I’m not sure what wakes me.
Perhaps the stirring of the curtains as wind blows through the half-closed bay window. Perhaps some distant sound — the jiggling of a doorknob, the thudding of footsteps on a wood porch. Perhaps nothing remotely so dramatic — merely the dull ache in my bones from being stuck in the same upright position for such a long time.
It doesn’t matter.
All I know is, my eyes crack open and I’m abruptly awake, heart pounding, senses on high alert. Ignoring the stiffness of my neck, I glance around the dark room. It’s the middle of the night. There’s no sound from the street, no light except the pale moonbeams shining through the skylights in the vaulted ceiling overhead.
I give my chafed wrists a halfhearted tug and find — shocker! — they haven’t magically loosened while I slept. I’m surprised I managed to fall asleep in the first place, propped up like this; I typically have a hard enough time dozing off each night in my plush king-sized bed.
A loud creak from outside makes my mind go blank. My head whips around toward the sound, eyes widening as they study the large bay window where a set of gauzy white curtains flutter gently in the breeze. I tell myself it was just the house settling. Or maybe a raccoon in search of some dinner in the neighbors trash bins.
Don’t panic over one squeaky floorboard, Shelby.
My attempts at mollification go up in smoke when I hear the porch creak again, louder this time. This is no nocturnal critter. Someone’s on my porch, just beyond the view of that window. My heart lurches into overdrive as I hear yet another groan — another footstep, I realize belatedly.
I can’t move, can’t run. Can’t even scream. All I can do is wait for my own worst nightmares to be confirmed.
It doesn’t take long.
He steps into view a few seconds later — a large, man-shaped silhouette, clear as day through the thin curtains. There’s no doubt in my mind it’s a man; one well-trained in stealth, judging by the way he moves. Even from here, I recognize the coiled power of his muscles, the utter alertness of his body, the broadness of his shoulders.
That’s not Paul, I think, picturing my husband’s lean stature. And it’s definitely not Righty or Lefty. They wouldn’t be back already. So… who the hell is this guy?
My heart is pounding so hard, I fear it heart might explode as the man hesitates just outside the open window. A thousand possibilities about burglars and rapists and murderers spin through my mind as I watch his large hand extend outward to the frame. As he slowly pushes the opening wider, thoughts clang around inside my skull like a pingpong balls of panic.
If he’s a burglar, he’s in for the surprise of his life…
His leg straddles the sill, his head ducks down, he scrambles nimbly across the cushions of my pretty window seat…
And then, he’s in my house.
Ten freaking feet from me.
Big and scary and, let’s face it, more than likely up to no good. (In my experience, people rarely climb through windows in the dead of the night without nefarious intentions.)
Breaths coming in short bursts through my nose, I struggle to hold off a panic attack as my eyes move over the shadowed stranger. He’s tall. Very tall. So far over six feet, he makes me look petite at five foot seven. And he’s muscular. Not in the steroid-induced manner of my earlier assailants; in a way that tells me he knows his way around a weight room and probably doesn’t have a single ounce of extra body fat lurking beneath that black, fitted t-shirt he’s wearing.
It’s too dark to make out his facial features, but I notice he’s got one hand resting on what seems to be a gun holster as his head sweeps from left to right, scanning the room. He jolts visibly when he spots me.
“Christ.”
His tone low and smooth as velvet. Just that one word sends a not-altogether-unpleasant shiver down my spine.
Shelby! He’s probably here to murder you! Now is not the time to be turned on!
Before I can blink, he’s across the room — kneeling before me, his face a half-foot from mine. He reaches out and I barely have time to brace myself for imminent death, let alone attempt to struggle away when he peels the tape off my lips in a sharp tug that makes my skin sting like a bitch.
“Ow!”
Cursing like a sailor, I blink back tears as I haul desperate gulps of air into my lungs. Hours of breathing through my nose have left me oxygen-deprived. It takes a long moment before the light-headedness abates and I’m able to breathe normally again.
