CHAPTER SIX

Despite the mayhem that waited for her on the other side of the gate, inside the gate, and inside the house with Wyatt and his sons, Vica was at peace.

Or at least, the closest thing to peace she'd felt in a long time.

Watching him with his little boys brought her so much joy, she smiled through the pain in her lip. Because the joy far outweighed, it outshone the discomfort.

For a small part of her life, that was what her family had been like.

Her mother, father, brother, and her.

They were big, loud, and happy too.

Her father would roughhouse with Vica and Lorenzo the way Wyatt did with Griffon. He would tease and joke with them, but it was all so shrouded in love that she never had to question whether he was serious. He was teaching them life lessons, but in a fun, memorable, and kind way.

In so many ways, Wyatt reminded her of her own father.

Not in a creepy, daddy issues kind of way. But just in the deep-seated love he had for his children.

Lorenzo and Vica were Giovanni Vitale's entire life. He lived for his children. He lived for his wife, and even though he remained present and did the very best he could after Vica's mother died, it was noticeable the spark that had disappeared after he lost the love of his life.

Where was Griffon and Jake's mother? Did she die as well? Or were they divorced?

She did a bit of cursory snooping when she was in the house alone, searching for pictures, but she couldn't find any. Then again, she hadn't opened any drawers or cupboards, she just looked at the walls and any photo frames on flat surfaces. If she was dead, why didn't he have any pictures of her?

After dinner, Wyatt brought out mango gelato, which had the boys cheering with excitement. Vica, unable to ever turn down gelato—let alone anything mango flavored—joined them before retiring to her room so the family of three could have some time for themselves.

She wasn't particularly tired. So she spent the rest of the evening Googling ways to get a rush visa, as well as applying for jobs elsewhere. Her inbox was loaded with emails from colleagues, but she just couldn't bring herself to read them.

What did everyone think of her?

Would they testify against her, or on her behalf, if it came to that?

Would Wyndham Croft offer them money to say she was into Track? Would he pay them or threaten them to sully her character? She really didn't know the people she worked with very well. Sure, she went out for drinks with Aleysha a few times and they went to a couple of yoga classes together on their lunch breaks, but she didn't know the woman that well. Not well enough to assume she had Vica's back.

It was midnight by the time she finally fell asleep, though her dreams were fraught with chopped up images and memories of the night before. She woke up when it was still dark out, sitting straight up in bed, her heart pounding, skin soaked in sweat as the last remaining images of her nightmare faded on the fringes of her consciousness.

She couldn't really remember the dream now, but she knew it was bad.

Her breathing was erratic, and she was scared .

Was it a dream about Track? Or those two big, scary men who met her at the gate and offered her a settlement?

She went back and forth about that decision too.

Maybe she should have taken the settlement, working into the agreement that Wyndham Croft would put in writing that he would keep her out of prison and from getting deported. He was a man with money and connections. Surely, he could work his underhanded money magic to keep the police and ICE away from her.

She quickly realized she wasn't going to fall back asleep, so she padded to the bathroom and filled the free-standing soaker tub with warm water. Wyatt didn't have a variety of soaps to choose from, but she liked the smell of the men's body wash in the shower. So she added some of that to the running water until it created bubbles. Then she peeled out of the pajama shorts and top that Brooke and Justine bought her, and climbed into the tub. The window before her was enormous, allowing a perfect, unencumbered view of the beautiful Puget Sound.

It was still dark out, but a few boat lights bobbed in the water, as well as a handful of lighted buoys.

But it was the stars that really mesmerized her. They were endless and so crystal clear that for the briefest of moments as she stared at them, resting her head against the back of the tub with her body completely submerged, she forgot where she was, or the trouble she was in.

Surely, in a universe as fathomless and complex as this, her problem was insignificant and would sort itself out. She needed to have faith that good would prevail here.

She did nothing wrong.

She never led Track on. She never flirted with him. And she certainly didn't send her colleagues home and plan to be alone with him. She even stopped consuming alcohol around him so her wits were with her one hundred percent.

Did she mean to kill him? Of course not. She meant to injure him enough that she could get away and find help. But Lorenzo and his friends taught her well, and perhaps she just didn't know her own strength.

"It's not your fault, sorellina, " Lorenzo would say whenever they practiced self-defense. "It's never your fault. You can always change your mind. You can always say no. If he does not respect that and stop, you do whatever you need to do to get away. To protect yourself."

