Kira tipped her head back and let the water thrum against her chest. She tried to breathe and calm herself. But her heart wouldn’t stop racing, and the tears kept coming. She grabbed the bar of soap off the shelf and lathered up fiercely, rubbing the mint-and-rosemary-scented foam over her body. Then she washed her hair and stared down at the shower floor as the sudsy water swirled down the drain.
She pictured Ollie’s shocked face again, and she closed her eyes, wishing she could block out the image, block out everything that had happened for the last six days.
A tapping noise made her turn around. She shut off the water.
Someone was knocking on the door. Probably Jeremy.
“Kira?”
“Go away.”
She squeezed the ends of her hair and stepped out of the shower. She didn’t want to talk to him or anyone else right now. She just wanted to go to bed.
Where she would toss and turn all night and spend hours staring up at the ceiling, trying to get those horrible images out of her mind.
Tap tap tap.
“Kira?”
She grabbed the fluffy white robe off the hook. She shrugged into it and wrapped the belt around her waist, cinching it tight. Then she yanked open the door.
“What?”
Jeremy stood there, a worried look on his face. “Why are you crying?”
Why? She wanted to slap him. Instead, she stalked past him and snatched her brush off the dresser. She dragged it through her hair, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were pink and puffy, and a fresh wave of tears welled up, these from frustration. She hated crying, and she hated Jeremy seeing her like this.
He stepped over, and she met his gaze in the mirror as she ran the brush through her hair.
“I’m upset, okay? First Ollie. Then Shelly. Now you. You go off to do me a favor and end up shot, and this whole thing is out of control! I don’t see why the police haven’t arrested anyone. It’s been six days!”
He took her arm and turned her to face him. “I’m not shot. It’s nothing.”
She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her go.
“Look at me.”
“No.”
He tipped her chin up.
Kira stared up into those potent blue eyes. Her stomach seemed to drop, and she got that panicky feeling again. But it was a different kind of panic, because he was standing so close and she could feel the heat of his fingers through the terry-cloth sleeve of her robe. Her heart thrummed inside her chest as she watched the conflict in his eyes.
He bent his head down and kissed her, and the panic gave way to excitement as he tilted her head back. His kiss was deep and hungry, and she stood on tiptoes and slid her fingers around his neck. His body felt warm and solid, and he tasted good again, so good she couldn’t seem to get enough, even when he cupped his hand over her butt and pulled her tight against him.
This was what she wanted. What she needed—Jeremy’s tongue in her mouth, and his solid body, and his hand tugging at the belt of her robe. She eased back so he could get it loose, and then the fabric parted, and his warm palms slid over her bare hips, pulling her closer. She felt a rush of nerves and kissed him harder, and he made a low groan. God, she wanted this. Him. Now. She wanted his mouth and his hands and his hard, powerful body. Desire rushed through her, making her pulse pound, pushing away all the ugly thoughts and replacing them with need. His hand slid to the small of her back, and she felt the steely ridge of him through his jeans. She reached for his belt.
His hand closed around her wrist. “Kira.”
She fumbled with the buckle, and his grip tightened.
“What?” She pulled back and looked up at him, breathing hard. His gaze dropped to her open robe, then snapped back up.
“I can’t.” The pleading look in his eyes was like a kick in the gut.
She eased away. “But—”
“I’m sorry.”
He released her hand and pulled the sides of her robe together. She watched with disbelief as he retied the belt he’d just undone. She looked up at him and saw that he was serious, and all that hot desire turned to ice in her veins.
“Sorry,” he said again.
He turned and walked out—just like that—leaving her hot and confused and even more shaken than she’d been before.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
KIRA SIPPED her coffee, careful not to scald her tongue, as the office buildings of downtown whisked by. She’d gone with plain drip this morning instead of the mocha Frappuccino she would have liked, because the coffee place was packed, and the drive-through line had curved around the building.
She glanced at Jeremy beside her, silent as he navigated rush-hour traffic. The swish-swish of wiper blades on the windshield was the only sound. He hadn’t said a word about last night. He acted as though everything were normal, as though he hadn’t seen her naked and had his hands all over her.
Kira eyed his fingers on the steering wheel and felt a rush of embarrassment. She gazed out the window again. To distract herself, she nibbled on a store-bought banana muffin that wasn’t nearly as good as her grandmother’s.
“Want some?” she asked.
“No.”
He didn’t even look at her. He was in bodyguard mode. Eyes forward. Muscles tense. Attitude heavy on the grim, especially when they stopped at traffic lights. It was as though he thought a crew of assassins might pop up out of nowhere and ambush them. He hadn’t even wanted to stop for coffee, but Kira had insisted, and he’d finally agreed to take her to a Starbucks drive-through.
Sipping her drink, she glanced at his hands again and remembered his warm palms gliding over her hips and pulling her close. Then she remembered those same hands retying the belt of her robe, and she felt another flood of embarrassment—and irritation, too. She was mad at herself more than at him.
The irony was thick here. Last night she’d rejected Brock and then promptly thrown herself at a man who didn’t want her. Brock was smart. Successful. Interested. So naturally, she wasn’t attracted to him at all.
It was a curse, she decided. The Curse of the Strong Silent Type. The only men who turned her on were uncommunicative or emotionally unavailable or both. Jeremy was a particularly vexing example because she knew he was attracted to her, and yet he seemed burdened by this misplaced sense of duty to keep her at arm’s length.
The muffin tasted like sawdust, and Kira dropped the remainder into the bag and stashed it on the floor. She looked out the window through the rain-slicked glass. It was for the better, really. Jeremy didn’t even live here, and she had no business getting hung up on him, which was exactly what would have happened if they’d slept together.
It may have happened already. In fact—if she was being honest with herself—she knew it had. She liked Jeremy, even though he was guarded and taciturn and infuriatingly tight-lipped about his feelings. She liked him anyway, whether he’d rejected her or not, and it was going to suck when this whole crisis was over and he had to leave.
Well, not completely. Some aspects of this crisis being over would be good. Such as having her freedom back and being able to go about her life without the constant threat of violence lurking around every corner.
“That’s the parking garage right there,” she said as they neared the building beside the courthouse.