Trusting Ryan. Tara Quinn Taylor

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      Her skull dug into his flesh as she turned to look up at him, grinning. “What, they give out some kind of memo at the office listing detectives’ exact ages?” she asked.

      “No.” Suddenly Ryan wasn’t feeling so good. Surely she knew…he just assumed she knew. Everyone seemed to.

      Shit. What if she didn’t know? His skin grew cold. Clammy. Worse than when he’d been facing that freaked-out druggie with the sawed-off shotgun the previous month.

      “Then why would you say that?” she asked again. He could tell, from the frown marring her brow, the confusion in her gaze, that she was catching on to something.

      And had no idea what.

      Disentangling himself as gently, but as quickly, as possible, Ryan stood, skipping underwear as he pulled on his jeans and zipped them.

      Surely this wouldn’t be a big deal. She’d only be what, two, maybe three years older than he was, assuming she went straight from college to law school?

      Suddenly the budding relationship he’d been fighting against became something he had to have. No matter what. And another one of life’s little lessons became personal. Only by losing something—or facing its possible loss—did you realize its worth to you.

      “You haven’t heard them telling the jokes about the detective in diapers?” he asked, scrambling for words.

      “Nooo.” She drew the word out, sitting up and pulling the covers to her chin. “Exactly how old are you, Ryan?”

      “How old do you think I am?” Now that was a mature reply. Fresh out of junior high.

      “I don’t know. I thought early thirties. So…what…you’re twenty-eight, twenty-nine? That’s young for a full detective. And I guess it could make you seem more accessible to a kid Scott’s age.”

      Ryan didn’t lie. Or prevaricate. Or play games. He lived life by the rules. All of them.

      If you didn’t, people got hurt.

      He was also a risk taker. Came with the cop territory.

      He’d just never known such stark fear before when taking one.

      “I’m twenty-two.”

      He faced her, an unarmed firing squad of one, and knew by the look on her face as soon as he said the words that he’d risked as much as he’d feared—and lost.

      AT FIRST AUDREY THOUGHT he was joking. He had to be. She was not spending the weekend in bed with a twenty-two-year-old boy. Someone had paid him to say that. Except that Ryan wasn’t the type to play mean games—not even for money. Especially not for money. If there was one thing she was sure of, it was that Ryan Mercedes could not be bought.

      “Say something.” He wasn’t laughing.

      He wasn’t even smiling.

      Nor did he look nonchalant, as though he was playing with her. In fact, he looked about as sick as she was beginning to feel. Sick, and scared.

      And young.

      Oh, God, what had she done?

      “You’re twenty-two.” How could her voice sound like her when she’d just become someone she didn’t know at all?

      “Twenty-three in a little over seven months.”

      A young twenty-two. Not even twenty-two and a half. With numbers running quickly through her head, she stared at him, horrified.

      Suddenly the sparseness of his apartment was no longer admirable. It screamed at her of youth and college and just starting out. The new patio furniture didn’t make her feel warm and wanted, but rather, as though she’d come to a tea party with a child.

      And lying there, naked in his bed, she felt like a sex offender. What would this young man’s mother think of her?

      She had to get up. Get dressed. Get out. Except that she didn’t want him to see her naked. At twenty-two Ryan would be used to young, nubile, completely firm and unmarked coeds.

      Audrey had cellulite.

      And what in the hell did that matter?

      She did not want to attract this kid. Didn’t want him interested in her. At all. It was gross. She was gross.

      Besides, he’d already seen it all.

      When tears sprang to her eyes, she wanted to die.

      “Hey, Audrey, it’s not a big deal.” With her eyes closed against the wetness still squeezing its way out of them to slide down her cheeks, Audrey almost gave in to that voice.

      It had been the highlight of her life for weeks. It had brought her to life all weekend long, speaking to her of needs and a beauty that transcended all the trash their jobs brought to them. She’d responded to it like a flower to rain.

      “Sweetie…”

      Her heart calmed at the word. Knew a second of peace. Everything was going to be all right.

      Then the bed dipped beneath his weight.

      And she waited to feel the touch of his fingers on her face. Her neck. Needed to feel his heart beating beneath her cheek, his arms around her, keeping her safe…

      No!

      No! No! No! No! No!

      “Stop!” The scream was shrill. Not a sound she’d ever heard come out of her mouth before. “Don’t come any closer.” The tone was softer, but no less foreign.

      “Come on, babe, it’s not as if…”

      Audrey’s eyes flew open. Wide open. She held up a hand, silencing him. She knew now. Couldn’t get sucked in by that deep, reassuring tone. The sense of confidence. How could she possibly find emotional safety and security with a twenty-two-year-old child?

      Or almost child, she had to amend as she looked at the man sitting on the edge of the bed, concern shadowing his gaze. Concern and a caring so deep she almost couldn’t breathe.

      She knew the breadth of that chest intimately. Knew the strength in the bones and sinews. The gentleness and passion in his…

      No! What in the hell was the matter with her?

      His lack of chest hair wasn’t genetic as she’d assumed. It was a symptom of youth. He hadn’t grown any yet!

      Good thing she knew where the bathroom was. She might need to make a dash for it if the nausea attacking her got any worse.

      They’d showered together in there that morning. He’d soaped her back and breasts and…

      “Don’t babe me,” she said with more strength in her voice. And some venom, too.

      “You’re angry.” He sounded surprised, was sitting СКАЧАТЬ