Haunted. Gena Showalter

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СКАЧАТЬ Was that disappointment in her tone? “Well, the only answer I can give you is no. I would remember someone with your particular … attitude.” Her gaze raked over him, and the little tease shuddered as if they were discussing B-L-O-O-D. “And for your information, I’m entirely lacking in modesty about my paintings because there’s no need for it. I’m an incredible artist. Incredible!”

      Confidence was more of a turn-on than straightforwardness, and she possessed more than most. There was no way she could be the broken girl he’d imagined her. Right? And guilt and shame weren’t that bad. Right?

      “Never said you weren’t incredible. And what’s wrong with my attitude?”

      “It kind of sucks, but I’m sure you’re told something similar all the time.” Up her hand went, her nail back in her mouth, her teeth nibbling. “I, uh, smell coffee,” she said, a sudden tremble in her voice, “and yes, I’d love some. Thanks.”

      She darted around him and breezed inside, a waft of cinnamon and turpentine accompanying her. As he watched, momentarily speechless, she stalked to his kitchen.

      His brain eventually chugged out of the station. Who did she think she was? His home was his sanctuary and strangers were never allowed. Not even hot ones.

      To be honest, this girl was the first person other than himself to ever step inside the apartment. His partner was avoiding him, and his family was … well, he had no idea where. At eighteen, he’d left home and had never looked back. His parents had died when he was six, and none of his relatives had wanted him, so he’d hopped from one foster family to another until the age of thirteen, when a depressed housewife and her emotionally abusive husband had adopted him. Good times.

      So, yeah, call him paranoid, call him domineering and selfish and rude, but what was his was his, and he never shared.

       But you’re learning to share, remember?

      Not anymore!

      He would kick her out after scolding her for her daring—

      and, as a courtesy, he wouldn’t shoot her in her pretty face—and then they could discuss going to dinner, maybe a movie.

      He would have the blonde or no one, he decided.

      But he took one look at her and found himself rooted in place. Her motions were stiff, jerky, as she gathered the supplies she needed. A cup, the sugar, a spoon. As many interrogations as he’d conducted over the years, he knew when someone wanted to say something but hadn’t yet worked up the courage. His new neighbor was desperate to confess a secret; she just needed a little push.

      Take control of the situation. “Hey, lady. You need to get something straight.”

      “‘Lady’ is just as bad as ‘ma’am.’ I’m Harper,” she called over her shoulder.

      Harper. The name didn’t quite fit her.

      He closed the distance, checking the living room to make sure he’d cleaned up after himself. Besides the shirt and pants he’d draped over the side of his couch, he had, thankfully, done a little picking up. As for his furniture, the dark leather of his couch and love seat were scuffed but of high quality, his coffee table as polished as his gun, and his rug threadbare only where he liked to pace. The floorboards creaked with his every step, but then, creaks, groans and moans as wood settled and hinges dropped were the standard sound track, blending with chatter that could be heard through the ultrathin walls.

      “Listen up,” he said.

      “Okay, I’ve waited long enough for you to offer,” the woman—Harper—interjected. “What’s your name?”

      “Levi. Now why are you here?” He gripped the counter to stop himself from shaking her. Shaking was bad. Very, very bad. Or so his captain was always saying.

      Clutching his cup, sipping his coffee, she turned to face him. Only, rather than spilling her reasons, she grimaced and gasped out, “What is this crap? Because honestly? It tastes like motor oil.”

      So he liked his joe strong. So what? “Maybe it is motor oil.”

      “Oh, well, in that case, it’s actually pretty good.” She took another sip, sighed as though content. “Definitely grade-A motor oil.” Her gaze slipped past him. “You know, your place is so much bigger than mine, with much better lighting. Who’d you have to sleep with to get it?”

      She’s as weird as the rest of them. “Who says I had to go all the way?” Apparently, I am, too.

      A laugh bubbled from her, and she choked on the coffee. “Dude. Do you know what you just implied?”

      “Uh, yeah. That’s why I said it.” Now, then. He’d allowed her to dominate the conversation long enough. He needed to move this along before she gave another one of those laughs. Gorgeous.

      He sidestepped the counter, moving closer to her, closer still, the fragrance of cinnamon thickening the air between them, the turpentine fading. He claimed the cup, set it aside and crowded her personal space, forcing her to back up until she ran into the cabinets.

      She peered up at him, those ocean-water eyes haunted … and, oh, so haunting. Just then, she reminded him of a fairy with a broken wing.

      Broken. There was that word again.

      Muscles … tensing again …

      In his experience, everyone had secrets. Clearly Harper was no exception. He recalled the day she moved in. She’d kept her eyes downcast, the long length of those pale lashes unable to mask the shadows underneath. There’d been a hollowness to her cheeks that had since filled out, and a stiffening of her spine every time someone had neared her. And wow, he’d noticed a lot considering he’d hadn’t allowed himself to watch her.

      “You have five seconds to start talking,” he said more harshly than he’d intended. There was no reason to break her other wing, but dang, his instincts to protect those weaker than himself were taking over, every part of him rebelling at the thought that someone had hurt her. “Why. Are. You. Here?”

      She gulped, and her trembling increased. “Can’t a girl get to know a guy before she begs him for a favor?”

      “No.” Evasion never worked with him. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

      Color darkened her cheeks, even as the rest of her blanched to chalk-white. “Not exactly, no.” Softer voice, danger hidden by silken threads of … fear? Yeah, definitely fear. No longer was her gaze able to meet his.

      More gently he said, “Explain ‘not exactly.’”

      And there went her nails, smashing into her teeth. “Word on the street is, you’re a detective with the OKCPD.”

      “I am.” No reason to mention his forced leave of absence.

      Those ocean-water blues finally returned to him, so lovely in their purity his breath actually snagged in his throat. “What kind of cop are you?”

      “A detective, as we’ve already established.”

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