Closing her eyes, Vica sunk down into the water until she was entirely submerged, face and all. She held her breath for a long time, seriously contemplating if anybody out there would really miss her if she just didn't come up for air.

But the image of two little boys giggling at the dinner table and how devastated they would be if she died in their father's bathtub sent her shooting up out of the water and taking a deep breath.

Don't be so dramatic. Your life is valuable. Your life is worth something.

She sucked in big gulps of oxygen and frowned. "Get it together," she said to herself in Italian. "You are not this weak."

She closed her eyes again and leaned back against the tub, her arms out, resting on the edge. It'd been a long time since she met anybody like Wyatt. Someone so fiercely loyal and ready to help. And even though she knew a lot of his chivalry came from the fact that he was the first person she bumped into, and the incident happened on his property, a big part of her hoped there might be more to it.

After watching him with his children that evening, it was impossible to deny that she was smitten with this single dad. Or innamorata.

Not only was he incredibly handsome with a gorgeous smile, beautiful hazel-blue eyes, and a great head of hair, he had the striking personality to match. He seemed genuine. And Vica was usually a good judge of character. She didn't let a lot of people in because most of the time, she saw through their fa?ade. She saw their ulterior motives. It was why she never entertained anything beyond a professional relationship with Track. And even that, she maintained at arm's length. Not a single bone in his body was genuine, and neither were his intentions.

She wanted to trust that Aleysha was her friend for the right reasons and that Vica could count on her. She wanted to believe that her judgement of Aleysha being a genuine person were true, but honestly, she couldn't say. Maybe Wyndham Croft had something over on Aleysha. Maybe he would threaten her or her family. Bribe her.

Tomorrow, Vica would filter through the emails and figure out just where she stood with her colleagues, but for now, she really didn't think there was anybody out there that had her back besides the people she was staying with right now. The McEvoys were good people. She could feel it all the way down to her toes.

Lifting her toes out of the barely-bubbly water, which was quickly getting cool, she wiggled them and took in their wrinkly skin. She smiled at the memory of what her father used to always say when Vica refused to get out of the tub as a child, "You will turn into a prune, piccina . Then I will be forced to turn you into juice." It was a long-standing joke in their house that Vica's father drank a glass of prune juice every morning, then thirty minutes later, would take the newspaper to the bathroom and tell everyone to run for their lives if they knew what was good for them.

"Oh, Papa," she whispered, "what should I do?"

She sat there until the water was cold and gooseflesh broke out across her arms. The first streaks of daylight were beginning to breach the inky sky, and the stars were no longer as bright. She would be tired later in the day, but there was no sense trying to go back to sleep.

She wanted to get out and get some fresh air. Get some exercise.

Surely, nobody would begrudge her a walk down the road. She wasn't a threat, or a flight risk. And the fact that she was on an island that was being monitored by the police at the ferry terminal and on the main road meant even if she wanted to, she couldn't go anywhere.

She pulled the plug from the tub and got out, wrapping a towel around her body and heading back to the bedroom to get dressed. It was still rather early in the morning, but her belly rumbled and her brain craved caffeine.

She could be quiet in the kitchen and not wake the house.

Carefully opening the bedroom door, she peered out into the hallway and tuned her ears into the sounds of the house to see if anybody else was awake.

All was quiet.

With bare feet, she tiptoed down the hall to the stairs, then into the kitchen where she went to work preparing herself an espresso with Wyatt's fancy espresso machine. Oh, how she loved a good espresso.

A few bananas sat in a fruit bowl on the counter and there was one still slightly green among them. She much preferred slightly unripe bananas to overripe bananas. So she grabbed it and peeled it, as her tiny cup filled up with the dark elixir of the caffeine gods.

Once she had her espresso, she took it and her banana out to the patio at the back of Wyatt's house, where the barbecue and a small patio table and chairs sat. There was a nice little patch of grass as well, before the vast, climbing hillside dressed in wildflowers nearly touched the pink and yellow sky.

Taking in a deep breath of the crisp morning air, Vica sipped her espresso.

She needed to go for a walk, clear her head, and stop relying on others to take care of her.

Once the house roused, she'd let Wyatt know of her plan. She wasn't so daft that she'd leave without telling anyone. Even when she would go for a hike on the Olympic Peninsula, she made sure to let someone know she was going. Sometimes it was just her neighbor, Mrs. Jovan in the apartment below her, but at least someone knew to call Search and Rescue if Vica didn't return home at the end of the day.

