Jaw tight, hand on her elbow, Flynn steered her across the street to his SUV. Taking her bag, he helped her in, then tossed the bag into the backseat on his way around to the driver’s door. As he got into his seat, he turned the key and she was sure that if it wasn’t raining so hard, he’d have peeled out.
“Do you know what I found in the grass, next to where I left the intruder?” Flynn asked, his voice clipped
“His wallet?” she joked.
“A syringe. Mostly likely filled with enough tranquilizer to knock you out for several hours.”
She gasped.
“I told you, you have a target on your back, Isa. Do you believe me now?”
As she realized the thing the bad guy wanted to steal was her, she started shaking. “Yes,” she said, then looked up at him. “But why?”
“I don’t know. What do you have that makes you worth kidnapping?”
“I don’t know! I keep to myself.”
“Could it be that Andre or Boris is on to you?”
“No. Boris rarely comes in. Other than the one time I served him and his cronies drinks in his office, we haven’t been in the same breathing space. And Andre, he looks out for us. I’ve never given him any reason to want to hurt me.”
“Except not delivering the video and asking questions about Jasmyn, a stripper who disappeared from the club.”
She shook her head vehemently. “By your description it wasn’t Andre. I promised him a new video if my phone didn’t turn up.”
“You also told him you’d only turn it over to Boris. Doesn’t mean he didn’t hire out his dirty work. Maybe Andre has some side action of his own.”
“I don’t see it, but—” She choked back a sob. “I guess anything is possible.”
“You’re damn right it is.”
For the next few minutes they drove in silence, until she realized where they were headed. Piedmont. “There’s a little motel right off Route Thirteen. It’s called the Hideaway, I think. Please take me there,” she said calmly.
“That place is infested with prostitutes and dealers.”
“It’s all I can afford.” She couldn’t even handle that. She’d just have to work double shifts at the club to pay for it.
“I’ll take you to the Claremont.”
“I can’t afford that!”
“I can.”
“No, Flynn, I don’t accept.”
“It’s either the Claremont or my place.”
“I—why do you get to decide where I stay?”
“Because I know what’s best for you right now.”
Fifteen minutes later as they pulled into his garage and the heavy door came down behind them, Izzy panicked. If she went in there willingly, she was giving herself permission to let down every single wall she had constructed around herself. “I can’t go in there.” Not yet.
Flynn opened his door and said, “Suit yourself.” Slamming it, he proceeded to take her bag out of the backseat and go into the house, but not before turning the garage lights off.
Chapter Twenty-four
Izzy woke to a symphony of birds happily welcoming in the new day. She hadn’t heard birds singing in the morning like this since… She popped up in the bed, blinking back the streams of sunshine blazing through the open French doors that led to a balcony. This wasn’t her room.
Far from it. This one sported twelve-foot ceilings, six-inch carved white wood molding, steel gray walls, sleek dark brown furniture, and a lovely crystal chandelier. The rich oak hardwood floor was mostly covered in a thick, fluffy, white area rug that matched the wispy white of the billowing curtains. Although partial to quirky, colorful décor, Izzy had to admit that the traditional-contemporary mix worked; it had serenity to it. Stretching, she luxuriated beneath the smooth, soft sheets that she was sure cost more than her entire bedroom set.
If she didn’t instinctively know where she was, Izzy would have known Flynn was connected to this space. His scent lingered on the linens. Closing her eyes, she brought them to her nose and inhaled. Crisp and clean like the ocean.
As she imagined the hard warmth of Flynn’s body against hers, the night came flooding back to her. The intruder. The syringe, and Flynn’s injury. She shivered hard. To say she had been stunned by what had almost happened to her was a major understatement. Tightening the sheets around her, Izzy fought the urge to hide under them as the trauma of what would have happened to her had Flynn not come to her rescue sank in. He’d saved her from something horrific. So horrific she would have prayed for death.
Glancing at the closed door, she remembered their argument about coming here. He’d taken her from the home she no longer felt safe in, insisting they go to his home. She’d refused at first. Her reasons escaped her at the moment. Pride probably. It had a habit of getting in the way of her better judgment when it came to the Special Agent. Her pride aside, she knew she would be safe here. She’d fallen asleep in the car, in the garage.
Then there was the fear. The fear of uncertainty. The fear of rejection. The fear that she wasn’t brave enough to give Flynn her best shot because she was afraid of failure. It was all too much, too fast. Now here she was, in his house, in his guest room bed. Her nerves were shot. She wasn’t quite ready to face Flynn in his home where anything could happen.
Giving herself a few minutes to take it all in, Izzy looked around some more.
Seeing the balcony, she knew she was at least on the second floor. Warmth infused her as she imagined Flynn gathering her up in his arms and carrying her from the garage, up the winding stairway, and settling her here. She must have been sound asleep, because she didn’t remember anything after closing her eyes and resting her head back in the SUV after the lights went out.
The only thing missing from her person was her shoes. They were neatly placed beside her overnight bag on the floor by the open French doors. Her purse was sitting on the nightstand next to a full bottle of water.
Settling back into the mass of pillows, Izzy contemplated Flynn. She had her work cut out for her. His actions were contradictory and confusing. His signals mixed. The emotional roller coaster she found herself on careened along its own turbulent course. Hanging on could kill her, but so could jumping off. Her plan of action was to remain cool, aloof, give him just little pieces of herself at a time. It would be a testament to her willpower if she could maintain the “steady as she goes” course.
How would Flynn be this morning? Feeling like he had made a mistake bringing her here? Had the trauma of last night pushed her here too fast?
Oh for crying out loud. Stop with all the back-and-forth, Izzy. Go downstairs and see what’s up.
Flinging the covers off, her she heard the chirp of her cell phone. She had a message.
Digging in her purse for the phone, she grabbed it and pulled it out. Two messages. One from Charlie: Must. Have. Update. Now.
Izzy smiled and texted him back: You don’t even want to know. Just don’t go back to the house. I’ll call later. I’m ok and so is Flynn. Xoxox
The second one was from Lover Boy, aka her handler, Maddox. Izzy smirked at the name he had assigned himself.
“That will ensure that when I boss you around like an overprotective boyfriend, if someone takes a look at the texts, it’ll appear normal caveman behavior when in fact, it’s instructions,” he had told her as he programmed in his number.
Flynn had stood silently by, not saying a word, but Izzy saw the proverbial steam coming out of his ears. Hesitating, she thought about that. It was obvious Flynn didn’t like the fact that Maddox acted comfortable around her, and wasn’t threatened by Flynn. If Flynn didn’t care for her in the relationship way, why act all possessive? Trying to understand Flynn was an exercise in futility. She had never met a more complex human being than Flynn Atticus Ryker.