Neither playing out the little fantasy that had been cooking in the back of his mind since finding her naked in bed this morning nor playing nursemaid was in the job description, he reminded himself and let out a breath through puffed cheeks when the last lookie-loo was finally gone. That done, he dealt with any remaining questions from the police, then hustled his charge up to the new suite the hotel had offered up so the original suite could be preserved as a crime scene.
When he shut the door behind them and turned to her, he felt another sharp stab of compassion. She was still wearing her damp shorts and top. He tried to focus on her wet, straggly hair, far too aware of the way that tight, tiny shirt molded to her breasts. Hell, he didn't even have to imagine her little nipples puckered up tight as berries beneath it anymore. He'd seen them. Still saw them, no matter how many times he'd tried to banish the image from his mind.
"Why don't you go and shower?" he suggested as much for his sake as for hers. It wasn't just the air-conditioning that was making her shiver. Shock was setting in. "Warm up. Then we need to talk about this."
Her gaze cut to his and he could see the hesitation there. She was still wearing her brave, tough-girl face, but he knew better. Grimm's visit had shaken her. And with damn good reason. The pervert had almost succeeded in killing her once. Looked like he'd come back to finish the job. But not before he played with her a little first.
"The police did a thorough search of the hotel," Jase assured her. "He's gone. Was probably long gone before we ever got back from the beach."
She nodded... and stood there.
And in that moment he saw her for who she was, what she was. A woman as scared as any kid would be and trying not to show it. And she looked even more like a kid— a lost, hunted kid—than she had at the breakfast table.
"Come on," he said, instead of making her ask, because he could see from her eyes that she never would. "How about I go in ahead and take a peek around for good measure?"
Hell. He could be professional and not be a jerk about it. He could save her the humiliation. Just like he'd decided he'd save her the humiliation of knowing he'd seen her naked in bed this morning.
She sort of wilted with relief before sucking it up again. "It's okay. You don't have to do that. I'm fine."
Tough. She was one tough cookie. She was also a long way from fine, but he wasn't going to tell her that.
"Just doin' my job."
Because that's all it was. End of story. He wasn't going soft in the head over a hard rocker who'd most likely find a reason to razz him about his homespun down-on-the-farm upbringing by sundown.
He led the way into her bedroom, where the housekeeping staff had resettled her personal things. Not that she'd have asked them to do it for her. He'd been surprised to find her original bedroom as neat as a pin. She'd picked up after herself after changing her leather for layman clothes. Interesting. And unexpected.
He'd figured she'd have minions to do the work for her minions. Come to think of it, he'd expected a large, tightly clinging entourage shadowing her every move. Making her feel important. Making her feel loved.
But the lady traveled light. Other than the road crew who handled the stage setup and hauled the equipment in a convoy of semis, the only others on hand were her band, her backup singers, that Sanders guy—Jase still hadn't figured out what he did—the videographer, and Max. Who, come to think of it, hadn't answered his page or returned the message Jase had left on his cell phone.
"All clear," he said, turning around to reassure her and damn near knocking her over before realizing she'd been tailgating.
"Whoa." He grabbed her by the shoulders to steady her—took one look in her eyes and decided the hell with it. It wouldn't hurt him to give her what she needed.
"Hey. It's okay now," he said softly, and pulled her into his arms. And felt her body just sort of give and sway into his.
It didn't feel wrong. It didn't feel stupid. It didn't feel sexual. At least not at first.
It simply felt like the right thing to do. So he did it. She needed steadying. He had a broad shoulder. She obviously needed one, and Max wasn't here to offer it. So he'd stand in. No big deal.
And as they stood there—her slight and trembling and leaning into his embrace—he couldn't help but think of Sara.
She'd been broken and weak and in need of someone else's strength after Will had killed himself. But not before he'd shot her, too.
Jase hadn't expected to fall in love with Sara. He'd just wanted to help. That was all he wanted to do now. But try as he might to remain detached, that wasn't the way his mother had raised him. He could almost hear her voice.
The girl is hurting, Jase. You can do something about it.
That was why he'd helped Sara. And he'd fallen in love.
Now he was helping Janey.
Different circumstances. Different results.
With Sara he'd been acting on emotions. With Janey—well, it was just different was all.
That was his story and he was sticking to it.
He made a clumsy attempt to pat her back. Amazed all over again by how tiny she was. How, in spite of the salt and surf scent cringing to her hair, she still smelled amazing. And, unfortunately, he was also way too aware that her cheek was resting against his bare chest. Her breasts pressed against his upper abs. Things had happened so fast, he hadn't thought to put his shirt back on.
Big, big oversight on his part.
Lord Jesus God. Her breath was hot. Majorly hot where it fanned his nipple, and he did a little puckering of his own as an unbidden image of her mouth cruising across his skin came to mind.