The thought of Mrs. Jovan reading any news headlines and seeing Vica painted as a murderer made Vica's chest tighten, and not in a good way.

She knew the older woman would already be awake—she rose with the sun, did her fitness video, then took her dog, Nibbles, out for a walk every morning. So Vica pulled her phone out of the navy-blue hoodie Justine and Brooke had bought for her, and then dialed Mrs. Jovan.

"Oh, Vica, darling. I've been so worried about you," was the first thing Mrs. Jovan said when she answered the phone.

"I am all right, Mrs. Jovan."

"Like hell you are, dear. What's going on?"

Vica smiled. She never knew her grandparents, and although Mrs. Jovan probably wasn't old enough to be Vica's grandmother, she certainly gave off grandmotherly vibes. "Have you seen the news?"

"I've read some things."

"And do you believe them?"

"I believe that you did what you had to do to get away. To keep yourself safe. Are you safe now, dear? Where are you?"

" Si. I am safe. I'm staying with the owners of the pub where it all happened. They are working hard to help clear my name. I have a lawyer; we submitted an assault kit to the police. We have done everything right. But …" The back of Vica's eyes burned. "But I lost my job in New York. Because of what happened, they do not want to hire me. Now I am either going to jail, or getting deported."

"Oh, honey."

Vica wiped beneath her nose and sniffled. "I am sorry I did not call you sooner. I did not mean to worry you."

"I'm just glad you're okay … well, you know what I mean."

"How is Nibbles?" Vica adored Mrs. Jovan's dog. Nibbles wasn't cute, per se. He was a mix of at least six breeds and rescued from the streets of Mexico. But he was as sweet as could be and seemed to have a sixth sense about who needed dog snuggles.

"He misses you," Mrs. Jovan said. "We both do."

"Once I have a better idea of my fate, I will be in touch again. But for now, I am safe. I have people in my corner … which is weird."

"No, it's not. You just don't let people in. People want in, you just have a hard time letting them in. "

Damn, Mrs. Jovan and her astuteness.

Vica sighed.

"You know I'm right."

"I know you are right, I just do not like hearing it."

Mr. Jovan's laugh was rough and gritty. She didn't smoke, but she used to, and it definitely came through in her gravely tone.

"Please keep in touch, sweetheart. And let me know if you need any help. I don't have much, but I do have some money in savings."

"I would never ask that of you. I will be okay. Thank you though."

"Chin up, sweetheart."

They said their goodbyes, and Vica hung up the phone before the tears really started to fall and she was sobbing too hard to speak.

Noise in the kitchen pulled her attention and she pivoted her gaze to glance through the sliding glass door that entered into the dining room. Wyatt was in the kitchen in a tight white T-shirt, those sexy glasses again, and gray sweatpants, and he was pouring coffee beans into the grinder.

He had to know she was on the patio. She hadn't closed the door all the way, just the screen, and she wasn't exactly whispering with Mrs. Jovan.

Taking a deep breath that rattled more on the way out than it did on the way in, she wiped her eyes and beneath her nose again, finished her espresso and banana, then headed into the house.

He glanced up at her and smiled. "It's about to get noisy." Then he started the grinder.

She welcomed the sound as it drowned out her thoughts.

It didn't last long though, and soon they were plunged into quiet as he went about filling up the coffee maker with delicious, fresh grounds. "I see you have an espresso, but would you like a coffee?"

"I would love one, please." It was impossible not to admire the way his back muscles bunched and flexed beneath the thin, bright white T-shirt, or those biceps that were well-defined and larger than grapefruits. He'd kept those things hidden up until now. Why?

Spinning around, he graced her with a smile. "How was your bath?"

Her eyes went wide. "Oh no! Did I wake you?"

He shook his head. "I'm generally an early riser. I try to get in a workout on the rowing machine in the study before the boys wake up. I heard the tub faucet running. Not a big deal."

"I had a terrible dream that I can not even remember now and could not fall back to sleep. So I thought a bath might help. But that just woke me up even more."

"I'm sorry you had a bad dream. Was it about—"

She nodded. "At least I think it was."

Silence fell between them for a moment, but she couldn't peel her eyes from his face. He had such a nice face. With scruff, those beautiful eyes, a lovely smile, and a nice nose. The longer she stared at him, the more she realized that Wyatt McEvoy was quite possibly the handsomest man she'd ever met. And she was Italian. Italian men were notoriously gorgeous. But Wyatt was beautiful in an entirely different way.

