My eyes widen as I get what he’s thinking. “What? Hell, no! I’m not suicidal, Blake! I just . . . it’s all kind of overwhelming, you know? I just needed to turn off my brain for a little while.”
His gaze turns skeptical. “By swimming yourself to exhaustion and nearly drowning in the bottom of the pool?”
I shrug. “Yeah . . . I guess.”
He shakes his head and rakes a hand through his hair, grabbing onto a fistful as he breathes out a frustrated sigh. “Christ, Sam. You scared the shit out of me.”
“If I ever get out of here, I’m going swimming in the ocean.” It’s a totally random thought, but I feel the sudden need to do it. Maybe I need to prove to myself I’m tough enough to handle anything, even sharks. Even Ben.
He leans on his elbows across the counter. “I thought you were galeophobic?”
I take my mug and go to the sofa, sinking into the corner and curling my legs under me. “But life is about facing your fears, right? Isn’t that what you said?”
He gives me a slow nod, the worry in his gaze shifting to something brighter—something that might be admiration. And I realize I want it to be. I want him to have a reason to think I’m something other than a babysitting job. I want to be someone worthy of his time.
“Are you going to get him?” I ask with a sudden determination to do anything I can to help.
He moves around the counter and settles onto the sofa next to me. “Our search of Arroyo’s records didn’t turn up the smoking gun we were hoping for. We haven’t been able to find anything to directly connect him to the disappearance of that girl, and we’ve come up nearly empty-handed with physical evidence from the club that would implicate him in Weber’s murder. They did a really good job of keeping the scene and the body clean. The only thing we’re sure about is you were the last person to see Weber alive. That means he didn’t leave Arroyo’s office on his own two feet. Arroyo most likely had his goons carry the body out.”
His goons.
I know he means Marcus, but I can’t help remembering how he always had my back. He wasn’t a goon; he was my big, scary guardian angel. There was genuine concern on his face when he came out of Ben’s office that night and saw me in the hall, shaking up against the door after I’d let Blake touch me.
There’s a jolt through my body as the image forms in my head. Grease on his hands.
“Could that have been blood?” I muse out loud.
Blake leans closer, a spark in his eye. “What? Did you remember something?”
I tip my head back onto the sofa, feeling a little sick. “Do you remember hearing anything, like a bang, when we were in the VIP room together that night?”
His ears flush and for the first time he looks truly embarrassed. “I don’t really . . .” He rubs the back of his neck, chagrin settling over his features. “My memory of that night isn’t as clear as it should be.”
“I heard something outside the room, which is what made me . . . it sort of snapped me out of . . . whatever,” I say, working really hard not to let my mortification show. “A few minutes later, when I went out into the hall, Marcus was just coming out of Ben’s office. He was wiping something off his hands. I thought it was grease. There was a towel. He threw it on the floor near Ben’s door.”
Blake’s face becomes suddenly animated as he gets what I’m saying. “Was Arroyo with him?”
“Ben was yelling something at Marcus through the door . . .” I close my eyes and try to think. “He wanted him to get Devin, the other bouncer, I think.”
The elevator door clanks, and I turn just as Cooper steps out. I’d forgotten that Blake said he was coming this morning.
Blake ignores him, all his attention focused on me. “But Arroyo was definitely in the room. You’re sure of that?”
I nod.
A smile breaks over his face as he moves off the sofa. “We’ve got him.”
He relays the information to Cooper as I refill my coffee, nearly spilling it because of my shaking hands. I take it to the counter, slip onto a stool and pick at the bowl of strawberries there, even though I’m not really hungry. They shoot me a few more questions, and once Cooper has all the details, he dials Jenkins and disappears into the elevator, apparently deciding that following up the lead is more important than babysitting Blake and me.
Blake is exhilarated. “This could be our smoking gun, Sam.” He shakes his head, and I see that look of admiration in his eyes again. “I never thought it would play out like this.”
I slip off the stool, licking my strawberry sticky fingers. “How, exactly, did you think it would play out?”
There’s a full ten seconds where he just stares at my lips, but then he clears his throat. “Your prostitution charge was just to get into Arroyo’s club records. I never thought we’d be able to put him away for murder. And I never in a million years thought you’d be the key.” He steps closer and his eyes spark as he sweeps a lock of hair behind my shoulder.
“It was because of you,” I say, my shaking, amplified by his proximity, showing in my voice. “You freaked me out in the VIP room. I was in the hall trying to pull my shit together when I saw him.”
He bites his lips between his teeth and stares down at me, the spark in his eyes becoming a slow burn.
We’re less than a foot apart and I can’t stop myself from touching him. I lift a hand and trace my finger along the edge of the bandage on his arm. “Does this hurt?”
His breathing becomes shaky at my touch and he leans forward a fraction of an inch. “Not much.”
I trace the bandage up under the sleeve of his T-shirt, and goose bumps pebble the skin under my fingertip as it moves toward his shoulder. “Have you been shot before?”
His breathing stalls altogether for a beat. “No,” he finally says, lowering his gaze. He blows out a sigh, lifting his eyes to mine again, and in them I see his struggle. He closes them in a slow blink as he backs away. His hand slides down my arm and he catches my fingers with his for just a second before letting go of me. “I have some reports. There are leftovers in the fridge. I probably won’t be up for dinner.” He turns and vanishes down the stairs, leaving me standing here staring after him.
I don’t see him for the rest of the night, but I hear his music waft up from downstairs. I sneak down at one point, just to make sure he hasn’t keeled over dead, and see him on the sofa with a laptop, so I leave him alone. I know he needs his space for a lot of reasons.
I forage in the fridge and find something to take back to my room for dinner, then flip on the TV, but there’s nothing except reruns of shows that were bad the first time around. When I’m done eating, I turn it off and change into my swimsuit. I’ve got to burn off some of this tension before it eats me alive.
Just after dark I skip down the path and glance back at the house. The living room lights are on, but Blake isn’t on the balcony. I’m surprised by the pang of disappointment, until I get nearer the bathhouse and realize the light is on in the man cave.
He’s working out.
I tiptoe to the window and cautiously peer in. He’s on the bench press wearing nothing but his white bandage and a pair of loose navy gym shorts. As I watch, he lowers the heavily weighted barbell to his chest, then hikes it back up. Muscles ripple under taut skin across his chest and up his arms as he presses the weight once, twice, three times, and he winces each time as the left side of the barbell lags behind.
I want to go in there and tell him to stop. He’s not ready for this. But, instead, I find myself pressed up against the window, watching.
God, he’s beautiful.
He rests the barbell on the rack and sits up, and I step away from the window before he sees me.