High-Risk Investigation. Jane M. Choate

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СКАЧАТЬ of myself. I don’t need a bodyguard.”

      “No?”

      “No.” She let the single word stand. “Consider yourself fired.”

      “You didn’t hire me, so you can’t fire me.” His maddening logic stymied her. “Olivia would have my hide if something happened to you. According to her, you’ve been receiving some pretty nasty letters.”

      At mention of the letters, bands of cold wrapped around Scout’s chest, making her wonder if she were having a heart attack. Of course, she wasn’t. If she was struggling to catch her breath, well, that was only natural under the circumstances.

      A shiver danced down her arms, a delayed reaction to the near-death experience. Breathe. The silent reminder had her inhaling quietly, letting the air out slowly. Her mouth had gone so dry at the idea that someone had made a second attempt on her life in less than twenty-four hours that she couldn’t even work up enough spit to swallow.

      Nicco pushed a glass of water her way. “Drink.”

      She picked up the glass, held it with trembling hands, brought it to her mouth. A long sip allowed her to wet her lips.

      Bars of sunlight slanted through ancient blinds. She basked in the warmth and felt some of the chill leave her.

      He was talking, and she worked to listen to the low rumble of his voice. “You said a tip brought you to the docks?”

      Knowing where this was going, she nodded reluctantly.

      “Anonymous?”

      “Yeah.”

      He raised his brow, whether at her stupidity for following what was obviously a bogus tip or at her one-word answer, she didn’t know.

      Another chill shivered through her as she accepted what might have happened if not for Nicco. She hoped he didn’t notice anything amiss. He’d probably never known a moment of panic in his life. He had a reassuring way about him, his calm, measured tones like the practiced strides of the soldier Olivia had told her he’d been. His presence made her feel safe, and she could really use a feeling of safety right about now.

      Honesty forced her to admit that it wasn’t only the attempt on her life that had sent a rush of sensation skittering along her nerves. A tiny thrill had whispered through her when Nicco Santonni pulled her from harm’s way. It reminded her of the energy-charged air before a lightning storm struck.

      She wanted to believe that the feelings were due to the heightened emotion of the moment, but that was a lie.

      “I was following you.” His words confirmed her earlier suspicions. He studied her. “You’re not as cool as you’re pretending. Even hotshot reporters are allowed to have a moment after almost being crushed by a couple of tons of steel and wood.”

      Unwilling to pursue the subject of her reaction to the scaffolding nearly killing her, she turned the tables on him. She made no secret of her scrutiny of him, her gaze shrewd and assessing. Last night, he’d been debonairly handsome in a tux.

      Today, with cords of well-toned muscle showing to advantage in a gray T-shirt and black jeans, he was even more devastating.

      Though not movie-star handsome, he possessed something more basic: raw power. A combination of roughly drawn features, muscular shoulders and a long, lean build imbued him with a presence that made him hard—make that impossible—to forget.

      She tore her gaze away from his chest and lifted it to meet his. He scraped a hand over his cheek, drawing her attention to the dark stubble that shadowed his jaw.

      He wasn’t as tall or as big as his brother Sal, but there was an inner strength to him, a steely resolve in his eyes. It was that determination that set him apart from other men and put him at the top of the food chain, an apex predator.

      Dark eyes were filled with amusement. “You’re staring. What’s the verdict?”

      “You left the military but still have a side of hero complex. You’re self-confident but not arrogant. You pride yourself on doing the right thing no matter the cost.”

      “Not bad.”

      “Not bad or spot on?” she challenged.

      “Not bad. Take it or leave it. Tell me what you know about last night.”

      “I don’t know anything.”

      “What does your gut tell you?”

      She put down the menu and sat back, unwilling to share the jumble of feelings that made her stomach feel like it was coated with acid. “Right now it’s telling me that I’m hungry. I went off without breakfast and worked through lunch. You want something from me, you need to feed me first.”

      The food arrived, rich and plentiful, redolent with the smells of grilled meat and fried onions.

      She closed her eyes. The silent prayer over the food was both comforting and humbling.

      When she looked up, it was to find Nicco watching her keenly. “You were praying, weren’t you?”

      Her nod was brief. “I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.” At one time, she’d questioned the idea of praying, even silently, in a public place, but had decided she couldn’t worry over the opinions of others. Prayer was an important part of her life. Offering gratitude to the Lord was her way of acknowledging His hand in her life.

      “Don’t apologize. It was...nice.” His gaze dropped. “My family always prayed at meals when I was a kid.”

      “And now?”

      “My parents and sisters still do.” He paused. “And Sal.”

      “And you?”

      “I sort of got out of the habit.” He popped a French fry into his mouth. “It’s good that you do.”

      “You can, too. God doesn’t turn away prayers.” She smiled gently. “No matter how rusty they are.”

      “I’m afraid mine are more than rusty. It’s hard to pray when you no longer believe.”

      “What made you stop?”

      “Stuff.” He left it at that.

      The roughness of his voice told her to back off. She lifted her burger, brought it to her lips, and took a large bite. The meat was grilled to perfection. “Why didn’t I know about this place? I thought I knew all the good burger joints.”

      “Phil—the owner—likes to keep it under wraps. He always says that if it caught on, he’d be busier than he wants.”

      “He’s right.” She took another bite and sighed her pleasure.

      “How’d you come to be named Scout?”

      “My mother taught English at the university before she left to start writing. She did her dissertation on Harper Lee.”

      “Got it. You’re named after the little СКАЧАТЬ