" Mi dispiace per quello che state passando. Sei la benvenuta se vuoi rimanere qui per tutto il tempo che ti serve," he said, one side of his mouth lifting up, taking him from handsome to downright gorgeous.

I'm sorry for what you're going through. You're welcome to stay here as long as you need.

Vica's mouth dropped open. " Parla italiano?"

He winked. " Si. "

"W-why did you not you say anything until now?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, actually. I'm sorry. My boys don't. I actually learned Italian to impress a girl in high school. She was there for a year on an exchange, so I worked my ass off learning Italian to impress her. Languages have always come easy to me; I'm pretty good at Spanish and French too. But I like Italian the best. So I keep up with it by playing some of those language learning apps."

Well, now she was falling for him even harder. He learned an entire language to impress a girl.

Wait, was that girl his wife?

"What happened with the girl?" she asked, her heart beating like a hamster's beneath her ribs.

"She was impressed, and we went out a few times, but her father had a heart attack and she returned home before her year was over."

That hit way too close to home for Vica and her hand flew to her chest. "My father died the same way."

"He didn't die, but she realized he wasn't well, and she wanted to spend as much time with him as she could. He ended up passing about a year later. So I'm glad she went home to be with him."

"May I ask where your sons' mother is?" she said, hating that her voice quavered slightly as she spoke. She was still grappling with the fact that Wyatt spoke Italian. Of all the languages for him to speak, Italian was not on her radar. Spanish? Yeah, that made sense. So did French, or even Mandarin, or Arabic. But not Italian.

"She passed away a little over five years ago," he said solemnly. "All of our wives did."

Vica gasped. "All of them?"

He nodded. "Clint, Bennett, Dom, and I were all married. Jagger—who I'm sure you'll meet eventually—wasn't, and isn't, married. Nor does he have children. But the wives were heading to Vegas for a girls' weekend when their car was sideswiped on the freeway. Two women died on the scene and two in hospital. But they were all gone before we could get there."

Vica swallowed. Whatever story she'd been concocting in her head about the boys' mother, this hadn't been it at all. She wasn't sure she'd ever heard such a tragic story in her life. Six children became motherless in the blink of an eye. She was only six when she lost her mother, so she could feel the children's pain so deeply in her chest that she had to pull out a chair and sit down. "I am … I am so sorry."

"It was hard. Felt impossible for a while, but the five of us really banded together and we've created a wonderful life for our children. We take care of each other and the cousins are so close." His smile was crooked and entirely forced. "Griffon doesn't remember her, but the boys have lots of photo albums of her, as well as digital frames in their rooms with rotating photos of them with her."

"I … I am sorry, I was just curious because I didn't see any photos in the house."

He exhaled. "Yeah, I had to put them away for a while. It was too hard on me. I couldn't grieve her and be present for my kids. So I needed to just put them away so I could get through it without the constant reminder. I'm better now, so maybe its time to put some pictures back out."

"My mother died when I was six. Nothing as tragic as a car accident, but it was still awful."

"How did she pass?"

"Insulin overdose."

His eyes widened. "Dear god. I'm so sorry."

"My father passed from a heart attack several years ago, and my brother died in a parachuting accident three years ago." That lump at the back of her throat was the size of a lemon. "I'm all alone."

He was pulling her out of her chair and wrapping his arms around her before she could blink. And she surprised herself even more by melting into him without hesitation. "You're not though," he said against her shoulder. "We're here for you. We're not going to let anything bad happen to you. I promise."

God, he felt good. And he smelled good too. He was solid and warm, and so damn safe, she never wanted to let go. Wyatt McEvoy was everything Vica had ever wanted in a man, and he was promising to keep her safe while holding onto her with his big, muscly arms.

She may have pulled in a deep inhale of his shirt and committed that scent to memory for eternity, but she wasn't going to let her heart get too hopeful. All of this was temporary, and she had no idea if he felt the same way, or if this was all just a total manifestation of her in hardcore damsel-mode.

A mode she hated, by the way.

Vica had always been fiercely independent and self-reliant. The fact that she was so reliant on other people right now to not only feed and clothe her, but to keep her safe and out of prison, wasn't sitting right with her at all.

But Wyatt? She was okay with him protecting and taking care of her. And she'd never been okay with a man doing that before.

He finally let go of her and stepped back. She muted her whimper of sadness at his departure and blinked up at him. He seemed almost surprised with himself that he'd breached that barrier between them and hugged her so abruptly.

