Captivating Witness. Melinda Lorenzo Di

      “Just a glass of water, maybe?”

      “On it.”

      He pushed up off the couch and moved toward the kitchen. Digging through the cupboards gave him a moment of reprieve from the unusual onslaught of emotion gripping him. There was no denying the effect Reggie Frost had on him. Though he couldn’t pinpoint why, she definitely stirred every protective feeling he had.

      And a few not-so-protective ones, he though as he paused in the doorway to admire her profile.

      She was leaned over a little on the couch—not slumped, just resting—and she’d tugged her hair free so that her thick tresses covered her face completely.

      Real shame to hide that, he thought absently as he stepped into the room and offered her the glass.

      “Your water?”

      “Thanks.”

      Their fingers brushed as he handed it over, and unsurprisingly, another wave of desire swept through him. She met his eyes, and he could swear he saw the same want reflected in her eyes before her gaze dropped and she took a deep sip of the liquid in the cup.

      He had to really work to focus on the more pressing needs of the current situation. He unzipped the first aid bag and dug through it for some antiseptic and some gauze.

      “This is going to hurt, isn’t it?” she asked.

      “Might sting,” he agreed. “Why don’t you distract yourself by walking me through what you saw back there in the alley?”

      She shivered. “I already told you about the guys and the gun.”

      “Walk me through again anyway, starting at the beginning. I want a full picture.”

      As Brayden dabbed the first of the cuts, she drew in a sharp breath and launched into the story.

      He listened intently as the pretty waitress told him what she’d seen. About recognizing Chuck and about his threats. About the frightened man on the other end of the weapon and their brief exchange. She was just as scared herself. It was clear in the way she kept worrying at her bottom lip, and the slight quiver in her voice as she spoke. He couldn’t blame her for the fear, and it made him itch to reach out and comfort her. To bend down and touch her face and tell her it was all right. Maybe sweep back the stray strand of dark hair that kept slipping down to her cheek.

      It was a strange urge for him, and it felt almost as odd to fight it as it did to have it in the first place. He might even have given in to it if his hands hadn’t been busy.

      Back home, Brayden had a reputation for being cold and calculating. Though he’d never confirmed its validity, he’d even once heard a rumor that everyone in his department called him Ice when he was out of earshot. It didn’t bother him. Being calculating made him better at his job. Being cold meant he could stay detached. It was part of what made him such an effective cop. It was also the reason he’d been nominated to come to Whispering Woods first. He’d watch. Listen. Gain some insight into what exactly Garibaldi was up to in the tourist town.

      So why is that coolness so hard to come by right now?

      He studied Reggie for a second, watching her kissable mouth work as she talked.

      He had no problem admitting that he found her physically attractive. He’d touched her less than a handful of times—albeit a few extended times—but each had been a bit like being hit by a lightning bolt. It’d taken a sincere amount of effort to not stop and assess it each time it happened.

      Actually acting on the feeling was a whole other story. In that, he had a choice. Brayden picked whom he let into his space very carefully, and he could count on one hand the number of women he’d let get close in all his thirty years.

      Not like you’ve got much choice here, he reminded himself.

      It was true. This situation wasn’t intentional. But it was also true that holding the waitress up while she leaned on him for support was nowhere near unpleasant. It felt good, actually, to be so thoroughly needed. So much so that he almost didn’t notice she’d stopped talking until she cleared her throat.

      “Brayden?”

      “Yeah, sweetheart?”

      “What do you think happened to him?” she asked softly.

      “The man who got shot?”

      “Yes.”

      Brayden hesitated. His instinct was to keep as many details under wraps as he could. The detective in him didn’t like the idea of oversharing. Especially with a civilian. He sensed, though, that not disclosing things would put up a wall, and he was sure he was going to need this woman’s trust. He sat down on the edge of his coffee table and met her eyes.

      “I don’t know,” he admitted. “The alley was clean. Except for one small thing.”

      “Which was?”

      “A half-inch-long, rust-colored smear on the wall.”

      “Blood.”

      “Likely.”

      “So it wasn’t just clean. It was cleaned up.”

      She was as intuitive as she was pretty, he had to give her that.

      “That was my first thought,” he agreed.

      She closed her eyes for a quick second, then opened them to meet his gaze. “Chuck’s a cop, Brayden. What does that mean about the rest of Whispering Woods PD?”

      Brayden didn’t even have to consider his answer. “They could be involved, too.”

      “But someone needs to be told what happened. State police, maybe?”

      “We don’t know what there is to tell,” he reminded her. “Definitely not enough to bring them all the way out here fast enough. And to be honest, they might just go ahead and alert the locals anyway.”

      “So what do I do?”

      This time, he took a moment to think about how to answer. It would be easy enough to tell her the truth—that he was a cop himself and would do his best to find out what was going on. It wasn’t technically a true undercover assignment. Just a covert one. An exploratory mission that was a lot easier to do when no one knew who he was.

      So you don’t need to leap in and give yourself away to a virtual stranger. Especially when you haven’t even finished what you came here to do.

      He decided to see if he could get away with not disclosing his identity—yet anyway—and instead asked, “What were you going to do, before all of this?”

      “Go home. Sip wine. Prepare for tomorrow.”

      “Tomorrow?”

      “I’m signed up to run the face-painting station for a few hours in the morning. I’ve got the lunch rush at work. Then I’m supposed to get into a really uncomfortable pair of shoes and get ready for the dinner.”

      “The lunch rush is the only part of that I understood.”

      “The Garibaldi Gala is tomorrow.”

      “Right.”

      The exclusive party had slipped his mind in the height of all the excitement. He’d spent the week hearing about it. Even inquired about somehow getting a ticket only to be told it was absolutely invite only. An event catered to stroke the egos of local businessmen. Every one of whom would be in attendance.

      Except Reggie, if she stays here.

      “No one will miss you at the fireworks tonight?” he asked, careful to keep his voice neutral.

      She shook her head. “I was skipping them in favor of resting. Is that bad?”

      “It’s fine. Just don’t want to draw any more attention to yourself than necessary. Chuck’ll already be on high alert.