In His Keeping (Slow Burn #2)

“I could feel you watching me,” she said in a low, accusing tone.

“Not that it did me any good,” he said mildly.

He went to sit behind his desk in his chair so he wouldn’t appear threatening to her. He was well acquainted with the look of an abuse victim. God knows they’d seen more than a few. So he knew his size and demeanor could be intimidating and come across in a menacing manner to a woman already wary of men.

But he was also blunt, and on more than one occasion people had been put off by his straightforward manner. It was who he was, and he knew he would never change. So he couldn’t be any other way now, when perhaps a lighter touch was called for.

“Before we get to what you has you scared to death, take off the glasses and lose the scarf.”

She went rigid, staring at him behind the dark lenses. He could feel her gaze on him, studying him, the prickle of awareness at his nape.

“Is it the bruises you’re trying to hide? Or is it you who needs to be hidden?”

Her hand went automatically to her face, but she didn’t touch the bruise on the side of her chin. It went to cover one of the lenses of the glasses. It was his automatic reaction to scowl at the thought that there was more than one bruise. And as soon as she took in the look on his face, she stirred, turning toward the door.

“You’re safe here,” Beau said gently. “But I need to know everything so that I can help you and that begins by you shedding the glasses and scarf and then you telling me what kind of trouble brings you to me and my brother. By name,” he added.

She must be holding her breath because she was so utterly still that he couldn’t detect the rise and fall of her chest. Then she let the air from her lungs escape in a long exhale. She swayed wearily and then put her hand down to find the arm of one of the chairs in front of Beau’s desk.

Slowly, she reached up and tugged at the scarf. Evidently her hair had been pinned to the scarf, because when she pulled the scarf free, a silken mass came tumbling down her shoulders and arms. The color was unique. He could understand why she’d gone to such pains to disguise it. It was various shades of blond but contained silvery highlights intertwined with warm brown strands. There were at least six different shades reflected in the light of his office.

Her hand shaking, she grasped the sunglasses and pulled them away, casting her gaze downward so he didn’t see her right away. But when she finally lifted her chin so that their eyes met, his widened in recognition. Her eyes, just like her hair, were distinctive. He was fascinated by how they seemed to change color when she moved even a little and light caught glittering specks of aqua and gold. If asked, he couldn’t actually state what color her eyes were. How did one explain a turbulent mixture of the ocean, the sun and the brightest jewels?

And as he’d suspected, there were other bruises. One eye was swollen and had turned a dark purple. Only a slit allowed him to see the eye on that side.

Even with the swelling in one eye there was something decidedly electric in her gaze. He wondered if she was indeed psychic. There were suddenly a dozen questions he wanted to ask her, but he refrained because she was wearing bruises when none of the three punks who’d gone after her had been rough with her, no doubt, but hadn’t touched her face. Someone else had hurt her and it pissed him off. And there was also the fact that she was here, in his office, having asked for him by name, and she was clearly scared to death. That kind of fear couldn’t be faked unless she was a damn good actress, and he couldn’t think of a reason why she’d lie to him.

His questions could wait. For now he focused on whatever threat had sent her running to him and Caleb. He needed to make her feel safe so that she would open up to him about whatever trouble she was in. Which meant patience on his part. Not one of his better traits to be sure. But he tamped down his impatience and desire to know everything right this minute and allowed her to settle and feel more at ease. If such a thing were possible.

“You’re the woman on the news,” he murmured. “The one everyone is talking about.”

She nodded and then closed her eyes as pain and sorrow flickered across her face.

“I was stupid,” she said hoarsely. “And now my parents are likely paying the price. I need your help, Mr. Devereaux. I’m so scared of what has happened to them. My father told me if I was ever in trouble, if I ever needed help and he wasn’t there, to come here. To you or your brother.”

Beau’s eyebrow lifted in question. “And who is your father?”