Monroe, Melody S. - Verdict (Siren Publishing Classic) by Melody S. Monroe

sentences, every look, every movement.
    He took off his shoes before planting himself on top of the spread. He was such a gentleman. With his arms crossed, his face relaxed. She’d been about to say he could slip under the covers to get more comfortable but didn’t want to push the boundaries, or test her resolve.
    She clicked off the television. “Good night.”
    “Good night, Susan.” His voice came out as soft as melted chocolate, but she refused to read anything into his tone. He’d just woken up, or so she wanted to believe.
    She rolled on her side, her back to him and listened to his deep breaths. He didn’t squirm, didn’t roll, didn’t do much of anything, but she’d bet her twenty bucks he was thinking about her.
    Her speeding mind refused to slow. “I saw you had a tattoo.”
    “Hard not to notice.”
    “Smartass.” She rolled over. They were face to face, less than a foot apart, almost close enough to kiss. “What was above the barbed wire?”
    “A daisy.”
    She nearly choked. “A daisy?”
    “Too feminine for you?” He was teasing her again.
    She gave in and let the enjoyment roll over her like water to a drought-ridden plant. “Not on you.” And that was the truth. She dared to lean closer but resisted the urge to touch his arm. “The flower looked lopsided.”
    “That’s because the flower only has four petals. One at eleven o’clock, one at ten, nine, and eight.”
    She let out a chuckle. She loved playing “he loves me, he loves me not.”
    “Why only four petals? Would more have cost too much?” She guessed from the way he admired their first town house that he didn’t live in luxury.
    “That’s not the reason. I was in four foster homes before I turned eighteen. Hence the four petals.”
    Every muscle stilled as sympathy swamped her. “You were in four foster homes? How?” She swallowed her maternal instinct.
    He glanced away. “It’s not important enough to discuss.”
    She bit back a response. He closed his eyes. He must understand about loneliness and lack of family then. She refused to be put off. “Why a daisy? And not a four-leaf clover?”
    Blood thrummed in her head as she awaited his answer. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Oh, crap. Had the daisy been a girlfriend’s favorite flower? Had she been the one woman who’d gotten away?
    His tense jaw implied he wasn’t sure how much to tell. He rolled back to face her. “The first foster home I went to was run by nuns. Sister Mary Louise was kind to me, the first person in my life who treated me with respect. She loved daisies.”
    Relief ran through her. She tried to imagine what life in an orphanage was like but failed. “What happened?” To the nun, to the love between them, to the little boy?
    “Nothing. When a family offered to take me a few months later, she let me go.” Bitterness tainted his words.
    He rolled his back to her.
    Had he expected a nun to adopt him? How young had he been when he lost his family? He probably wouldn’t tell. From the way his voice wavered, his past had caused him intense pain.
    For a brief moment, she was tempted to ask if she could give him a hug to help fight his demons, but who was she to give comfort? She was tempted to touch his skin and smell his scent, but if she did, would she want more?
    Dear Lord. She’d never asked if he had a girlfriend or a wife at home. Given his job took him out of town for unknown periods of time, she doubted any woman who loved him would put up with that schedule.
    Armed with the new knowledge he’d grown up in foster care, she decided he probably never developed attachments. Receiving or even giving comfort would be foreign to him. He was a protector, the one to decide when to care, what to give of himself.
    Then again, most serial killers came from dysfunctional homes, but Stone wasn’t like them. In her heart, she knew he wasn’t out to kill her. As he told her many times, if he’d wanted her dead, he’d have killed her