Chapter 9

Kayla’s riseto awareness came slowly, painfully.

Her head throbbed as if someone had squeezed her brain like a therapy gel ball, while prying her eyes from their sockets. With an ice pick.

A sixth sense cautioned her to remain still. To force her bruised mind to go back in time. To remember . . .

The images came fast and violent.

The gazebo, the dark hole in Vicky’s forehead, Detective Morgan’s questions, Ash’s concern for her, feelings of helplessness, her search for Ash.

Excruciating pain.

Kayla’s heart smashed into her ribcage before retreating into a quivering ball. Was her intruder the same person who’d killed Vicky and presumably meant to kill her? If so, why was she still alive?

Or was she that unlucky—to be shot at and assaulted by two different people in the same evening?

Ash.Oh my God, where was Ash?

Heart in her throat, she forced herself to calm down, which was damn hard. Every cell in her body, screamed at her to move, find Ash, make sure he was safe.

Alive.

She needed to assess her surroundings, identify the danger zones. It was the smart thing to do. But the physical inaction was killing her.

She drew in a long breath, analyzed the scent, but didn’t identify anything alarming. No mustiness, no foul body odor, no metallic scent of death. Only an intense coldness beneath the left side of her head.

The contraction of her left hand confirmed that she rested on a bed. Could she turn over? Or would bindings restrict her movement?

She didn’t detect any cold metal or hard plastic around her wrists or ankles. But she hadn’t moved enough to be sure.

Feeling buoyed by what she’d ascertained so far, she rolled to her right side. Not only was she not bound to the bed, the sheets were made from the highest thread count and the duvet was so soft that she could’ve nested in it for days.

Unnerved by her findings, she blinked her dry eyes open and came face-to-face with Ash Blackwell.

“’Bout damn time,” he said, his gruff voice belying the concern bracketing the corners of his eyes. His tone softened. “You’re safe.”

“Where am I?” she asked, wincing as she made to sit up. She glimpsed a familiar nightstand, crystal chandelier, and calico cat before scrunching her eyes shut against the sharp jab of pain behind her left ear.

“Easy,” he said, pressing his fingertips against her shoulder until she laid back down. “You might have a minor concussion.”

She touched the small aching bump behind her ear and was surprised to find the area cold, until her hand brushed against a gel pack positioned between her head and pillow.

“Leave it,” he ordered, when she made to remove the pack. “It’s keeping the swelling down.”

“My head is numb.”

He pried her fingers away, gently. “Just a while longer.”

Crispy batted at his hand, ripping the skin.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered, rubbing his knuckles. “Blood-letting feline.”

Kayla noticed several more scratches. “Crispy gave you those?”

“Crispy? What kind of name is that for a savage guard cat?”

Five years ago, she’d agreed to foster the calico after a devastating fire had killed her human family and left the five-month-old kitten’s right rear haunch badly burned. At seeing her singed fur and damaged leg, one of the young volunteers at the animal shelter had joked about the kitten’s close call of becoming a crispy critter.

The name had stuck.

Crispy’s leg still bore a significant burn scar, which caused a slight limp. But she was otherwise whole, hearty, and freakishly attuned to Kayla’s moods.

After three months and not a single inquiry to take on an injured cat, Kayla had decided to make the fur baby’s stay permanent. The calico hadn’t been the first animal she’d fostered from the shelter, but Crispy was the only one she’d ever adopted.

“Did you catch who attacked me?” Kayla asked.

As if sensing her unease, Crispy nuzzled her cold, wet nose against Kayla’s cheek. She tunneled her fingers into the calico’s soft fur, and the low thrum of anxiety in her chest calmed.

Mission accomplished, the cat curled up by her feet.

Ash sat back and seemed to brace himself. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

She studied his features. “What manner would that be?” The answer came to her in an instant of clarity. “You knocked me out.”

This time, it was his turn to wince. “Sorry.”

“Why?”

“Why were you downstairs? Wearing all black? And in tactical gear, for chrissakes?”