“Are you all right?”
At the sound of his voice, I glance up sharply — straight into a set of the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen. I suck in an unsteady breath when they lock on mine. They’re like two bottomless pits inside his face. A face which, now that it’s so close, appears remarkably familiar.
And remarkably handsome.
Mind reeling with adrenaline and shock and something else I can’t quite name, I squint at my savior in the dim light, trying to place him in my memories. Try as I might, I can’t recall where, exactly, I’ve seen that chiseled jawline or that aristocratic nose or that lush mouth surrounded by that seriously sexy scruff he’s got going on… but I’d swear on my life I’ve seen this man somewhere before.
Maybe in a fashion magazine because, hot damn, those are some serious cheekbones…
His jaw is clenched tight as his gaze moves over my features, scanning for visible signs of trauma. I realize his large hands are still cupping my face, stroking my chapped skin with callused fingertips as if to erase the pain caused by the tape. That sensation — gentleness in the wake of violence — is enough to make the breath catch inside my throat.
“Are you all right?” he asks again, after a long moment.
“Assuming you’re not here to kill, rob, or rape me? I’m just peachy,” I whisper, my voice cracking on the lie. I’m so far from all right, I don’t even have words to convey it.
I think I see a flare of humor in his eyes before they drop away from mine. His hands leave my face and he reaches down to slide a knife from inside his boot. I can’t help flinching when he flicks it open, the lethal blade catching the moonlight like a mirror. My muscles tense up, momentarily petrified by the prospect of my apparent savior carving me into pieces.
“Don’t!” I squeak out mortifyingly.
He registers my sudden panic and goes totally still. Knife held aloft, his eyes find mine in the dark again. When he speaks, his velvet voice is grave. “I’m not here to hurt you, Ms. Hunt.”
My eyes widen. He knows me?
I wait for him to explain, but he doesn’t. He merely pauses for a long moment, holding my stare, then says, “You can trust me.”
I don’t know how to explain it — whether it’s that look on his face or the sincerity in his tone that sways my opinion — but I do. I trust him. Possibly because I don’t have any other choice, seeing as I’m stuck in this chair, entirely at his mercy… but mostly because there’s something about his presence that tells me he means it when he says he’s here to help. I look into his dark eyes and for once, my internal bullshit alarm is silent.
If he was going to hurt you, he would’ve done it by now, a small voice whispers at the back of my mind. Why bother removing the duct tape or making small talk if he’s merely here to kill you or rob you blind?
The panic bleeds out of me and I give a small nod of affirmation. With a neat jerk of his blade, he slices through the bonds at my wrists, then bends down to do the same for my ankles. The tape falls away and, eager for freedom after so long in captivity, I immediately rise from my seat… only to sway off balance when blood floods my head in a woozy rush. The room around me is spinning and I’m far too lightheaded to find my feet again.
Shit! Is that the floor, hurling high-speed at my face?
I brace myself for impact, but it never comes. Instead, two arms go around me, catching me midair. Before I can fathom what’s happening, I’ve been swept off my feet and find myself cradled against a broad chest like a child. Head spinning — this time for entirely different reasons — I’m too stunned even to struggle as he carries me out of the dining room, toward the dove gray sectional in the adjacent parlor.
It’s strange but… his arms feel terrifyingly good around me. Safe and solid and entirely unexpected — like stumbling upon a storm cellar in the midst of an emotional tornado. Everything in my life appears to be coming apart at the seams… but he’s holding me. And for just one moment, his arms offer temporary reprieve from the fear and shock and anger swirling inside me in an uncontrollable vortex.
Under normal circumstances, I’d never allow a stranger to carry me like this. To comfort me like some… some… weakling in need of coddling. Surely, on any other day, I wouldn’t find myself so affected by the feeling of his strong arms looped beneath my knees and back, his broad chest bracing my head like a cushion each time he takes a step.
