She’d just had one of the worst days a body could have, and it wasn’t over yet because, much as he wanted to let her rest and recover, Riehl was going to have to question her. He should be thinking about what he could do to help her out, not how she would taste, how she would feel writhing under him as he drove into her elegant body.
Speaking of what he could do to help. He moved to the kitchen. A tea kettle sat on a gas stove. He filled it with water and set the burner to high, then opened and shut cabinets until he found her tea supplies. That was where he got lost—she had so many weird teas he had no idea what to pick out. They were sitting in her cupboard, so she had to like all of them, right? He grabbed a box at random and prepared a mug, and when the kettle emitted a piercing whistle, he poured boiling water into it.
He knew the moment she stepped into the doorway to watch him, but he made himself take his time as he turned to look at her. She wore soft gray flannel pants, a loose, blue cable-knit sweater with the edge of an old white t-shirt peeking at the neckline, and house slippers. He was glad to see she had decided to get comfortable and knew he had made the right decision to bring her home. She looked calmer but still so sad, it wrung at his old battle-hardened heart.
He said, his voice gruff, “You were so chilled, I put the fire on and thought you might like something hot to drink.”
She glanced at the mug and the kettle warming on the stove, and her expression softened into a gentle gratitude of such sweetness, it slipped past every cynical barrier he had ever constructed to keep the world separate from himself.
“Thank you,” she said.
He gave her a curt nod as he fought to keep his feet in a world that had gone reeling.
The world had tilted on its axis.
And she was his true north.
Chapter Three
Hearth
Alice stared at the powerfully built man in her kitchen and fought the urge to twist her fingers together. His face was marked with rough lines and stamped with an edged maturity that could, from one moment to the next, turn dangerous. There was no softness anywhere in his features. They showed he had gone to many places and seen unimaginable things, and faced them all with intelligent, competent composure, and he didn’t know what it meant to give up.
His presence spiced the air with exoticism and turned her familiar surroundings strange. She had thought her peaceful two-bedroom apartment was spacious, but somehow he filled the entire place up with his strong male energy. It bathed her tired senses with vitality and a renewed sense of purpose.
He had worn just a faded black t-shirt under the leather jacket. The cotton stretched taut at the bulging biceps and deltoids in his upper arms, and strained across the heavy width of his pectorals. He wore a gun in a shoulder holster. Her gaze snagged on it. For long moments she couldn’t look away from the weapon.
As she had left her bedroom, she had noted with disconcertment that he certainly knew how to make himself at home without being invited. He had turned on the fireplace and was making tea.
Then he had looked up at her, and his icy blue gaze speared right through her. She would have said it was impossible, but that frighteningly ruthless face of his gentled, and she felt all her insides turn to mush. When he told her the fire and the tea were for her, it was the last thing in the world she expected to hear him say. She had to press her lips together hard to keep her mouth from quivering.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked. “More comfortable, at least?”
The sound of his deep, rough-and-tumble voice rubbed along her skin. The tiny hairs along her arms rose. She nodded wordlessly.
He continued. “Where do you want to sit, in the living room in front of the fire, or at your table?”
Still wordless, she indicated the dining table. He carried the mug over, set it on the table and held a chair out for her. She eased gingerly into it as she asked, “You’re not having any?”
He gave her a sideways glance that revealed a hint of roguish charm so potent it hit her point-blank between the eyes. “I’m not a tea drinker.”
Devastated at the intensity of her reaction to him, she swiveled her gaze downward in the direction of the mug and blinked at it blindly. She wrapped cold fingers around its welcome warmth and cleared her throat. “I have beer and soft drinks in the fridge, if you’d like something to drink.”
“I’m good for now, thanks.” He took the chair opposite hers and leaned his elbows on the table. He said quietly, “You do realize I’ve got to ask you some tough questions now, don’t you?”
She nodded. “Ask me anything you need to, Detective.”
“Hey.” He ducked his head, trying to catch her gaze, and she let him. He gave her a quick, coaxing smile. “Please call me Gideon.”