When he put it like that, she could understand why he’d acted first, thought later. She’d been operating on instinct. A compulsion to find and protect. Given the circumstances, she was lucky he’d only rendered her unconscious.

“I heard a noise.”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

“I was worried something had happened to you.”

The hard lines around his mouth softened . . . a little.

“I could have killed you, Kayla.”

Her name on his lips momentarily stunned her speechless. She couldn’t recall having ever heard him say it before. It was nice. Blood warming, even.

Until she registered the barely suppressed terror edging his voice. “I’m sorry, Ash. Really. I couldn’t stand hiding away while you faced a danger meant for me.”

He slouched back in the chair he’d dragged up to the side of her bed and stared at the ceiling.

While she’d been unconscious, he’d removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white button-down shirt. His broad chest rose on a deep inhalation.

The moment his chest returned to its natural position, he said, “I’ve trained for situations like tonight. A lot. It’s second nature to me.” He lowered his chin and his beautiful blue orbs locked onto her face. “And I expect my orders to be obeyed.”

Obeyed.

There were no words in Merriam-Webster to describe how much she loathed the word.

“Don’t get your feminist knickers in a bunch, Ms. Krowne. I expect the same from any person under my protection.”

She counted backward from five, a technique she’d picked up in college when trying not to deck every male student in her political science class.

Five, four, three, two, one.

“I understand,” she said, the words drying out her mouth like a handful of sawdust. “But know that inaction goes against every drop of H2O in my body.”

His lips twitched as if he were about to smile, then he seemed to recall they weren’t on friendly terms and shot out of his chair. He scraped two white oblong pills off the bedside table and picked up a glass brimming with water.

“Take these. They’ll dull your headache.”

“How’d you know?”

“I’ve been there. Plus,” his index finger waggled before her eyes, “the squinting is a dead giveaway.”

Kayla flared her eyes wide. The action released the tension she hadn’t realized she’d been storing. She sat up slowly and took the proffered tablets, washing them down with the water.

He eased the half-empty glass from her shaky grip. “Try to get some sleep.”

If only.

The second she closed her eyes unwanted images would plague her, making sleep impossible. Just as well. Every creak of the house’s joints would likely send her imagination into overdrive. Sounds she’d heard a hundred times would be new and mysterious and absolutely maddening.

“Thanks for everything you did tonight,” she said, handing him the gel pack. “Well, except the head bashing.”

No reaction.

The guy never laughed at her jokes. It was good she loved a challenge.

An unexpected worry crowded aside her amusing pet project. Would he stay if she asked? She glanced down at his right hand, where he rhythmically tapped his forefinger against the side of his thigh.

A nervous habit. A tell. One that had escape written all over it.

Setting aside her own wishes, she took pity on him. “I’m fine now. There’s no need for you to babysit me any longer.”

“I’m not worried about your head. I know how hard it is.”

She lifted one brow at the insult. “What are you worried about then?”

“Unwanted visitors.”

“You really think the bullet that took”— she cleared her throat, still unable to say the words —“was meant for me?”

“It would be unwise to rule it out.”

“The house alarm system is armed and there are surveillance cameras all around the property. There’s no sense in you staying any longer.”

“That’s a lot of security.”

“Your point?”

“Seems like you were anticipating trouble.”

“There’s always a losing side in what I do. And the loser is never my client.” She knew the statement sounded arrogant, but she spoke the truth. Not everyone accepted losing. “I also have a sizable art collection in the house, if you recall.”

“Which is why I’m crashing on your couch tonight.”

“What?” She bolted upright and got a meat cleaver through the brain for her efforts.

“Don’t worry, Ms. Krowne. Your virtue is safe with me.”

Pity.

He sat in the middle of her sofa, balancing his pistol on his leg.

“Are you going to stare at me all night?”

Although she couldn’t see his eyes in the gloom, she felt their thorough glide down her body, as if he could see through layers of bedding and clothes.

“There are worse ways a man could spend his evening.”