The Dark Gate. Pamela Palmer

stuck with me.”

      “I don’t want to be stuck with you. I don’t want to be stuck with anyone.”

      Jack sighed. He’d known this wouldn’t be easy. “Your life’s been threatened by a murder suspect, Larsen. You’re under police protection until the captain decides otherwise.”

      “I need to go back to my houseboat. I need some things.”

      “You can borrow one of my T-shirts and a toothbrush. My partner’s wife can loan you whatever else you need. Try to think of this as a short vacation.”

      Her frown deepened. “At your house.”

      “Only the finest for D.C.’s most formidable prosecutor.”

      “You’re mocking me.”

      “You? No. My house? Maybe.”

      She didn’t reply. He glanced into the rearview mirror to find her expression had evened out. The pain medication was kicking in.

      She’d been lucky. The arrowhead was small and had gone cleanly through her shoulder, doing minimal damage. A few inches and the arrow would have gone through her heart. His own heart lurched at the thought of how easily he might have lost her—his salvation gone in the blink of an eye.

      By an arrow. What in the hell was going on?

      Somehow, Larsen Vale held the key to this case. How, he couldn’t begin to guess, but he’d stake his life and his reputation on the fact that she’d seen something in that church yesterday. She’d witnessed something that had sent her running from the scene. And someone knew it. All he could do now was protect her—and get her to confide in him before she was permanently silenced.

      By the time he arrived at his modest row house apartment, the focus of his thoughts was fast asleep. He carried her inside and back to his bedroom, laying her on his bed. The morning sun shone through the blinds, casting thin rows of bright sunlight across both the woman and the unmade bed.

      He pulled the cord, adjusting the blinds, then stared down at his very own sleeping beauty.

      “What am I going to do with you?” He slid a thick lock of silky golden hair between his thumb and forefinger, feeling a shaft of desire spear through him. Damn. His own lust was a complication he could do without. But she was beautiful. There was no denying it.

      His gaze traveled over her features as he drank his fill, at last. He brushed the pad of his thumb over the softness of her cheek, a fine possessiveness rising inside him. She was made for him, the cure to his madness, the escape from his own private hell.

      Determination bordering on desperation fired his blood. He wouldn’t lose her. He couldn’t. He couldn’t return to the building insanity in his head knowing…knowing…the cure was lost to him. If he ran Larsen off now, how would he stay sane when the noise grew beyond bearing? How would he stand it when he knew a single touch of her hand would silence the chaos?

      Stay by my side. Silence my madness.

      “Trust me, Larsen,” he whispered into the stillness of the room. “When you wake up, tell me what you know. Help me catch these guys before they hurt you again.”

      His gaze slid from her face to her shoulder. The sight of the bandaged wound made his gut clench. He’d whispered the words for her benefit, in the hope she’d remember them subconsciously, but he meant them, he realized. He didn’t want her hurt again. There was something about her, something fierce and proud, that drew him. Something within her he recognized in himself.

      Secrets.

      Chapter 3

      Larsen opened heavy eyelids. Where was she? Why wasn’t her boat rocking? Her sleepy gaze caught the slow spin of a fan on the ceiling above and she felt the breeze waft over her. The musical score from Les Miserables drifted in from another room, accompanied by a deep masculine voice.

      Jack Hallihan’s.

      Memory slammed into her, stealing her breath. She was in his house. In his bed. Thanks to the little bald girl.

      She’d tried to kill her.

      A surge of fear jolted her awake.

      Why would the girl have attacked her? She’d seemed so sweet. So shy. It didn’t make sense. But then, not much in her life ever had. All she knew for certain was that death seemed to have his eyes on her this time.

      Heaven help her.

      She was suddenly glad for her cop bodyguard. Jack. If only he would stop asking questions.

      Larsen levered herself to a sitting position, her shoulder throbbing beneath the heavy bandage. Her gaze drifted, taking in the Spartan masculinity of the room. The dresser was made from the same sturdy oak as the bed. In the corner, a single chair, barely visible beneath a mound of discarded clothes, appeared to serve as the hamper.

      The light filtering through the blinds had a late-afternoon feel to it. A glance at the bedside clock told her it was almost seven. She’d slept the entire day. The entire Tuesday.

      Damn. She’d had two meetings with clients and a court appearance on her calendar for today. First thing in the morning she’d have to make some phone calls to apologize.

      Larsen pushed back the sheet and swung her legs over the side of the bed, then stilled at the waft of air across her privates. What in the…? Her startled gaze dropped to her lap. The oversize T-shirt was bunched at her hips, but there was no hiding the fact she no longer wore anything beneath.

      Jack.

      Her heart lurched in her chest. What had he done? Just how badly had she misjudged him?

      As she grabbed the sheet and yanked it over her lower half, her gaze snagged on something familiar lying across the bunched-up bedspread at her feet. Two somethings. Her shorts and panties, looking freshly washed.

      She stared at them, her heart rate slowing. He’d washed them. Jack Hallihan had washed her bloodstained clothes…after undressing her.

      Her breath caught in her throat. The thought should have outraged her. Instead heat pooled deep in her abdomen and throbbed between her legs. A fine time for her hormones to decide to do the cha-cha. Not that they hadn’t been practicing that little step for months now, since the first time she’d seen the handsome cop.

      She reached for the clothes and managed to get the panties on one-handed with maximum struggle. Exhausted, shoulder throbbing, she sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the shorts with their neat little zipper and button. No way.

      “Need help?” Jack stood in the doorway looking impossibly handsome, one muscled shoulder propped against the doorframe. He was casually dressed in khaki shorts and a navy T-shirt with MPD emblazoned across the chest in bold white letters. His short dark hair was appealingly tousled.

      He watched her with that blue intensity she was becoming used to, but this time it was warmed by sympathy…and something more. Something that made her increasingly aware she wore nothing beneath the oversize tee but a thin pair of panties.

      She tried to give him her chilly look, to push him away, but she was so far from cold it wasn’t funny, so she glared at him instead and held up the shorts. “I suppose you know how to get these on since you took them off.” The thought of him peeling them off her had her hands shaking. She struggled to keep her voice even, struggled to meet his gaze.

      He pushed away from the door and came to kneel in front of her, inches from her bare legs, his face nearly on a level with hers. He held out his hand for the shorts. She handed them to him as her gaze roamed the strong planes of his face—his pronounced cheekbones, his strong, faintly stubbled chin. The firm mouth that even now tilted into a sensual smile.

      With effort, she tore her gaze away, but his warm scent wrapped around her, sending need rippling through her body.

      Damn hormones.

      “How you feeling?”