The Colton Marine. Lisa Childs

not being able to tell him more about her life. He clearly thought she didn’t want to include him in it. But she would—if she could.

      “You had me sign a confidentiality agreement in my employment contract,” she reminded him. But that wasn’t why she kept Declan’s secrets.

      “You know why I did that,” he said. “It isn’t easy for me to trust.”

      “I know.”

      “It’s not easy for you, either,” he said.

      No. It wasn’t.

      And for some reason River Colton’s face came to her mind. Even with that scar and patch, he was ridiculously handsome—not that she’d seen much of his face tonight with how low he’d pulled that hat.

      But she remembered how he’d looked on news reports. His hair was thick and brown but always worn in a short, military-style cut. His eyes—eye—was a bright green, his gaze so piercing that it could nearly cut through a person. At least that was how he’d looked at the reporters and photographers bold enough to take his picture.

      He hadn’t quite met her gaze tonight—until that moment before he’d gone off to investigate. Then he’d looked at her and leaned close, close enough that for a moment she’d thought he’d been tempted to kiss her.

      Or maybe she’d only imagined that, like she’d imagined seeing those eyes glinting at her from the darkness. At least she was going to convince herself of that, since she had to go back.

      River had said he would go back with her in the morning to thoroughly check out the place. Had it just been coincidence, like he’d claimed, that he’d been out riding when he’d heard her scream?

      Or did he have some other motive for showing up at La Bonne Vie tonight?

      But River wasn’t the only one she suspected wasn’t being completely honest with her.

      “What’s your plan?” she asked her boss. “What do you intend to do with the estate?”

      There was a long moment of silence—so long that she thought the call might have been lost—and then he replied, “I’m not sure...”

      Neither was she. She wasn’t certain he was telling the truth. But before she could pry any further, he clicked off the phone.

      She gripped it tightly, tempted to toss it, before she calmed her frustration and slid it back into her purse. Despite the warm night air, a sudden chill swept through her—raising goose bumps on her skin.

      She felt as if she was being watched. But when she glanced to the house, Uncle Mac was sitting with his back toward her. He wasn’t watching her.

      But someone was...

       Chapter 4

      The scene played out in slow motion—like it always did. He was just about to make the call—just about to send everyone in—when he felt it. The wrongness of it. The feeling was like a heavy rock lying low in his guts.

      Something wasn’t right.

      But Henry jumped the gun and headed in—and as he did, he tripped the wire stretched across the entrance to the abandoned hotel. The blast knocked River back, lifting him off his feet. His shout rang out—too late—as he flew through the air with the dust, the debris, the shrapnel and the other bodies.

      Before he hit the ground, though, someone caught him, wrapping slender arms around him, holding him down. That had happened that day, as well; someone had held him back from going in—from trying to find the others.

      He’d fought that person. Today he didn’t fight. Instead he jerked awake and stared into a pair of big eyes dark with concern.

      “Are you okay?” Edith asked.

      She was sitting on the edge of his bed, her arms wrapped around his bare chest. She was nearly bare, too, but for an exercise bra and brief shorts. Her skin was as slick with perspiration as his.

      His heart had already been racing from the dream, now it beat even harder and faster as desire rushed through him. His throat thick with passion, he could only nod.

      “I was just getting back from a morning run,” she said, “and I heard you shouting.”

      He cleared his throat. “Dream—it was just a dream.” And maybe so was this—her being here with her arms wrapped around him.

      As if just realizing she held him, she jerked back. “I—I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have...”

      He released a ragged breath. “Guess we’re even now,” he said. “I rushed in last night when I heard you screaming and now...”

      Had he been screaming? Sometimes, when he relived the explosion, he felt the pain all over again. Self-conscious now, he touched his face. At least he hadn’t taken off the patch before he’d fallen asleep. But he had taken off his hat. With the sun shining through the bedroom window, his scars were clearly visible.

      She wasn’t staring at his scars, though. She wasn’t even looking at his face. Her gaze was trained on his chest. The vest had protected that during the explosion. He had no scars beneath the dusting of dark hair. Just his—and Henry’s—dog tags dangled from around his neck.

      Finally, she glanced up and met his gaze. “I’m—I’m sorry,” she stammered again. “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

      “I’m fine,” he assured her.

      Now that she was looking at his face again, he could see the doubt in her beautiful dark eyes.

      What the hell had she heard?

      The heat that had rushed through his body with her touch spread up to his face now. He was embarrassed over her catching him in such a weak moment.

      “When are you heading back to La Bonne Vie?” he asked.

      She blinked, breaking their locked gazes. “Right after I shower.”

      New images flashed through his mind, of her standing naked beneath a spray of water. He groaned.

      And she reached out but pulled her hand back just before it touched his face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

      He nodded. He would have stood up, but the sheet tangled around his hips was all that hid his reaction to her closeness, to her touch. Even all sweaty from her run, she smelled like she had last night. Like fresh air and flowers...

      “What is that smell?” he asked.

      She stood up and stepped back, away from his bed. Then she touched her own face now and wiped away some of the perspiration. “I was running—”

      “Not that,” he said, although even her sweat smelled sweet. “The flowers. What kind of flowers do I smell every time I’m near you?”

      “Gardenias,” she replied as she backed toward the door to the stairwell that led to the stables below.

      “Gardenias,” he repeated as she slipped through that doorway. He smiled as he heard how hard her shoes slapped against the steps.

      She was running again—away from him.

      But she hadn’t looked horrified—like he’d thought she had been last night when she’d first seen him. Instead she’d seemed almost flustered, as if she’d been as affected by his nearness as he had been by hers.

      He pushed his hand over his face, down over his scar. Hell, he must have still been dreaming. She couldn’t have looked at him like he had imagined—like she was at all interested in him.

      For one, just as she must have heard him shouting through the open window of the apartment, he had heard her through it, too—last night when she’d been talking to someone on her cell phone.

      Her