No Perfect Hero Page 5
LEAVE NOW OF YOUR OWN ACCORD
BEFORE YOU CAN’T LEAVE AT ALL
THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING
I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a panicked scream trying to claw its way up from my lungs.
Stuck in the blood are soft, curling brown feathers, giving me a terrible idea of exactly where the blood came from. The kind of person who'd do this to an innocent animal just to send a message.
They’re getting their meaning across, loud and clear.
And if they'd do this to a bird on a whim...
What would they do to a woman and a little girl?
“Tara, get back in the car,” I gasp, reaching out blindly for her hand, backing down the steps, pulling my petrified, sniffling niece with me. “Get in the car, baby, and we’ll leave. We'll get settled and call the police from somewhere sa—”
“No need to call the police.” A voice like thunder rises behind me, all grim growl.
I freeze, my knees locking up, my breaths seizing up at the sound of Warren coming closer.
The first thing flashing through my head is holy shit, he’s the one who wants me gone!
I can’t breathe. I can't think. I can't decide.
My legs are stiff like cement as I turn slowly, instinctively pushing my niece behind me so I can shield her. I remember Warren’s truck is parked behind my Mustang, bumper to bumper – blocking us in – and he stares over my head with hard eyes, looking past me at the cabin.
Suddenly, I’m far too aware how large he is, intimidating and massive and powerful. This deadly bulwark of a man who looks like he’s made to be a human wall.
I'm just not sure if he's designed to protect or hurt.
It’s too easy for people like him to turn their strength into something worse. And if he's lost his mind, if he's gone completely crazy...
But he brushes past me without a second glance, his face set in dark, brooding lines as he rakes the door over with a glance.
“This wasn’t meant for you,” he says softly. “Don’t worry. You’re safe.”
I glance at Tara first. Her little eyes are wide and wet, and she’s trembling.
I'm not scared anymore when I see my baby girl scared. I'm pissed.
“Go, kit,” I whisper, giving her shoulder a soft stroke, then a gentle push. “In the car. I'll be right behind you.”
And I will. But first, a few words with Mr. W.T.F.
Tara turns and scrambles away, safely out of reach. I watch her climb in the back seat of the Mustang, before ducking down out of sight like a scared puppy finding a hidey-hole.
Good girl. If this gets uglier than I think and we have to run, she’ll be ready to go.
I take a few more steps back, putting a little more distance between myself and the cabin – and Warren. I'm tense, ready...but even if I’m scared, with every second that passes, I'm angrier.
I want answers. Now.
“How can I be safe if someone’s writing messages on my door?” I bite off. “What do you mean, it wasn’t meant for me?”
He’s focused, silent, assessing the message scrawled on the door with penetrating eyes. He reminds me of a cop, all of a sudden. Solemn and intense, dissecting a crime scene for clues.
The idea shouldn’t make me feel better, a little less ready to bolt. For all I know, he's the reason we just stepped into some seriously bad juju.
But I just can’t feel any menace vibrating off him.
And I want to trust my intuition. But then, my intuition got me engaged to Eddy.
Still, I relax a little as he glances at me.
His gaze flicks over me, softening, brilliant blue eyes darkening with concern, cutting through me faster than any steely glance. “Whoever did this made the same mistake you did. Asshole didn't know which side of the place was mine. You hurt?” There's a fierceness in his voice when he says those last two words.
Something dark. Something sweet. Something territorial.
“I...no. I just...I’m fine.” I’m thrown off, stammering at yet another reason to be shaken.
Did this jerk just crawl out of his cave long enough to be worried about me?
“You sure?” he rumbles again, eyeing me up and down, assessing.
“Still in one piece.” I nod more firmly this time.
“Good.” He nods back, decisively, then fixes his burning blue gaze back on the door. “This was left by someone who knows me. It’s a coded message. Sua sponte. ‘Of their own accord.’” His mouth creases into a hard line. “It’s the motto of the Army Rangers. They’re saying they’re onto me.”
“You’re a Ranger?”
“Former.” He sinks down in a crouch with his thighs bunching hard and taut against his jeans, narrowing his eyes at a clump of bloodied, matted feathers on the mat.
Then he straightens, turning to face me. His movements are heavier somehow, as if he’s suddenly tired and his massive bulk is weighing him down.
“Warren?” His name is just a question on my lips.
Sighing, he descends the steps, drawing closer to me. “Now do you get why I want you gone? You have a kid, Haley. You and your daughter don’t need to get caught in the crossfire.”
“Niece,” I correct, folding my arms over my chest. “And I don’t exactly know what we’re in the crossfire of.”
His expression hardens. “That part's none of your business. Trust me.”
“Um, kinda hard to trust when people are defacing the cabin I paid good money to rent.”
“Technically,” he points out, “I paid for it.”
“Technically, you’re an asshole.” I’m snappish, but I can’t help it.
We just passed Agatha Christie turf and went right to Stephen King. Next thing you know, there’ll be a serial killer monster peeking in the window with bloody knife in hand.
Sweet Jesus.