"Sorry," he murmured, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just talking about dead wives, and parents, and …" He shook his head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"It's okay. Really. I think we both needed that hug."

His smile was small, boyish, and so unbelievably sexy. And to top it off, he bent his head and scratched the back of his neck as his cheeks grew pinker and pinker.

"I would like to go for a walk today," she said, almost as if asking permission. "I am feeling very caged. I do not like being caged. My weekends are almost always spent hiking, and I feel the itchies to get out for a walk."

"The ‘itchies'?'

"Is that not a thing? To feel an itch to go somewhere or do something? I could have sworn it was an American, or English, idiom."

He nodded. "To get an itch to do something, yes. But to feel the ‘itchies'? Not so much." He chuckled, the awkwardness from a moment ago disappearing. "I like the way you said it though."

Heat filled her cheeks. "I think it is safe for me to walk, yes?"

"The island is incredibly safe. However, don't you think someone should go with you?"

She nibbled on her lip. "I like to walk alone. It helps me clear my head. I also don't want to out put … put out?"

"Put out."

She nodded. "I don't want to put out anybody more than I already have. It is Monday. It is a workday. I have the hairdresser coming at ten o'clock. I will just go for an hour."

They both knew that she was a grown woman and not his prisoner. So she really didn't need to ask for permission from him to do anything. However, his family had been so generous to her, she felt the need to at least sort of ask.

Finally, he nodded. "I think it will be okay. Maybe wear a hat though, so you're not so noticeable?"

Nodding, she grinned at him. "I can do that."

His smile made every single butterfly in her belly go frantic and fly without thought or flightpath.

Yeah, Vica was smitten with the single dad and the timing could not be anymore inconvenient.

A walk was exactly what Vica needed.

Wyatt's house was the furthest thing from a prison. Yet, she still felt a little trapped. She was used to her own space, her privacy, and being able to come and go as she pleased without having to answer to anybody. A creature of habit, Vica rose early in the morning, hopped on her stationary spin bike, did an hour on the bike, then had a shower and walked to work. After work, she went to the grocery store and bought what she needed for dinner. Growing up in Italy, she was used to buying fresh produce daily, so it was just something that she still did now that she lived in the states. After dinner, she read a book or visited with Mrs. Jovan and Nibbles, then retired to bed early. Her weekends were where she went on adventures. She loved to hike, rock climb, surf, and ski. Her weekends were where she got her adrenaline rushes and looked fear in the eye and laughed.

Even though she appreciated the gesture, when Track planned their excursion to the island on a Saturday, Vica was a little more than bummed. She planned to do one last big hike—Mount St. Helens, the Monitor Ridge Route in the South Cascades.

Would she ever get to hike it?

So even though this gentle walk on the flat, paved road wasn't like her normal strenuous, challenging hikes, she still welcomed the quiet and the fresh air.

It really was a peaceful little island. Nothing but the chirp of birds in the trees and the distant sound of water lapping at the shore.

And she didn't have to wear a bear bell to let the grizzlies know they needed to stick to the berries and fish, and not chase after an Italian snack.

A few cars passed her now and then, but for the most part, the road was empty.

Caught up in her thoughts, mostly about what transpired between her and Wyatt in the kitchen earlier, Vica barely had time to jump out of the way when a nondescript, gray sedan with tinted windows came barrelling around the corner. She leaped onto the shoulder, but that didn't seem to be enough as the car swerved toward her, not away. Vica was forced to fall into the grass ditch and watch as the vehicle peeled away.

Breathless and terrified, she repeated the license plate, over and over again, in her head until the car was out of sight.

8T9-R5J

Over and over again, she said the numbers and letters until she was certain she'd never forget them.

She was about a mile away from the pub, and although she planned to be gone an hour, she no longer felt safe out there; and even though the bra she wore was not suitable for running, she held onto her breasts and ran anyway, keeping an eye out, and her ears tuned into her surroundings in case whoever tried to run her off the road came back.

She was out of breath and her pulse thundered in her ears by the time she reached the property. She knew Wyatt would still be home, as he said he wasn't heading to the kitchen at the pub until about eleven. It was only nine o'clock now.

He told her the code for the gate and she punched it in, still slightly out of breath and constantly pivoting to make sure nobody was watching her.