He cleared his throat because it suddenly felt like his heart had swollen to the size of a frag grenade and lodged dead center behind his Adam's apple—just before it had pumped all the blood in his body to his groin.
"How you doing down there?" he asked because he had to say something. And he had to put some distance between them before she noticed all that tightening going on beneath her fingertips.
She sniffed. Lifted her head. "I'm doing."
When she pulled away, he let out a breath of relief because, Jesus, things had somehow gotten very intense all of a sudden. He almost swallowed back a much-needed breath when she tipped her head and looked up at him.
Aw, God. She looked so little and so lost and so vulnerable. Like Sara.
Only, one more time, she was nothing like Sara. And he'd do damn well to remember it.
It was hard to remember anything, though, when Janey looked at him that way. The only thing he had a real good bead on was that she was a woman. All woman. The kind a lot of guys would do crazy things for.
Like risk their lives. Risk their jobs.
She had a mouth made for French kisses. Long ones. Deep ones. Wet ones. She'd taste of salt right now. Salt and sex and a little bit of fear.
He was wondering what she'd do, what she'd say, if he took a taste. If he just lowered his mouth, opened over hers, tasted her with his tongue.
And he almost did it.
Goddamn
he almost did it. But then his brain finally engaged and reminded him with a swift kick what was at stake here: her life.
Dumb ass.
He was such a dumb ass.
"Sorry about that." He heard her voice through a distant ringing in his ears. "I don't usually ... you know ... let things get to me."
He believed her. And that made her little meltdown all the more poignant.
Poignant.
Shit. Listen to him. He was going all soft in the head. And he was falling into the same downward spiral he had with Sara.
What was it with him, anyway? Just because a woman needed saving didn't mean she needed anything else from him.
And just because he had a sudden case of testosterone-induced insanity didn't mean he had to take up residence in the loony bin. And that's where he was headed if he didn't straighten up and fly right. He wasn't so far from needing saving himself, and he'd do well to remember that.
"Yeah, well," he groped for and miraculously grasped the thread of their conversation, "I don't usually play big brother, so don't get used to it, okay?"
He'd wanted her to smile. Thank you, God, she did.
"Big brother? Thought never crossed my mind. Now
little
brother, maybe."
Good. Great. Let's just ramp up this fraternal image.
And let's keep her shored up. He liked it better when she was spunky. It was a helluva lot safer because she was usually a helluva lot farther away.
"So. You want me to wait here in the bedroom while you shower?"
"No. It's okay. My Weak-kneed-Wilda moment has passed. Go take your own shower. I'm fine."
He headed for the door, couldn't get out of there fast enough.
"Hey ... Iowa."
He stopped reluctantly, turned with even more reluctance, and looked at her.
Jesus, look at her.
"Yeah?" he finally managed around that lump that wouldn't go away as her brown eyes met his and held.
"Thanks."
They stood that way for a little too long. Let their gazes cling a little too intensely.
"That Bryce guy—at the gym," he said, dredging up the memory from God knew where. "He's a lousy kickboxer."
She tilted her head, gave it a confused little shake at his total disconnect from the current conversation. "Is that how you say 'you're welcome' in Iowa?"
"No, ma'am. That's an offer. If you ever want to work off a little tension, I'll be happy to kick your ass. You won't be thanking me then... ma'am."
And he left, shutting the door behind him. Feeling like he'd just escaped a major disaster.
He leaned back against the door. Wiped a hand down his face. Wiped the picture of her standing there with a grateful little smile and a body he'd give his right nut to know in every possible way.
How had he ever managed to conjure up a big-brother image in the first place? No matter how many times he told himself he wasn't going to be ruled by testosterone, he did not want to be her brother. Not in this lifetime. Not in a million lifetimes.
He'd like to meet the man with a beating heart and working equipment who could look at her and think brotherly thoughts. She was tiny, delicate, and as hot as a desert night
In damp clothes and scraggly hair and no makeup.
And flat on her back, stunningly naked and floating on a rush from her own hand. He wanted it to be his hand pleasuring her. His mouth. His ...
Jesus, there he went again. He so should have gotten laid before he took this gig. He should have gotten himself a soft, willing woman and screwed his brains out. To hell with love and commitment and all those things he believed a man ought to feel for a woman he took to bed.
"Shit," he muttered; then he reviewed analysis, assessment, and action all the way to the shower. "Shit, shit, shit."
For the record," Janey said, fresh from her shower, "I really don't let down like that."
And she didn't, Janey acknowledged to herself as she lifted her wet hair out from under the gold chain that held her mother's cross.
Dressed in short blue sweatshorts and a yellow skinny T, she sank down into a wing chair in the living area of the suite, tucked her bare feet up under her hip, and worked a pick through her damp hair.