I take a few shaky breaths, ripping the clip out of my hair and running my fingers through it to ease the tension headache starting to pull on my scalp. “So let me guess. I’m not supposed to call the cops over someone murdering a bird and smearing my windows with pigeon blood—”
“Paint,” he interrupts softly. “It’s tempera paint and craft feathers. Probably from the same store you were at today.”
I go still, my eyes widening. What?
The art store...where I met Bress? The man Warren’s somehow involved with?
The man Warren clearly doesn’t trust, when he thought I’d somehow been sent to spy for him.
The man whose truck Warren was tampering with when I pulled up to the shop.
I'm not blind. I saw him doing something, even if I couldn't quite figure out what.
Was there more than I’d realized behind that tired, gentlemanly façade?
Had Dennis Bress gotten here ahead of me somehow, left this mess to scare Warren, and then taken off before anyone could catch him?
Why?
What the hell is going on underneath the portrait-pretty surface of this weird little town?
“Hay.”
Suddenly, Warren’s in front of me, his broad hands on my shoulders – and they’re gentler than I ever expected them to be, gripping just firmly enough to ground me and hold me steady with his warmth, his solidity.
For the next few seconds I'm in his thrall. I'm not even bothered when he calls me Hay, maybe because there's no Auntie tacked on at the front.
He bends toward me, enveloping me in the fire of his body heat as he leans in to catch my eye.
“You’re scared, aren’t you?” he asks softly.
I swallow hard and jerk my gaze to his. “Wouldn’t you be, stranded in a strange town when something like this happens?”
“You’re not stranded. You can leave any time.” He smiles slightly. Not one of the smirky, cynical smiles I’ve seen before, but a wry, almost self-deprecating smile. Almost reassuring. “Hell, just go stay somewhere else. I know a few real nice folks a
round here who wouldn’t mind being an on-call AirBnB. They’ll keep you safe. Anywhere but here is safe.” He touches my cheek, then strokes his thumb along it, his callused skin rough against mine. “You’ll be fine as long as you stay away from me, Haley. I promise.”
His word shouldn't mean anything.
I stare up at him anyway, my breaths trembling. “Who the hell are you?” I whisper. “What is all this?”
“That’s not something you want to find out.” He looks at me a while longer, flame-blue eyes searching deep before his hands fall away and he straightens, pulling back. “Let me take photos for evidence in case we need them. Then I’ll get Flynn to clean this mess up. You and Tara can sleep at my place tonight, and I’ll make some phone calls tomorrow.”
I stare after him, biting my lip, while he trudges back up the steps. “Why do we need evidence if we’re not calling the cops?”
“No need to involve the police. Not yet,” he says, and that alone makes me worry even more.
Because even if he might not be the one who did this, it’s not hard to see he doesn’t want the law sniffing after whatever he’s doing in Heart’s Edge to bring this kind of warning to our doorsteps.
He turns, looking back at me. “It's my problem, not yours. I want to be prepared just in case.”
Just in case?
Just in case of what?
The question hovers on my tongue...but I’m too afraid to ask.
What the hell have I walked into?
It’s muted and strange as Tara and I retreat to our side of the cabin to get what we need together to stay with Warren.
Part of me can't believe I'm taking him up on his offer.
But a bigger part worries what'll happen to us if I don't.
If whatever psycho who left fake blood and feathers hits the wrong side of the duplex again – our side.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the wall, I can hear Warren moving things. Hiding things, I instantly think, when he’d been so snarly over finding us in his place at all yesterday. He confuses me so much.
First, he says I have to stay away for my own protection.
But then he says stay with me, so I can protect you.
I mean, it makes sense. We can’t just up and leave right now, and he needs to make arrangements for us to go somewhere. But until then, he wants to make sure he’s standing between us and whatever wave of mess is crashing down, floodwaters threatening to drown us in his mess.
That's not why I feel strange.
Maybe it’s not the situation.
Maybe it’s him, making me feel like I’m dealing with two completely different men.
One dangerous and cold and grim, this wary animal raising hackles and baring teeth to defend his territory.
And one worried, tired, withdrawn, sad...the beast wounded, yet still shoving himself between me and danger to protect me because that’s what’s in his nature.
Both men, both beasts, twist me up inside and make me remember how his hands felt gripping my shoulders, that light touch against my cheek, skimming to rough.
I don’t know how to reconcile the two whenever I look at Warren.
But I don’t know how to separate them, either.
By the time I’m done putting together my overnight bag and making sure we haven’t left any valuables among the things we’ll be loading back in the car tomorrow, Warren’s taken his photos of the mess and left Flynn to clean it as best he can, the old man grumbling the entire time.
The paint won’t come off easy, not completely, not with the soap and water he’s using. So now there’s a red-tinted film over the glass, turning the light that streams through it pink.
But the feathers are gone. So I can stop letting my imagination run away with brutal possibilities when it’s just a fifty-cent bag of craft feathers smattered in paint.
Still.
I’m almost relieved when Warren opens his door and stands there with his arm stretched out holding it, ushering us inside. Forcing me to squeeze past him.
My body brushes his, sensing muscles so hard-cut I can feel every ridge of his abs as my chest and belly glide against it. There's all kinds of uh-oh chiseled in this mountain man.
