spread, with his hands on her, content.
When she woke, he was still behind her and it was still dark out and her pain was a dull ache instead of unbearable. “How long did I sleep?”
“About an hour. Here, drink this water.”
She did so, noted that his palm was splayed over the bare skin of her belly, where her shirt had remained pulled up. She tried to imagine her belly big with child and a life with Chris that didn’t include worrying about witness protection, but she couldn’t.
“We don’t have to talk about this now,” he said when she pulled her hand away with a quick jerk, and she hated that she was so transparent to him. “But your headaches will be worse for a little while—the hormones.”
“Great.” She pushed away from him, sat up and hugged her legs to her chest. “How did you know that would help?” she asked, well aware that her cheeks flushed as she spoke.
“It’s cute that you blush.” He ran a finger down one side of her face. “I read up on migraines.”
“Because of me?”
“Yeah, because of you. You had them in Africa and I figured now you wouldn’t be able to take meds. The orgasm thing—it’s just a theory, but it sounded like the most fun to try out.”
She bit her bottom lip lightly and then, “Someone’s been inside my house. That’s why the men are here. It happened two days in a row, I think. He moved my things around. But there was no forced entry. My foster father set up the security.” She peered up at him. “Why did they let you in?”
“I know one of the guys.”
Of course he did. This world of military and secret agencies was so small. “The man who killed Mike, the man who shot me—he’s escaped.”
“And you think he’s the one breaking into your house.”
“I don’t know what to think. We’re just being cautious at this point. For him to come here, after me, would be pointless. I’d think he’d be better served getting out of the country and going to Colombia, where some drug lord can cover his ass.”
“How long ago did that happen—with you and Mike?”
“Ten months. And I hate that he might’ve been in here, touching my things. But I hate it even more that something like this, something that could be considered a routine threat, a hazard of the job, needs to get my foster father up in arms because of my background.”
Chris didn’t say anything, just put a hand on her arm and rested his head on her shoulder. He got her and didn’t try to break her out of self-pity mode. It was a good thing, because she needed to do that herself—it was far too dangerous to have to depend on someone else.
Jamie’s bedroom was only slightly less stark than the main room, still with the white carpet and white walls, but there were some photographs—black-and-white stills—and the comforter was a soft shade of blue. There were books piled on the nightstand—an eclectic mix of fiction and nonfiction.
An iPod, black. Chris had thumbed through it while she’d rested and found several songs he’d sung to her back in Africa. Now he found himself humming while his forehead pressed against her back.
Her breaths were deep, although not easy. He could tell she was thinking, planning … deciding how much further to let him in. And he simply waited for her to continue—she would, and he was well aware that pushing her further wouldn’t get him the information he wanted. Like more details about this Gary Handler bastard and how he could get his hands on him himself.
She seemed convinced it was Handler; the evidence pointed to him, but if it wasn’t him, if it was someone else from her past, he’d take care of that too—knew it with a certainty that he hadn’t felt in forever.
The fierce, primal urge to protect Jamie that had been there in Africa had only intensified. And now he remained as fucking close as he could possibly be to her without stripping her down and taking her, which was not an easy urge to fight.
She’d trusted him at a
When she woke, he was still behind her and it was still dark out and her pain was a dull ache instead of unbearable. “How long did I sleep?”
“About an hour. Here, drink this water.”
She did so, noted that his palm was splayed over the bare skin of her belly, where her shirt had remained pulled up. She tried to imagine her belly big with child and a life with Chris that didn’t include worrying about witness protection, but she couldn’t.
“We don’t have to talk about this now,” he said when she pulled her hand away with a quick jerk, and she hated that she was so transparent to him. “But your headaches will be worse for a little while—the hormones.”
“Great.” She pushed away from him, sat up and hugged her legs to her chest. “How did you know that would help?” she asked, well aware that her cheeks flushed as she spoke.
“It’s cute that you blush.” He ran a finger down one side of her face. “I read up on migraines.”
“Because of me?”
“Yeah, because of you. You had them in Africa and I figured now you wouldn’t be able to take meds. The orgasm thing—it’s just a theory, but it sounded like the most fun to try out.”
She bit her bottom lip lightly and then, “Someone’s been inside my house. That’s why the men are here. It happened two days in a row, I think. He moved my things around. But there was no forced entry. My foster father set up the security.” She peered up at him. “Why did they let you in?”
“I know one of the guys.”
Of course he did. This world of military and secret agencies was so small. “The man who killed Mike, the man who shot me—he’s escaped.”
“And you think he’s the one breaking into your house.”
“I don’t know what to think. We’re just being cautious at this point. For him to come here, after me, would be pointless. I’d think he’d be better served getting out of the country and going to Colombia, where some drug lord can cover his ass.”
“How long ago did that happen—with you and Mike?”
“Ten months. And I hate that he might’ve been in here, touching my things. But I hate it even more that something like this, something that could be considered a routine threat, a hazard of the job, needs to get my foster father up in arms because of my background.”
Chris didn’t say anything, just put a hand on her arm and rested his head on her shoulder. He got her and didn’t try to break her out of self-pity mode. It was a good thing, because she needed to do that herself—it was far too dangerous to have to depend on someone else.
Jamie’s bedroom was only slightly less stark than the main room, still with the white carpet and white walls, but there were some photographs—black-and-white stills—and the comforter was a soft shade of blue. There were books piled on the nightstand—an eclectic mix of fiction and nonfiction.
An iPod, black. Chris had thumbed through it while she’d rested and found several songs he’d sung to her back in Africa. Now he found himself humming while his forehead pressed against her back.
Her breaths were deep, although not easy. He could tell she was thinking, planning … deciding how much further to let him in. And he simply waited for her to continue—she would, and he was well aware that pushing her further wouldn’t get him the information he wanted. Like more details about this Gary Handler bastard and how he could get his hands on him himself.
She seemed convinced it was Handler; the evidence pointed to him, but if it wasn’t him, if it was someone else from her past, he’d take care of that too—knew it with a certainty that he hadn’t felt in forever.
The fierce, primal urge to protect Jamie that had been there in Africa had only intensified. And now he remained as fucking close as he could possibly be to her without stripping her down and taking her, which was not an easy urge to fight.
She’d trusted him at a
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