walk, you heard the doc. Helps healing.”
“You got it.” He slid arms around her, bending at the knees and letting her fall against him. Inch by inch, she landed on her feet, trying to straighten, but her legs couldn’t take her full weight yet. Held tight against him, straightening in slow inches, until she had both arms wrapped around his chest, his hand under her armpit. She shuffled to the bathroom, hanging on for all she was worth. Not because she needed the help, a cane would have been sufficient. But because the feel of his body, his strength and his heat more than she could resist.
Chapter Twenty Three
It was a long, hard, heated argument. It involved screaming, silences, and hurling accusations. But in the end, he won. He’d given her a choice: his place, or he moved in to hers while she healed. His refusal to budge had pissed her off, no less than he expected.
The massive house remained intimidating, but Katie had been right all those weeks ago. It wasn’t her, only the house she lived in. She wasn’t empty, soulless. The polished oak flooring, two story ceilings in the foyer, or the spotless walls did not reflect her colorful personality, her beautiful imperfections.
He carried her upstairs, relishing the feel of her arms around his neck, head resting against his shoulder. The trust he wouldn’t drop her. By the time they’d gotten everything unloaded and unpacked, she was asleep, curled into a fetal position on the bed, hands under her head, face relaxed. His heart beat heavily, and he wanted to stand over her sleeping form, so small on the massive bed, to watch for any danger.
He blew out a breath, knowing she’d only get a little angrier at him. Such independence. Such fire. He loved it, thinking of the Judge. Beautiful on the outside, with all the right curves, and if a person wasn’t familiar with it, the power under the hood a deadly surprise. It required special handling, the ability to adjust, and knowing that changing it would mean losing what made it beautiful in the first place.
He’d taken apart the Judge while he was at the shop, replacing parts and pieces of the body. It was almost back to normal, and currently in the shop waiting for painting. He’d even managed to get them to mix the original Orbit Orange as a surprise for Katie.
Quietly gathering his laptop and the flash drive, he went into the sitting room, turned on the standing lamp and got to work. He was close to f inding the culprit in the mess. He’d weeded out most of the accounting staff, leaving three people: Michael Collins, the shy accountant who worked out of Hard Ride, Bethany Harrows, an outgoing and friendly woman working out of the main Parker Enterprises office, and Clint Brown, a massive man with a gentle disposition and a desk next to Bethany. Carter Jones was dead, they’d been unable to save him, but the man never had access into the right server to do the embezzlement.
Houston strongly suspected Mike. He was the only one who set off his radar. He looked at the picture on the opposite wall, the soft light from the lamp giving the Picasso a different perspective. The muted colors made the woman in the picture less out of whack and more realistic. He could see sadness, hiding the pride. Picasso, though not a favorite, had managed to capture a dual nature in the small painting. It was his Hellcat.
The little voice in his head asked if he suspected Mike due to jealousy. Katie always treated the man with gentleness, giving him a lot of leeway, never letting him see her temper. Whereas she’d let loose with both barrels on him, unafraid.
His mind stopped, and he gaped at the painting. She was herself around him, allowing the good and bad to have time, as if she knew he’d stay, was worthy of seeing everything. Faults as well as the parts she kept under wraps: the need to protect her people, to ensure they always had what they needed, never wanted. He remembered each time she’d allowed him to see
“You got it.” He slid arms around her, bending at the knees and letting her fall against him. Inch by inch, she landed on her feet, trying to straighten, but her legs couldn’t take her full weight yet. Held tight against him, straightening in slow inches, until she had both arms wrapped around his chest, his hand under her armpit. She shuffled to the bathroom, hanging on for all she was worth. Not because she needed the help, a cane would have been sufficient. But because the feel of his body, his strength and his heat more than she could resist.
Chapter Twenty Three
It was a long, hard, heated argument. It involved screaming, silences, and hurling accusations. But in the end, he won. He’d given her a choice: his place, or he moved in to hers while she healed. His refusal to budge had pissed her off, no less than he expected.
The massive house remained intimidating, but Katie had been right all those weeks ago. It wasn’t her, only the house she lived in. She wasn’t empty, soulless. The polished oak flooring, two story ceilings in the foyer, or the spotless walls did not reflect her colorful personality, her beautiful imperfections.
He carried her upstairs, relishing the feel of her arms around his neck, head resting against his shoulder. The trust he wouldn’t drop her. By the time they’d gotten everything unloaded and unpacked, she was asleep, curled into a fetal position on the bed, hands under her head, face relaxed. His heart beat heavily, and he wanted to stand over her sleeping form, so small on the massive bed, to watch for any danger.
He blew out a breath, knowing she’d only get a little angrier at him. Such independence. Such fire. He loved it, thinking of the Judge. Beautiful on the outside, with all the right curves, and if a person wasn’t familiar with it, the power under the hood a deadly surprise. It required special handling, the ability to adjust, and knowing that changing it would mean losing what made it beautiful in the first place.
He’d taken apart the Judge while he was at the shop, replacing parts and pieces of the body. It was almost back to normal, and currently in the shop waiting for painting. He’d even managed to get them to mix the original Orbit Orange as a surprise for Katie.
Quietly gathering his laptop and the flash drive, he went into the sitting room, turned on the standing lamp and got to work. He was close to f inding the culprit in the mess. He’d weeded out most of the accounting staff, leaving three people: Michael Collins, the shy accountant who worked out of Hard Ride, Bethany Harrows, an outgoing and friendly woman working out of the main Parker Enterprises office, and Clint Brown, a massive man with a gentle disposition and a desk next to Bethany. Carter Jones was dead, they’d been unable to save him, but the man never had access into the right server to do the embezzlement.
Houston strongly suspected Mike. He was the only one who set off his radar. He looked at the picture on the opposite wall, the soft light from the lamp giving the Picasso a different perspective. The muted colors made the woman in the picture less out of whack and more realistic. He could see sadness, hiding the pride. Picasso, though not a favorite, had managed to capture a dual nature in the small painting. It was his Hellcat.
The little voice in his head asked if he suspected Mike due to jealousy. Katie always treated the man with gentleness, giving him a lot of leeway, never letting him see her temper. Whereas she’d let loose with both barrels on him, unafraid.
His mind stopped, and he gaped at the painting. She was herself around him, allowing the good and bad to have time, as if she knew he’d stay, was worthy of seeing everything. Faults as well as the parts she kept under wraps: the need to protect her people, to ensure they always had what they needed, never wanted. He remembered each time she’d allowed him to see
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