She looked at him. Long, dark lashes lay against his rugged face, and in sleep, he looked no less dangerous than while awake. Tension all but rolled off him, along with a hint of something else. Something…sad. She sighed and brushed his too-long hair away from his cheek. “What am I going to do with you?” she asked softly.
What was it about a wounded man that all but called for her to fix him? To heal him? Wounded tough guys were like catnip to a good girl like her. When he looked at her, when he touched her, she felt special. Ryker didn’t look at many people, and he more than likely didn’t let anybody see him like this. His draw was dangerous to her heart, and she knew it. “I’m smarter than this,” she muttered, swinging the car into the road.
They were halfway home when his voice made her jump.
“She was dead,” Ryker murmured, his head back and his eyes closed.
Zara shivered. “Who was dead?”
“The girl. Another one. He got another one, and I can’t find him. He enjoys causing them pain, and he has to be stopped. Yet another bully—this one psychotic.” Ryker scrubbed both hands down his face. “What day is it?”
“Um, Thursday.” She turned down a different road. “Is this a case you’re working on?”
“Yeah. For months we’ve been working on it.” His words slurred a little, but she could make them out.
“You and your brother?” she asked softly, feeling like she was walking on cracking ice.
“Brothers,” he mumbled. “I have two.”
She turned into her driveway and pressed the button to open the garage. Her chest gave a little hitch. “It seems like I should know that about you already.” While they hadn’t been building a relationship, he could’ve shared a little about himself. Of course, neither had she. “I have a grandmother.”
“I know,” he said. “Her name is Patricia Remington, and she lives over on Orchid Street. Is on an old people’s trip right now.”
She jerked. “How do you know that?”
“I checked you out after the first night.” His eyelids opened, and those odd greenish blue eyes homed in on her. “I know who I’m bangin’, darlin’.”
Words escaped her. Not once had she ever considered herself the type of woman who’d be banged. “You’re the one who keeps coming back for more,” she muttered.
He snorted.
Turning away, she drove into her garage, scrambling for something to say. “Why are you getting into fights in dive bars?”
“The nicer bars are too expensive to fix.” He shoved out of the car and strode toward the kitchen door, his usually graceful gait now lurching. Without waiting for her, he moved into the house and dropped his duffel bag on the kitchen table.
She stumbled as she followed him, her mind spinning.
They reached the bedroom, and he started shedding his clothes onto the floor.
Whoa. “What are you doing?” She couldn’t help but appreciate his hard chest and cut abs.
“Bed.” Remaining in black boxer briefs, he slipped beneath the covers. “Come, Zara.”
She blinked. “Wait a minute.”
“Tomorrow. Fight tomorrow.” He tossed back the covers on the other side of the bed. “In.”
She hesitated for a moment. Her rescuing him from the bar seemed to be a line she’d crossed. She’d just helped him, and he had offered to help her with the guy who’d bruised her. They were edging toward taking responsibility for each other. Was she ready for that? With him? How could she decide that when she didn’t really know him? Plus, he hadn’t called her for help—the bartender had. If she was smart, she’d end this right now.
“Bed, Zara,” he mumbled.
She was tired. Maybe a good night’s sleep would help—one more night of sleeping next to him. Then she had to do the smart thing. “Fine. But we are so talking tomorrow.” She turned off the light and quickly slid into bed.
He pulled her against him, her back to his front, and wrapped around her. “You smell good.”
She took a deep breath, snuggling into him naturally. She’d miss this. “Go to sleep.”
“I like you,” he mumbled against her hair. “You’re nice and sexy and sweet. You cook.”
Her traitorous heart warmed and thumped. “I can see we’re at the ‘I love you, man’ part of the drunken evening.” It was good to know he wasn’t a mean drunk.
He chuckled and stirred her hair. “And funny. You’re funny and sweet.”
“You already said ‘sweet,’” she murmured, really not wanting to be touched by the kind words, and yet…
“Because you are. I’ve never met anybody as sweet as you. No woman is as sweet as you.” He pulled her closer into his heat, enfolding her in dubious safety. “You should be protected at all costs. They’re gonna find me at some point. He’s going to find me. You can’t be there.”
“Who?” she asked, her lungs seizing.
His breathing deepened against her, and his body relaxed. “When I was at the end, drinking that last drink, you’re the one I wanted to call. Only you.” He slipped into sleep.