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  another soul on anything.

  And yet Shelly didn’t like Cooper, hadn’t ever since she’d found out he was a cop.

  The others were the same. Not only odd, but unsettling, and when Breanne was alone, she locked the door, then scooted her chair closer to the fire. Hugging her legs in close, she set her chin to her knees, staring at the flickering flames.

  Did she like him? Even after what he’d said to her? Yeah, she did, because she knew she’d overreacted, just as she knew she’d done so as a self-protective gesture.

  She was still pondering the why of it when a knock came at her door.

  Leaping up, she whirled around and stared at it. “Hello?”

  “Hey.”

  Just that, just Hey, but the unbearably familiar voice entered her system and jolted her out of her reverie and right into a high state of anticipation she didn’t welcome.

  Nineteen

  When everything’s coming your way, you’re in the wrong lane.

  —Breanne Mooreland’s journal entry

  Breanne stared at the door, her pulse drumming away madly, along with her resistance.

  Cooper knocked again, just one light rap.

  She could feel him on the other side of the door, his heat, his strength, and her body reacted as if it already belonged to him. Well, damn it, she didn’t belong to anyone, especially a man.

  “Let me in, Bree.”

  That’d be like opening the door to the big, bad wolf and inviting him in to blow her life down. As said life had been built fragile brick by fragile brick, she didn’t dare.

  “Please,” he said.

  Ah, hell. The magic word. Even knowing it was the mother of all bad decisions, she opened the door.

  “About earlier,” he said.

  Turning her back to him, she moved to the fire and plopped down into the recliner, nonchalantly lifting her hands to the flames. “You mean when you asked if I was putting my hands in your pants because I wanted . . . how did you put it . . . to get an in with the law?”

  “Yeah, that.” He came close and hunkered down beside her chair. “You cannot think I was serious.”

  She studied the fire and didn’t respond. She knew now he hadn’t meant it, but just his voice alone was making her want to melt.

  “Look at me, Breanne.”

  No. Looking at him would be like looking directly into the sun. Amazing but stupid.

  But then his hands settled on the arms of the leather recliner and he whipped it around to face him. His face was grim, intense, and . . . still angry.

  “I didn’t mean it,” he said. “You know I didn’t. Now I want to hear you say it, damn it.”

  “Fine. I know you didn’t meant it. End of conversation, please.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, then let out a breath. “I’m a cop, Bree. Through and through, as it turns out. I thought quitting would change that, but apparently no.”

  Damn it, she knew that, but hearing him say it, knowing he felt as if he had to say it, got to her.

  “I’ve seen and heard it all,” he said. “And it’s changed me, maybe even hardened me. I can’t help that. But when I’m with you, I feel a little . . . clumsy.” His eyes were dark and genuine. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But you hurt mine.”

  “I’m sorry.” She could admit it now. “I’m so sorry. It’s all me, I’m just . . . going crazy. Edward—”

  “Was dead when we got here. Or so I think, anyway.” His hands were fisted on either side of her, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his elbows, his forearms corded with strength as he leaned over her. “You sleeping in here tonight?”

  Sleeping? Probably not. More like watching the shadows on the wall all night long. But she lifted a shoulder. “The bed’s comfortable enough.”

  “I figured you wouldn’t want to be alone.”

  “I’m a big girl, Cooper.”

  “Yeah, you are.” He lifted her chin. “And you’re running scared.”

  She jerked her chin free. “If I was running scared, would I be sleeping alone?”

  “You’re running scared of me.”

  She let out what was supposed to be a disbelieving sound, but it convinced neither of them.

  “You expect me to believe you’d rather face another midnight intruder than sleep next to me?” His voice was heavy with disbelief. “I don’t think so.”

  She shook her head. “How did you ever fit through the door with that big head of yours? Look, I’m going to be fine, okay? In fact, I’m quite exhausted.” She made a big show out of stretching and yawning really wide, before putting her hands to his chest and pushing so she could stand up.

  Only she didn’t budge him.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  “You’re going to sleep.”

  “Yep.”

  “Right now.”

  “That’s right.”

  At that he backed up, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, the picture of an irritated, frustrated, sexy-as-hell man.

  She made a big deal out of climbing up onto the high bed and tugging down the white down comforter. “Shut the door on your way out.”

  “You’re going to sleep in those fuck-me boots and Lariana’s clothes?”

  Her own personal armor, and yes, she was going to sleep in them if that’s what it took. “I’m sorry if the boots misled you today,” she said primly.

  “Trust me, it wasn’t the boots. Though they are something—” Saying so, he moved forward and took hold of one.

  Before she could kick him, he’d flipped her to her back, but instead of flattening her down on the bed with his body as she’d figured, he began to undo the boot with a quiet calm.

  “Watch out,” she warned. “Have you seen the heels on these things?”

  “Shh.” He’d bent his head to the task, and she might have melted at the unexpected sweetness of the gesture except he drove her crazy.

  “If you shh me one more time . . .” she warned.

  Lifting his head, he smiled grimly as the first boot came off and he tossed it over his shoulder. “You’ll what?”

  Damn it, she had no idea what.

  “Come on, Breanne. Finish the threat—I’m all ears.”

  “Shut up,” she said, utterly without rancor because he was looking at her with such genuine warmth and affection that her mad drained right out of her.

  People she’d known all her life didn’t look at her like that, yet he did. She didn’t know what to do with him. “I wish you’d go away,” she whispered, confusion and exhaustion, not emotion, creating a lump in her throat. She had no emotion left.

  Or so she told herself. “Please.”

  He went very still, staring at her for a long moment before lifting his hands from her and taking his weight off the mattress. “You know where to find me if you need me.”

  “I won’t.” With only one boot off, she turned over into a little ball and closed her eyes tight, not relaxing until she heard the door shut behind him.

  “It’s locked,” he said through it. “Keep it that way.”

  Sleep didn’t come as easily as it had the night before. For the longest time she lay there, muscles sore from holding herself so tense. The fire crackled. The walls creaked.

  So did a floorboard.

  Uneasy, she sat up, her gaze frantically searching out each corner of the room.

  No floating face.

  No boogeyman.

  Nothing.

  And yet she was in this house with a dead body. And someone who’d made him dead.

  She lay back down, but that lasted only until the next mysterious creak.

  Why had she wanted to be alone?

  Damn bad time to have given up men.

  Then, from somewhere in the house, came an odd, indistinguishable sound. Not the house creaking, but she couldn’t place it. Again she sat up.

  She’d definitely been ha