Hiding His Witness. C.J. Miller

her face and instantly regretted pressing her.

      Carey’s cheeks were red and her eyes brimmed with tears. “What if he comes and he hurts you for helping me?”

      His protective instinct plowed through him and he kept his hands pinned to his sides, a massive undertaking considering he wanted to hold her and offer some measure of comfort. “He won’t. He’ll be dead if he comes within fifty feet of the house.”

      She brushed at her eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. His sweatshirt. He’d gotten it years before, after he’d graduated from the academy. Funny, he had never allowed anyone—not his ex-girlfriends, not his former fiancée—to wear it. Yet seeing Carey shivering in his office, he hadn’t thought twice about offering it to her.

      “I won’t tell you anything about my past.”

      He shrugged. He got the gist of the picture. Scum chasing his victim. His beautiful, and at the moment, fragile victim. He guessed under other circumstances, she was a force to be reckoned with. “I won’t ask.”

      “How do you know I’m not running from the law?” she asked.

      Her lips parted slightly and he was momentarily distracted by the lush fullness of them. He forced his attention to her eyes. He found them as mesmerizing as her lips. “Gut feeling. Trumans live by it. You’re no more a criminal than I am.”

      “Come on inside with me,” Detective Truman said. He’d pulled his car into his garage and closed the door using the remote on his car visor. “I need to grab a few things. Clothes. Ammunition. I’ll make it fast before the media swarm starts.”

      The media might be tracking her, but Detective Truman would have caught their interest, as well. That a camp of reporters weren’t waiting on his porch was a small favor.

      He was taking precautions to make her feel safer, but traveling a long distance with a stranger and a gun made her nervous.

      She had to be crazy to agree to his plan. Sure, he’d been kind to her thus far, but what did she really know about him? He was a police detective; that in and of itself didn’t mean he was trustworthy. If he wasn’t on Mark’s payroll, he could be added. Finding and exploiting a person’s weakness was a specialty of Mark’s. It was only a matter of time before Mark got to Detective Truman. Either Mark would buy him off or, if Detective Truman resisted, Mark would kill him. Carey couldn’t live with herself knowing she’d caused another person to be hurt. Tracy’s face flashed into her mind and Carey braced herself against the wave of grief and guilt that crashed down on her.

      Detective Truman was doing this because he needed her to testify against the Vagabond Killer. But that wasn’t going to happen. If they both lived to see the Vagabond Killer brought to trial, testifying meant telling the truth about who she was—and that wasn’t possible.

      “I can wait here if you want. I don’t want to intrude.” Was this her last chance to run? Could she get out of the car and force open the door to the garage? How far would she get on foot?

      “Nah, you’re fine. I’ll feel better having you in sight.”

      Carey had nowhere else to go and no one else to turn to for help. If she ran, her limited resources meant Mark would find her. She didn’t want to get Detective Truman involved in her personal problems, but witnessing a crime had meshed their lives together, if only for a short time.

      And while Carey didn’t trust easily or often, her instincts told her she would be safe with Detective Truman for now. Not that she relied too heavily on her instincts. She’d been wrong about Mark, wrong about her father and wrong about so many things before.

      She’d keep her time with Detective Truman short—a few days at most. He’d get her out of the city and make it easier to run without Mark following her.

      She trailed him inside the house. It was a bachelor pad, but a clean one. No knickknacks and no pictures. He didn’t have a kitchen table, likely eating his meals at the breakfast bar or in the living room on his black leather couch. She wrinkled her nose. Black leather. Blah.

      “What’s the matter?” he asked, catching her expression.

      “Nothing.”

      “It’s okay, you can tell me. Do you need something? Is your arm bothering you?”

      Her arm was fine. Her ribs were throbbing, but she wasn’t fixating on that. “It’s your couch.” She blushed, regretting her criticism. It wasn’t like her apartment would be featured in a home decorating magazine anytime soon.

      He glanced into the living room, a look of confusion on his face. “What about it?”

      Polite response? “It’s so manlike.”

      Detective Truman tossed her a crooked grin. “I am a man.”

      Yes, he was. A big one. A handsome one. Impossible not to notice.

      He grinned at her. “Try it,” he said, gesturing toward the couch.

      Had she spoken aloud? “What?”

      “Have a seat. Flip on the TV. You’ll see the magic. I’m going to grab a few things from upstairs. I’ll be down in a minute.”

      “Okay.” Carey wandered into the living room and plopped down on the couch. It wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d thought leather couches were for frat boys and playboys, but this was nice. She ran her hands over the cushion and inhaled the smell of it. It was supple and soft. Her nerves shot lust into her veins. Yeah, the couch was magic.

      How many women had fallen under Detective Truman’s charms in this exact place? And why did it bother her to think about him spending the night curled up with a woman?

      Carey picked up the remote from the coffee table and flipped on the television. Sports network. Of course. She leaned back, letting her body sink into the plush cushions. She nearly let out a moan, somewhere between pleasure and pain. The pain in her ribs intensified when she reclined and since the aspirin had worn off and without adrenaline propelling her, her body caved in to the ache.

      “Comfortable?” Detective Truman asked.

      Carey opened her eyes and straightened. “It’s nice.”

      Detective Truman dropped his bag on the floor and sat next to her. “Perfect place to watch football.”

      “My father used to…” She let her voice drift away. It had been a long time since she’d spoken of her father and the mention of him cut to the quick. The rawness hadn’t gone away and the wound seeped inside her chest. She forced down her grief, trying to think about something else as she fought tears.

      “It’s okay to let it out,” Detective Truman said, tucking his arm around her shoulder. “You’ve been through a rough time.”

      He had no idea. The heaviness in her chest was suffocating. “My father died recently.”

      “I’m sorry,” he said into her hair, moving her closer to him.

      His hand rubbed her shoulder, providing comfort she hadn’t had in months. She sank against him, needing this more than she’d realized.

      “I miss him sometimes.” All the time. A constant yearning she’d only dealt with by ignoring it when she could.

      “Is that why you’re alone?” he asked, his voice unbearably tender, his fingers massaging her with the right amount of pressure and gentleness, her body relaxing under his touch.

      Tears she’d fought spilled over and she pressed her face into his shoulder, hiding them. After all these months, she should have healed more, should have been coping better. The heart-wrenching grief hadn’t loosened its hold. “Yes. It’s why I’m alone.” Without her father, her world had fallen apart. Her good friend had died in a car accident. The people she had trusted left her. Mark had betrayed her. Her life as she knew it had ended.

      Detective Truman stroked her hair gently and reached