Brit didn’t slow down until he cut the corner and saw her sitting at Jones’ desk. Wet and disheveled, her blonde hair fell out of a clip and hung in a soggy mess against her neck. He studied her face, but didn’t see blood or signs of bruising. He walked over to get a closer look.
Jones looked up and stared at Brit’s face. “What happened to you?”
Focusing only on Cali, Brit answered, “Football.”
“In this weather?” Jones asked.
“Yeah,” Brit mumbled and then focused on Cali. “You went back to your place again, didn’t you?”
She didn’t answer, so he turned to Jones. “Did she go back to her place?”
Jones held up his hands in surrender. “I—”
Brit glared down at her. “What is it? Do you want to get beat up?”
She scowled back, then looked at Jones. Her expression softened. “Are we through?”
Brit answered for Jones. “No. We’re not through.” Brit picked up the report and read Jones’ scribbling. Subject at her lawyer’s office. Boyfriend met her outside by her car. Lawyer’s secretary stepped out to give her paperwork. Boyfriend ran off.
“What’s the lawyer for? Did you get a restraining order?” Brit spouted the first question on his mental list.
She didn’t answer. “I have to go.” She smiled at Jones.
The smile didn’t even reach her eyes. It wasn’t a real smile, but it was more than he got from her.
“Thank you,” she told Jones and stood up, a little unsteady on her feet.
“Did he hurt you?” Brit asked.
“I’m fine.” She slung her purse over her shoulder then started out.
Brit noticed a slight limp as he followed on her heels. After five steps, he accepted the fact that he’d let his temper loose on her again. Which meant he didn’t deserve a smile. “I’m just doing my job. I’m not excelling at it right now, but all I’m really trying to do is help you.”
Ignoring him, she pushed open the precinct door and walked out into the raging storm without even flinching.
He went after her. Rain pelted him again, and without his leather jacket, the cold made his skin crawl. He matched her steps and went for more questions. “Why are you limping? Does Stan know where you’re staying? How did he know where to find you?”
She stopped in front of a silver Honda and began fumbling through her purse. “Blast it!” She tossed a few items from her purse onto the hood of her car. Rain fell on her wallet and a cell phone. She didn’t seem to care. Then a tampon rolled off the hood and landed by his shoe.
She looked at it then continued sifting through her purse. Turning the leather bag over, she shook it. Everything rolled out—pens, pencils, and a few coins. Everything, but a set of keys.
“Dang it!” She snatched open her purse and stuffed the waterlogged items back inside. Then she knelt at his feet and picked up the soaked tampon and a pen that had rolled off the hood.
In her squatted position, she reminded him of someone’s puppy left out in a storm. Lost. Scared. He’d never wanted to save a puppy as badly as he did right now. A blast of wind whipped her wet hair across her face. He saw her shake as the November-cold cut through his own shirt. But something told him it wasn’t just the cold making her shake. How bad had the assault been? His stomach knotted.
Standing, she slung her purse over her shoulder and her blue-eyed gaze locked on him. Her eyes squinted; rain left droplets on her cheeks, or were those tears? “I don’t want to talk to you.” The distant sound of thunder rolled and he saw her hands trembling.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked again, only this time he let his concern leak into his voice.
Ignoring his question, she started back inside. He followed, matching her brisk pace. When they got to Jones’ station, Brit snatched the set of keys off the desk before she did. Jones bit back a grin. Brit wasn’t grinning. The woman wasn’t in any condition to drive. He remembered when he’d gotten the call about Keith, he’d been shaking so bad he could hardly hold the damn steering wheel. And he’d come within a second of driving right into the path of an eighteen-wheeler.
Wet and disheveled, and somehow still adorable, she held out her palm. “Give them to me.” Her voice had an authoritative snip.
Brit remembered her occupation—teacher. Too bad his high school buds had nicknamed him King of Detention and his most common sin had been bucking authority. He wrapped his hand around the keys. “Sit down and have a cup of coffee. Let me make sure you’re okay and then I’ll give them to you.”
“I don’t want coffee.” Her authoritative edge slipped and her lip quivered.
From the cold or emotion, Brit didn’t know. Probably both.
“Look, you’re too upset to drive. If I let you go and you had a wreck, I’d feel like shit.”
“I’m fine.” She held out her hand again, wiggling her five digits, and he saw her trembling.
“You’re still shaking.” Brit watched her stiffen. He shot her his best smile and spoke in a soft voice. “One cup. Come on. Let me make up for being an ass earlier.”