In His Keeping (Slow Burn #2)

“Look at the mirror, Ari,” he murmured, his lips brushing the hair just behind the shell of her ear. “See how beautiful you are. Really see.”


Reluctantly, she turned and complied with his gentle request and what she saw surprised her as she looked at herself through objective eyes, as though it weren’t her, but another woman. It was as if it were the first time she saw herself without the self-imposed filter.

She looked . . . beautiful. More importantly, Beau made her feel beautiful. And desirable. Like a woman he chose, not someone he was “talked” into making love to. Now, away from that vulnerable moment when she’d been stripped bare and was so raw and exposed from the power of their lovemaking, she knew just how ridiculous her original thought—fear—had been.

Beau was not a man easily manipulated. For that matter manipulated at all—by anyone.

She wanted to apologize, but it would only make things worse and that the best thing she could do was simply acknowledge what he saw and what she now saw.

A beautiful, thoroughly made love to woman who’d just lost a piece of her heart to a man she’d only known for a very short amount of time. But at the same time, she felt as though she’d been waiting for this moment her entire life.





EIGHTEEN

BEAU quietly left the warmth of his bed the next morning, glancing at Ari every so often to ensure he didn’t wake her. She needed rest, and well, he needed . . . distance. Objectivity. Because the night before had permanently altered the course of his relationship—his supposedly objective, professional relationship—to a woman he damn well should have kept his hands—and various other parts of his body—off of. Maintained a strict level of professionalism. Not compromising his perspective and preserving the contractor/client strict level of impartiality.

Hell, who was he kidding, though. He might think he needed to distance himself, and he might acknowledge that’s what he should do, but it sure as hell wasn’t what he wanted, and he was at least honest enough with himself that he wouldn’t make up excuses or try to rationalize his breach in the professional code of conduct he and Caleb insisted their security specialists maintain at all times.

He was a flaming hypocrite and he didn’t give a flying fuck. Which meant he was in way over his head.

He hurriedly dressed and walked into the kitchen to prepare a cup of coffee, needing the infusion of caffeine to penetrate the haze of contented lethargy that fully encompassed him. What he wanted to do was remain in bed with Ari, his body solidly wrapped around hers so she awakened in his arms, warm and sleepy, that drowsy, contented look in those beautiful multi-colored eyes.

But he had work to do and a hell of a lot of catching up to do. The clock was ticking and they were working on a tight deadline. Every passing hour that Ari’s parents remained missing heightened the chances of them not being safely recovered.

If it were him, and he was the sort of bastard who’d use a vulnerable woman’s greatest weakness against her, he’d kill one of her parents, send her the evidence and then tell her if she didn’t meet their demands she could kiss the remaining one goodbye, too. And he’d take out the father, since he’d be a greater threat than the mother.

It would destroy Ari. It was something she’d never recover from, and he’d bear the weight of that responsibility—his inability to follow through on his promises—for all time. Ari would never forgive him, and he’d never forgive himself.

As he stirred in a dash of sugar in the strong brew to cut the sharpness just enough to make it palatable, his cell phone rang. It was a ringtone assigned to a noncontact, and as he pulled up the phone to check the incoming call, he frowned when he saw “blocked” on the screen.

Normally he wouldn’t answer an unidentified caller with at least some means of tracing the call but given the current status of his latest case, he couldn’t afford to miss anything.

“Hello?” he clipped out, forgoing his usual greeting of “Beau Devereaux.” No sense giving the caller any information he—or she—didn’t already know, and if it was a wrong number, he hardly wanted to relate his name that now had his number attached to it and showed up in the caller’s phone log.

“Mr. Devereaux, you have my daughter, and it’s imperative you keep her safe and out of sight. The people after her will stop at nothing to get to her.”

Beau’s forehead wrinkled, anger nipping at his nape as he tightened his grip on the cell phone. “Gavin Rochester? What the hell? Do you have any idea how frantic your daughter is? What the hell is wrong with you? You’re putting her through hell.”

“I’m not Gavin Rochester,” the caller said wearily. The man sounded fatigued and after Beau’s initial anger, he caught the thread of fear in the other man’s voice. “Ari Rochester is my biological daughter.”