Even if it has been years since anyone held me this close…
But these circumstances are anything but normal and this day is not any other day. As he carries me, I have to fight the urge to let my eyes slide closed. To absorb his strength, his heat. To set my breaths by his rhythm. To use the steady thrumming of his pulse as a metronome for my own racing heart.
It makes no sense at all, but every inclination inside me is screaming out for me to take comfort in the circle of this stranger’s arms.
This is just transference, the sensible part of my brain chides. You’re redirecting your own feelings of fear and adrenaline into gratitude for this guy, since he saved you. It’ll fade, once you calm down. You’ll see.
If I could, I’d roll my eyes at myself.
How dare I lecture me? Who do I think I am, some kind of adult?
He sets me down on the sofa like I weigh no more than one of the down-stuffed cushions. He’s not even winded. I keep my eyes on his as he steps away, creating a careful distance between us. The feeling of his arms around me still tingles through my bloodstream like whiskey.
“Who are y—” I start to ask, but the question dies in my throat as the stranger abruptly straightens to full height and pulls his gun from its holster.
“I’m going to sweep the house.”
My mouth parts. “But—”
“Keep quiet. And don’t move.”
Though he speaks no louder than a whisper, there’s no denying it’s an order. Clearly, this is a man unaccustomed to being disobeyed. My eyes strain to make out his shape in the darkness as he walks out of the room, his footsteps inaudible. For such a large man, he moves with a catlike grace that speaks to years of training. Everything from his posture to the way he holds his gun — arms extended, barrel pointed to the floor — practically screams law enforcement.
Who the hell is this guy?!
An undercover cop?
A rogue P.I.?
In either case, I suppose I should feel marginally better that the cavalry has arrived to rescue me. In fact, I should be thrilled to discover I won’t die duct taped to a chair in my dining room, only to be found after days or weeks or months by a concerned letter carrier who notices the Hunts haven’t emptied their mailbox in quite some time…
Unfortunately, it’s hard to be thrilled about much of anything when every square inch of your body aches, you’ve got a killer headache from a full day of dehydration, and there’s an excruciating pressure in your bladder after nearly twelve hours of holding it.
Alone in the dark parlor, my eyes dart to the bathroom door located off the hallway to my left. I consider making a break for it — I’m not exaggerating when I tell you I have to pee worse than the time I got trapped in a hotel elevator for five straight hours and nearly used my purse as a urinal in front of several unwitting strangers — but before I have a chance, Mr. Macho strides back into the room, holstering his gun.
“All clear.”
My brows lift. “Obviously. They left as soon as they tied me up. If you’d given me a chance, I could’ve told you that. Would’ve saved you a walking tour of my house.”
He stares at me blankly, saying nothing.
I prattle on. “I mean, not that I’m an expert or anything… but I’m pretty positive bad guys generally don’t hang around after breaking and entering.” My head tilts. “Breaking and entering followed by abducting and duct taping, if we’re being specific.”
I expect him to laugh. Chuckle, even.
He doesn’t.
“Jeeze, tough crowd,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.
He sighs, as though I’m profoundly annoying. “Ms. Hunt, I need you to tell me exactly what happened that led to your…” He pauses. “Abducting and duct taping, as it were.”
“Well, buster, first I need you to tell me exactly what led to you climbing through my window and rescuing me.” I cross my arms over my chest and level him with a look. I wish I could make out his features clearly, but it’s still so dark in here. “I mean… Who the heck are you? How did you know I was here? Furthermore, how do I know you aren’t some psycho working with Righty and Lefty? Huh?”
“Righty and Lefty?” he mutters quizzically.
“Yep. I’d give you a pithy nickname too, but frankly I’ve run out of directions. Oh! I suppose you could be North or South… though I’m pretty sure the Kardashian clan has laid claimed to all of those. East? West? I can never remember. Pop culture isn’t my forte.”
His dark brows furrow. “Did you hit your head?”