For a moment I look up and wish I hadn't.
Because I catch a burning stare scorching me, raking me, grinding every point where flesh presses together and my body molds to conform to his.
I thought the term eye-fuck only existed in movies and romance novels but this...this is pure heat lightning. The most animal kind.
Our eyes linger far too long.
One of us has to give before Tara starts staring like we've lost our marbles, so it’s me. I flinch away, my belly twisted in hot little knots, and suddenly I can’t breathe.
Not until he clenches his jaw and looks away sharply, turning his glare into the cabin.
The broken chain of eye contact slaps me back to my senses, and I suck in a breath, duck my head, and dart inside. Before those blue fires in his eyes can hold me hostage again.
Holy hell, what's wrong with me?
I suddenly wish I could trade what's coming next for every bad roomie experience I left behind in Seattle combined.
Somehow, I'm going to have to survive more than stalker creeps with bad intentions and cheap craft supplies.
I have to survive the storm named Warren Ford.
4
Game, Set (Warren)
I think I just made one of the dumbest damned decisions of my adult life.
I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, telling that wildfire girl and her niece to stay with me tonight. Sure, I managed to get all my shit packed away in a walk-in closet that’s been closed with a chain and a padlock so they can’t get at anything – not my evidence, not my damn guns – so that’s not the problem.
The real problem's those searching looks Haley keeps giving me.
Like she can't believe what she's staring at.
Like she’s desperately trying to find out who I really am.
Then the way her body felt up against mine, tighter than a drum – fuck!
Her tits were soft, lush, almost swollen against my stomach. Those sparking, fiery eyes of hers went liquid, downright melty as she looked up at me like she wanted to ask a question but wasn’t sure what.
I can’t afford questions.
Much less this broad who's too hot for her own good figuring out who I am or what I’m after, or the distraction she provides.
Which is why, while her and Tara curl up on my couch to pick at leftover pizza and watch me in veiled sidelong looks, I make so many phone calls I feel like I’m lighting up the small-town phone tree with gossip.
There's got to be somebody to throw me a damn lifeline.
My friends, Blake and Doc, have nowhere for the girls to sleep. They both live like consummate bachelors in as little space as possible.
My old grade school teacher, Ms. Petty, would put them up in her spare room, but her niece is in for summer break from college, so it's sorry, dear, why can’t the girls stay at Charming Inn again?
And then I don’t have an answer for that.
Nor do I have an answer for my Aunt Gracie – not really an aunt by blood, just an older neighbor who’d babysit when I was a kid – whose guest room is undergoing renovation after a water pipe burst. Or Jenna's old friend, Shana, and her husband. He's happy to let them crash while Shana herself vetoes it with a bitter why should I let your new girlfriend shack up at my house rent-free again? You've got plenty of people who owe you favors, War.
That's what I get for a bad late night bar hookup with Shana years ago before she tied the knot.
Fucking karma.
I don’t get the chance to even protest she’s not my girlfriend before Shana hangs up on me.
Stewart's my last option, but there’s some snarly territorial part of me that doesn’t want to turn Haley over to him. Good man or not, he’s too charming, too good-looking, and a hell of a lot nicer than I can afford to be right now
.
Am I afraid my good friend’s gonna steal a girl I don’t even know and can’t risk being interested in right now?
Maybe.
Fuck.
I rub the bridge of my nose, sighing and pitching my phone on the kitchen island, leaning forward to rest my elbows on the wood. “I got nothing, Hay. I’ll make a few more calls in the morning,” I tell her.
What I really mean is, I’ll find the nerve to get over my shit by morning and ask Stewart.
I can trust him to protect her, more than anyone else. He's ex-military like me. He had Jenna's back. He's tuned up damn near every vehicle I've ever owned like it was his own kid, even when I had to drive them in from Spokane before they went kaput.
There's no sane reason for shutting him out when he can help.
Too bad there's nothing sane about the ridiculous ego between my ears.
“You should probably try to get some rest. Bedroom’s all yours,” I say, trying not to bite my tongue.
Haley looks up from toying with a pizza crust without really eating it. “Where will you sleep?”
I half-smile. “Couch is good enough for me. Spent plenty of years sleeping on worse.”
She answers my smile with a wistful, tired one of her own. There’s a softer side to her underneath the angry spitfire. A side that makes this unexpected roommate dilemma even harder.
And I haven’t even had a chance to see it yet in full because I've pissed her off from the moment we met. It’s starting to peek out now.
Her guard comes down with how clearly exhausted she is, and the weariness and sadness in her smile wrench at me. This is all my fault.
I got her tangled up in my bull.
I’m the reason she’s smiling so I won’t see the fear in those darkly glimmering jade-green eyes.
She sets the crust down in the empty box and stands. I watch her reach over to ruffle Tara's hair as the little girl yawns, then bend to kiss the top of her head before straightening and glancing at me. “Mind if I use your shower before I turn in?”
“Knock yourself out.”
She flashes me that wrenching smile again and tucks her knuckles under Tara’s chin. “Go in the bedroom and get changed,” she says. “I’ll be in in a little bit.”