Once she was through the gate, she ran to his front door and burst inside. The boys were finally awake and sitting in their boxer shorts at the kitchen table eating cereal. Jake was reading, and Griffon was watching something on the tablet while Wyatt unloaded the dishwasher. They were accompanied by a fourth person as well. A very tall, bearded man with glasses sat at the table, casually sipping from a mug while his legs stretched out for days in front of him. All four of them took one look at her and their eyes went wide.

Wyatt set down a plate and came to her. "What happened?" He took in her disheveled appearance, fear on his face as he reached forward and pulled something out of her hair. It was just a long piece of dry grass and there was probably more.

"I … I was nearly run over. Someone came at me. They tried to run me over the road."

His gaze narrowed. "You mean, ‘off' the road?"

"Yes. They tried to run me off the road. I was walking and moved over to the side … to the, you know. The, the …"

"The shoulder?" the bearded man offered.

Vica nodded. "Yes, the shoulder. But the driver swerved and drove onto the shoulder, speeding up. So I had to dive into the ditch. They wanted to hit me. This was not an accident. "

"You'll go snoop around?" Wyatt asked, pivoting and facing the bearded man, who was already standing up to his full height, looking more like a bear with enormous arms than anything else.

The man nodded. "Yep."

"Thanks, Jag."

Ah, so this was Jagger, the fifth and final brother.

The bearded bear stuck out his enormous hand. "Jagger. Nice to meet you." Dear god, his voice was deep.

She took his hand. It was cool, rough and he gave her a nice strong handshake, even though her mind was in so many places she couldn't really entertain pleasantries beyond a, "You too."

Jagger left, leaving Vica standing there with Wyatt and his boys, who had remained quiet, but paid keen attention.

"Someone tried to run Vica over?" Griffon finally said. "Why would they do that?"

"To keep her quiet," Jake said matter-of-factly. "She knows something, or is going to do something that someone else doesn't like."

"Jake," Wyatt warned, his tone stern.

Jake gave his father a confused look. "What? The same thing happened to the Evans twins in Volume Three. They saw someone get killed, and the murderer came after them and tried to run them over. They were the only witnesses. So this has to be related to the man who hit Vica the other night."

"Do I need to take the Evans Twins away?" Wyatt asked. "This is dark, dude."

Jake clutched his book to his chest. "No, Dad. Please."

Wyatt rolled his eyes and exhaled. "Go find an uncle. I'll text everyone to let them know Vica and I are going to the police station. She needs to give a statement about what happened."

He shot off a quick text on his phone and the boys quickly finished their breakfasts, then raced upstairs and came back down moments later in T-shirts and shorts .

"Uncle Clint said you can go over to his house. Brooke and Talia are making jam."

"I want to make jam," Griffon said with excitement.

"I want to read," Jake said with no excitement.

"You can do both those things." Wyatt ushered his sons out the door while holding it open so Vica could step out as well.

"Wait," she said, "I have a hair appointment at ten."

He glanced at his watch, and for some stupid reason, her belly fluttered at the sight of the light brown hair that dusted his arms. Beneath the hair was a healthy speckling of freckles and that just turned her on even more. There was something really wrong with her.

"I'll text Danya and let her know we might be a little late," he said, pointing to his white Toyota Tacoma parked in front of his house. "But we shouldn't be gone long." He punched in a quick message to the hairdresser before pushing the start button on his truck then backing out of the driveway and rumbling down to the gate. "Can you describe the vehicle?" He punched in the code for the gate and it swung open.

She nodded. "I memorized the license plate."

"Clever. Well done."

Ooh, his praise should not be making her feel the way she was feeling. Especially not in such a dire and dangerous moment. But dammit, it made her hot.

"What is it?" he asked.

She swallowed, focusing on the road and not the way his big hands gripped the steering wheel, or the way the cords in his arms bunched and bulged as he turned the wheel. "Uh … it was a nondescript, gray sedan with tinted windows all around, and the license plate was ‘8T9-R5J.'"

"Fantastic. They'll find the fucker with that information for sure."

She exhaled. "I hope so." Because if they didn't, she'd be more of a prisoner here than ever. Someone out there—presumably hired by Wyndham Croft—wanted her dead now that she refused to take the settlement. She was a sitting duck. A sitting duck in a cozy, friendly nest of other ducks she didn't want to see get hurt in the crossfire. Maybe she needed to leave.

A quick glance at Wyatt's profile, and his strong jaw and the way his glasses sat on his nice—slightly pointed—nose.

She should leave. But dear god, she really didn't want to.