“No!” Heat rushes to my cheeks as I realize I may, in fact, be rambling. I blame it on the sleep deprivation. That, or an impending anxiety attack. It’s hard to say for certain. “Look, bucko, all I know is, one minute I’m walking up my front steps with a bag of groceries, the next I’m grabbed by two giant thugs and dragged into my own house kicking and screaming. Don’t believe me? Check the front walk. I’m sure it’s a shrine to my Farmers Market haul still scattered across the front stoop.” I shake my head. “Honestly, what a waste of perfectly good burrata cheese.”
“Ms. Hunt—”
“And do you know how long it takes to find six perfectly ripe avocados? Those babies have an optimal shelf life of about thirty-six seconds before they turn to rotten brown mush!” I scowl. “There goes the neighborhood! Along with my plans for avocado toast.”
“Ms. Hunt—”
“If you ask me, they could’ve at least picked up my groceries after kidnapping me. Set them on the counter or something, like gentlemen. But nooo. Apparently that would be far too much to ask.”
“How… inconsiderate,” he says haltingly, looking at me like I’m nuts.
Which, let’s face it, I totally am.
“Tell me about it!” I’m breathing hard now, my tone rising with anger and something else. It might be shock, but I decide not to examine it too closely. “I mean, kidnapping is one thing. But avocado abandonment? That’s a capital offense!”
“Hunt—”
“You can call me Shelby. You know, since you’ve just saved my life and all.” I throw my hands up in the air. “I guess it’s true what they say — there’s no honor amongst thieves. Especially when it comes to produce. Chivalry really is dead… as are the hydrangeas I bought at an obscene markup. Because the Farmers Market is cute and all, but boy oh boy do they price gouge like nobody’s busin—”
“Hey.”
I blink. Hard.
The nonsensical words I’ve been spouting evaporate on my tongue because, quite suddenly, he’s there. On the floor crouching before me. His big hands cup my face, so gently it steals my breath, and his eyes lock on mine. They’re so dark, I’m instantly transfixed — sucked into his orbit like an untethered planet falling into a black hole. I don’t even try to look away; his gravity is too strong to escape.
“You’re all right,” he says lowly, his strong fingers flexing against my cheeks. “You’re safe, now. Just breathe.”
My mouth opens, but there are no words. Just a slow-dawning horror filling the vacuum left behind as my panic ebbs away.
I was kidnapped, I realize, feeling strangely numb. Manhandled and mistreated. In my own home. In the place where I sleep. In the place I’m supposed to be safest.
I feel tears pricking at my eyes. It takes all my remaining strength not to let them fall.
“Breathe,” he orders again.
And I do.
In and out.
Nose and mouth.
Timing my breaths with his.
I’m not sure how long we stay like that — his hands on my cheeks, our eyes locked together. Long enough for my heart to stop thundering inside my chest. Long enough for my semi-hysterical rambles to fade and reason to return. Long enough for my cheeks to heat with embarrassment over the scene I’ve just caused in front of this stranger who’s done nothing but rescue my crazy ass. And, as a thank you, I let him witness a full-fledged panic attack. About produce, of all things.
Way to go, Shelby.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, mortified.
He just stares at me.
“I…” I avert my eyes from his and pull back, out of his hold. “I…”
“It’s fine,” he says gruffly, as though he’s not quite sure how to be gentle but is trying his damndest. He rises to his feet and shoves his hands in his pockets, blowing out a sharp breath. “Why don’t you just start at the beginning.”
My eyes flicker up to his for a brief second. “I…”
In the dark, his eyebrows are two black slashes. They lift in question, waiting for me to speak.
“I… I have to pee!” I blurt.
Before he can say another word, I hop to my feet and race for the bathroom. Slamming the door closed behind me, I collapse back against it, breathing hard. After that humiliating experience, I think I’d prefer slowly starving to death in my dining room chair to ever again facing a man who’s witnessed the true depths of my insanity.
Congrats, looney tunes. Of all the embarrassing shit you’ve ever done… this truly takes the cake.
I drop my face into my hands and groan softly.
The true irony of it all?
I don’t even have to pee, anymore.