Wren was pretty sure when he looked back on the last hour he would want to kick his ass. Getting called out into the open by his men to deal with a fizzled break-in was one thing. He talked with an old acquaintance and handled the police on Emery’s behalf. Now, alone with her in the apartment, he stood by the refrigerator as if this were a regular occurrence and any of this was normal for him to do.
He craved routine. He enjoyed going home at night, in the darkness. The last few nights he’d poured over every last scrap of intel he could find on Tiffany’s case. Rick Cryer was clear about one thing—they’d had potential suspects and no real evidence to charge any of them. Tiffany’s own father had been in the spotlight for a long time, but the detective thought he was clean.
Not that the case was the thing on Wren’s mind right now. No, the woman standing in the middle of her family room, looking around with a glazed expression on her face, took that prize.
She’d showered and changed into something she called lounge pants. Not really a concept he was familiar with, but he recognized sweatpants, and the navy bottoms looked close . . . except for the formfitting part. He’d hoped she’d walk out wearing bulky oversized clothing. No such luck. Even now she tugged at the bottom of her white V-neck T-shirt.
But he wasn’t a fucking animal. She’d been through a lot tonight and, well, for thirteen years. She needed a break and not for him to make an ill-timed pass. “Feel better?”
She spun around and stared at her hands as she turned them over. “It’s weird, right? Nothing is missing and nothing happened, yet I can’t stop shaking.”
“Nothing?” It appeared they had very different definitions of that word.
She shrugged. “You know what I mean.”
“There’s nothing weird about being scared.” Though he doubted she let herself go there very often.
His quick conversation with the detective suggested Emery had spent her entire adult life digging around in the investigation about Tiffany. She’d ticked off one of the detectives on the case when he insisted the runaway angle was more likely than the kidnap angle and she exploded.
She dropped her arms to her sides and stopped moving around. “You get scared a lot, do you?”
She’d made it clear more than once that she thought he was a robot or something worse. That sort of thing usually didn’t bother him, but hearing it from her had his back teeth grinding together. “It’s a normal reaction.”
“You’re familiar with normal?”
He stepped out of the kitchen area and walked toward her. Didn’t get right next to her because he needed her to be sure she wanted his comfort. “Tell me what you need.”
“I don’t know.” She let out a shuddering breath. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“This?”
“I have friends and my dad lives close,” she said as she took step after step. “I should have called one of them.”
Not him. That was the unsaid ending of that sentence.
She stopped in front of him. Despite her mighty personality and the way she stood up to him, she looked tiny to him right then. Probably had something to do with being in her bare feet. With the way she curled her purple painted toenails under.
She was pretty tall at five-eight or so. There was nothing fragile about her. She didn’t come off as easy to cry or break down. And her body . . . all curvy and hot.
So interesting.
So fuckable.
Right now he needed to forget that last part. “Why didn’t you ask someone else to stay with you?”
“I have absolutely no idea.” She lifted her hands as if she was going to touch him again, but then let them fall.
The memory of her touch still burned through him. The way she reached out, seemingly without thinking, and formed a physical connection when she needed it. He liked that side of her. All sides of her actually.
This time he took the lead. He’d peeled off his suit jacket earlier and now stood in front of her in the rest of his usual outfit, right down to the perfectly knotted tie. He rested his hands on the sides of her waist. “You’re going to be okay.”
“You don’t have to stay.” But she moved in, leaned her weight against him and the side of her face against his shoulder.
He could smell the soap she used. Feel the softness of her skin. They combined in gentle torture. The kind he couldn’t walk away from.
His fingers slipped through her hair. “You should eat something.”
“I’ll throw up.”
He winced, but not that she could see. “Or we could skip food.”
Vomiting and crying—he wasn’t really great at handling either. The sound of gagging made him join in, and that was the kind of thing that ruined a guy’s tough image.
She glanced up at him with a frown. “Do you want something?”
Now, there was an open-ended question. He went with what he guessed was her actual intent. “I do eat, you know.”
She didn’t look convinced. “There’s leftover Chinese food in the refrigerator.”