Risking it All (Crossing the Line, #1)

I’d like to kick your ass for that.”

“Been there, done that, got the bloodstained T-shirt.” Bowen’s own anger rose to match Troy’s. Brought on by guilt, having his hands tied where Sera was concerned. It poured over his head like hot water. “Is this what cops do all day? Sit around and whine about your girlfriends and their mood swings?

As a taxpayer, I, for one, am appalled.”

“Fuck you, Driscol.”

“No, fuck you. The longer Sera is out here, the more she’s in danger. Try focusing on that.” Bowen ran a rough hand

through

his

hair.

“They’re

suspicious. She’s good at what she does, but it’s not enough. Not here.”

“You can’t keep her safe?”

“No one. Is going. To touch her,”

Bowen whispered furiously. “As long as I’m breathing, nothing happens to her.”

“So it’s true. She’s staying with you.”

Bowen dropped his head forward on a disgusted laugh. He’d been played. The realization tasted bitter in his mouth.

“You could have just asked. You didn’t need to piss me off in order to find out what you needed to know.”

“Even

us

whiny

cops

need

entertainment.” Troy sighed wearily.

“You weren’t going to tell us. Why is that?”

“You’re the detective. Figure it out.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, a wave of self-loathing battered him, but it was too late to take them back. “Your only rule was she doesn’t find out I’m working with you. I haven’t broken it.

You didn’t say I couldn’t enjoy myself while I sell out.”

He could practically see Troy shaking his head. “Jesus, Bowen. I don’t know why, but I expected better from you.”

“Your mistake.” He felt a fierce sudden need to have eyes on Sera. To hold her and apologize for what he’d just implied. For blackening her good name by connecting it to his own.

“Listen, we agreed I would do this my way. The safest place she can be is with me. Are we done here?”

“For now.”

“Fucking swell.”

Bowen

hung

up

on

Troy’s

disappointment, refusing to examine why it actually bothered him. Since when did he give a shit what that asshole thought about him?

He started to reach for another cigarette,

but

changed

his

mind.

Compelled by the craving to see Sera and reassure himself she was okay, he jogged toward the building. Before he jerked the door open, something caught his eye—or some one, rather. A block away, a man sat watching him from a parked car.

Dread settled in his gut. He started toward the car, but it pulled away from the curb. Very slowly, he reached behind his back and molded a hand around the butt of his gun. A moment later, the car passed and he got a glimpse of the driver inside. A driver who was looking right at him, expression inscrutable.

Connor.





CHAPTER TWELVE


When Bowen walked through the front door of the apartment, instead of exiting his bedroom as expected, Sera’s heartbeat skidded to a halt. She sat in the windowsill, a bowl of Cheerios in one hand, spoon in the other. Oh, God, what if he’d seen her? She braced herself for questions, brain scrambling for a believable cover story that would explain why she’d broken into his car.

He tugged on the collar of his leather bomber jacket, restless energy radiating from every inch of him. “You want to get out of here, Ladybug?”

“What?”

“Come on.” His fingers harassed his hair. “We’ve been stuck in here since last night.”

She let him take the bowl of Cheerios from her hand. “Where were you?”

“Picking up smokes.”

“Okay.” The stores were still closed, though. She’d only been back ten minutes. They couldn’t have opened that quickly. How could she have missed him leaving the apartment? “Let me get dressed.” Something was wrong. She couldn’t put a name to the look in his eyes. Anxiousness. Forced casualness.

“Where are you going?” she asked as he followed on her heels.

“With you.” He smiled, but it was strained. “Let me pick something out?”

Sera watched dumbfounded as he rummaged through the neat stack of clothes on her side table, casting a look at her over his shoulder as if to make sure she was still there. Within seconds, he returned with a green short-sleeved sweaterdress. He shoved the garment into her hands and reached for the hem of her sleep shirt, tugging it up her bare thighs.

“Bowen.” She grabbed his hands.

“Stop.” Their gazes connected, but she didn’t think he saw her. “What’s wrong with you? Did something happen?”

On a long exhale, he pressed their foreheads together. “Sometimes I feel a little trapped here, baby. In this place.

Does that ever happen to you? Have you ever felt trapped?”

She thought of her years at boarding school, being kept at a safe distance while working in Boston, even living above Rush for two weeks in that tiny room. “Yes, I have.”

His jaw tightened, gray eyes snapping.