Jackson's Woman. Maggie Price

      “Yeah.” Instantly, he turned away, forcing her to drop her hand.

      A dull throb settled in Claire’s belly. She had turned down his proposal and walked out on him. Why should she think he’d welcome her touch for any reason? After all, he hadn’t popped back into her life for old times’sake. He was there because she was in danger. She was his current assignment.

      “Do you think Ryker was behind the bombing?” she asked.

      “There’s no evidence to indicate that. Which doesn’t mean a damn thing.” He jabbed his fingers into the back pockets of his jeans. “If he was in on it and didn’t want me to find out, he’d make sure he didn’t leave a trail. All I know is that it’s the norm for whatever group is behind a bombing to claim responsibility. That hasn’t happened. But there’s a terrorist cell in Barcelona controlled by Hassan Kaddur. He might have had his extremists carry out the bombing to show Ryker his thanks for funneling all those blank U.S. passports his way.”

      Claire picked up a brass microscope, set it back down. “So, with your family gone, you think Ryker has targeted me by default?”

      “Something like that,” Jackson said carefully. He could still feel the warm press of her palm against his forearm. Knowing she shared his grief—and his love for his brother—he’d been seconds from dragging her into his arms and holding her. Just holding her until the suffocating pain inside him diminished.

      But if he ever had her in his arms again he wasn’t sure he’d be able to let go. That complication, at least, he could avoid by keeping his hands off her.

      Turning back to face her, he said, “The bottom line is that Ryker’s got you in his cross-hairs. That’s why, before I caught the plane out of Barcelona, I called Tom Iverson at the Homeland Security Office here. I briefed him on Ryker and asked Tom to check on you. He came to Reunion Square this morning. The woman who owns the shop next door told him you’d gone out of town to an auction, but she didn’t know where. It stood to reason Ryker wouldn’t be able to find you, either, before I arrived. When I ran into you on the sidewalk and you said your handyman had been murdered, my first thought was that Ryker had shown up.”

      Claire’s gaze dropped to the damp blotch on the floor while a sick feeling crept into her belly. “So, you think it should have been my throat that got slit, not Silas Smith’s.”

      Jackson knew she felt guilty enough without telling her she might be right. “I changed my mind about Ryker being the killer after you and I got in here and I saw that some of the stock had been disturbed. And how Smith’s throat had been cut.”

      “Why does that matter?”

      “Ryker wouldn’t have moved anything which might have tipped you that someone had broken in. He knows ten ways to kill without leaving blood you might spot. And he’d have hidden the handyman’s body. You’d have seen nothing down here that would have stopped you from going upstairs where Ryker would have waited for you. Nothing.”

      “Could the killer have been someone he sent?” Claire asked.

      “No, his wife and daughter’s deaths are personal. This is something he will deal with himself. I could be wrong, but I don’t think Smith’s murder has anything to do with Ryker.”

      “If you’re right, who killed poor Silas?”

      “While I’m here, I plan to try to find out.” After all, keeping busy was preferable to going slowly crazy, wanting what he could no longer have.

      As he’d done several times during the evening, Jackson flicked his gaze to Claire’s left hand. Her ringless left hand. “I imagine this is going to complicate things for you, but I need to stay here until Ryker’s caught. Before our search of your building I’d have suggested I bunk in the apartment across from yours where Charles lived. But since it’s now a storeroom and crammed full of inventory for the shop, it looks like your couch is the only place available.”

      When she lifted a hand to push back her hair, Jackson noted it wasn’t her usual casual gesture. It was a weary one. He heard that weariness in her voice when she said, “I want to tell you I don’t need you to stay here.”

      “Claire—”

      “I want to tell you that. Because your being here can’t help but make things awkward between us. We didn’t split up under the best of circumstances.”

      “Think maybe it’s because only one of us wanted to part ways?” he asked neutrally.

      “I couldn’t stay.” Her eyes remained steady on his, but her hands clenched tight. “I tried living in your world, Jackson, but it didn’t work. You know I tried. I couldn’t be what you wanted me to be.”

      My wife. Even after two years, he was never quite free from the drag of hurt that came when he thought about the last evening they’d spent together. He’d proposed. She’d said goodbye. End of story.

      “So, I want to tell you I don’t need you to stay here,” she repeated, her gaze returning to the floor. “But then I picture poor Silas with his slit throat. And I think about Garrett.…” Easing out a shaky breath, she remet his gaze. “I’m scared, Jackson. Terrified. I don’t want to be, but I am.”

      “I’d wonder about you if you weren’t,” he said, and stopped himself before his hand lifted to stroke the dark fall of her hair. “I won’t let Ryker get to you. You have my word.”

      “I’ll hold you to that.” Her smile was weak and didn’t last. “So, I hope for your sake my couch doesn’t have lumps.”

      “I bet it beats the straw mat I slept on recently in a shack in Sierra Leone,” he said.

      Nodding, she retrieved the rag and began wiping fingerprint powder off a leather hatbox. “I’m having a hard time accepting that all of this has happened,” she said after a moment. “That I’m not going to wake up in the morning and find out it hasn’t been a horrible nightmare.”

      Jackson wondered if she included his presence as part of that nightmare, but didn’t ask. “Wish I could tell you that’s all it is.”

      That was a lie. As grave as the situation was, he’d been looking for an excuse to see her again. Just see her, as if that might quell the ache of missing her that went on and on. But he hadn’t made a move because he’d believed certain avenues were closed to him.

      He took a step closer and breathed in a long, reckless drag of Chanel. “Claire, since you and I will be sharing space again for a time, there’s a question that comes to mind.”

      “What?”

      “I heard you were getting married.” He dropped his gaze to her left hand. “And had an engagement ring with a diamond the size of a gumdrop. Just curious why you’re not wearing it.”

      With Jackson having moved so close, Claire had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. When she did, his spicy male scent filled her lungs, rekindling memories best left in the past.

      At the moment, he was her greatest threat.

      “Who told you I’m getting married?”

      “Charles.” Jackson raised a shoulder. “You remember what a soft spot I developed for the old pirate during all those times he hammered me at poker?”

      “I remember.”

      “So, we’ve kept in touch. He mentions you now and then.”

      “Does he?” Claire kept her tone cool even as her temper built. Her surrogate grandfather had never once breathed a word about staying in contact with Jackson. And she would skin Charles McDougal alive for discussing her with the man with whom Charles knew she’d intentionally severed all ties.

      Jackson crossed his arms over his chest. “I seem to recall Charles said your fiancé is a banker?”

      “He