come on.” He took her arm and tugged her to her feet. He pulled her toward his place.
“Don’t you have to get to work?” she asked.
“I will.”
“Surely crime waits for no man.”
He unlocked his front door and towed her upstairs. As they entered his living area, she looked around with interest.
“Wow… You’re so neat. And tidy.”
His lips quirked. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”
He didn’t have much in the way of decoration, but everything was neat and tidy. He attributed that to his military training. He did have a nice, framed photo of the San Francisco skyline on the wall.
She made a sound.
Hunt’s lips twitched. “We can’t all be wild, disorganized artists.”
“I’m not disorganized. I know exactly where all my stuff is.”
“That’s impossible.” He pulled her into the kitchen, then gripped her slim waist and set her on the island.
She gasped.
And Hunt marveled at the fact that his hands almost spanned her small waist.
He reached over and opened the freezer, pulled out an ice pack, and wrapped it in a kitchen towel. Then he pressed it to her lip.
Savannah pulled in a sharp breath. “I have ice at my place.”
“My ice is better.” He met her gaze and leaned a hip against the island. “You have a problem letting someone help you?”
She shifted her shoulders, looking uncomfortable. “I’m just used to looking after myself.”
Maybe she had to, because she was never anywhere long enough to let anyone close. He noted in his check on Savannah Cole that she didn’t have a permanent place of residence.
She waved the ice pack around. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a mystery that needs solving.”
He pushed the ice pack back on her lip. “If the shoe fits.”
“I’m not a mystery. I’m a simple woman.”
He snorted.
Her eyes narrowed. “I am.”
“Sure.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Detective Morgan.”
“Call me Hunt.”
“I like Hunter better.” Then she clamped her mouth shut like she hadn’t meant to say that.
No one called him Hunter. Even his mom called him Hunt. But he liked the idea of this mysterious, gray-eyed blonde calling him Hunter.
“You can call me Hunter.” He cocked his head. “You shouldn’t have engaged John.”
Her face hardened. “He was hurting Marcie. I wasn’t going to let that asshole lay his hands on her again.”
The vehemence in her voice made him even more intrigued. “You could’ve been really hurt.”
She shrugged, waving the ice pack around again. “There were people around. I’m not stupid. And I told Ella-Mae to get you right away.” She paused. “I had to do something.”
He pushed the ice pack back on again.
“The lip is all right,” she said. “It’ll heal up fast.”
“You know this from experience?”
Her gaze shifted, and she suddenly seemed very interested in his backsplash tiles.
“Do you think Marcie will press charges?” she asked.
Hunt sighed. “I’ve spoken with her before… DV situations are difficult.”
“He’s a violent, aggressive asshole, so it seems pretty cut and dry to me.”
Hunt scraped a hand over his hair. “It should be.” But it never was. “Will you press charges?”
Her gaze dropped. “I’m not really hurt…”
“It’ll help.”
“No.” She shook her head.
“Savannah—”
“I can’t. I…” She bit her lip.
“Well, let’s see how it goes with Marcie, or the asshole will get off.”
Savannah’s gaze moved back to his face. “I am sorry. You must see assholes get away with all kinds of stuff.”
“Yeah.” It was the hardest part of his job.
“It sucks that sometimes the bad guys are clever enough to avoid consequences.” There was resignation buried deep in her voice. “Life is never fair.”
“Hey.” Hunt put a finger under her chin. “Life isn’t always fair, but it isn’t all bad.”
She didn’t respond, but her fingers circled his wrist. She pushed his hand away, but her gaze locked on it. She got a focused look.
“I want to sculpt your hands.”
Hunt frowned. “What?”
“Your hands.” She turned his hand over. “They’re so strong, and you have long fingers.” She stroked her fingers over his knuckles and the scars there. “You have strength. You’ve lived. Worked. It shows.”
“Savannah…”
Her gaze flicked up.
“You’d better stop stroking my hands like that, because it’s giving me ideas, and I have to get to the station.”
She dropped his hand like it was on fire. “I need to go.” She leaped off the island and dumped the ice pack in the sink. “Um, thanks for the ice, and the help.”
“Try not to take on any more abusive assholes today.”
That got him a faint smile. “The day is young, so I can’t make any promises.”
“Keep an eye on that lip.”
“Right.” She headed for the stairs.
“And Savannah?”
She paused and looked back at him.
“I’m a detective. My job is to solve puzzles. And it’s too late, because I’m planning to solve yours.”
Her eyes widened, and he caught a flash of strong emotion. Fear, but something else, as well. “Hunter—”
“I’ll see you later.”
She stared at him for a beat, then fled.
Oh yes, she was definitely a mystery he planned to solve.
Savannah hunched over the table, moving her hands over the clay.
It was coming to life. Matching the picture in her head exactly.
She’d been working feverishly, and lost track of time.
After the drama of the morning, she’d worked at her computer for a bit, and then had finally given in to the urgent, growing need to sketch.
To sketch Hunter.
She’d finally made herself stop, and paint. But those hands—those strong, steady, scarred hands—wouldn’t leave her alone. She’d had to capture them.
And not with charcoal or paint.
She’d pulled out some clay and gotten to work.
His strong hands were coming to life for her.
She’d captured the strength of the man who stood for others. Who protected. Her sculpture had morphed a little. In it, those strong hands were cradling a set of smaller, more feminine ones between them. She hadn’t used her own hands as the template on purpose. It was just the easiest option.
She stroked the clay. Dammit. She couldn’t hold everything in place in order to get it just right. And she didn’t want to use a vise.
A thumping sound interrupted her thoughts.
She frowned.
The thumping came again. She realized someone was hammering on her door.