Page 38

His brows knit together, as if I’m some sort of puzzle placed in front of him. “You’re really something, you know that, dollface?”

“So I’ve been told,” I say, the words coming out in a whisper.

“I bet you have.”

Then he lets go and takes a step back, puffing on his cigarette. “So if you don’t want to sleep, then what do you want?”

There’s heat in his voice, something rough underneath the smooth exterior. A bit of his Chicago accent coming through.

“Something I can’t have.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Funny. You’re the type to get everything she wants.”

“Not quite.”

His eyes burn into mine, a muscle ticking along his jaw, as if he’s trying to compose himself, to hold himself back. Then he exhales, a cloud of smoke blurring his features, breaking the spell.

“Get some sleep,” he says again. “I’ll be up, working on the case. You’re safe here, Lena.” He pauses. “I promise you that.”

The protectiveness in his voice catches me off guard. There’s something endearing about his concern, even if I know I’m far more capable of defending myself than he realizes.

“You need your sleep, too,” I remind him. If he’s having blackouts due to stress, it seems like sleeping is one way to cure it.

“I know. Maybe I’ll join you.”

Then he strides over to the door, turning off the main light, leaving the room bathed in the warm glow of his desk lamp. He grabs a blanket that was hanging over the armchair and holds it out above me, motioning with a jerk of his chin for me to lie down.

I hesitate, feeling so damn vulnerable. Then I lie back along the couch as he drapes the blanket over me. My eyes fall closed.I let it happen, wanting to revel in the feeling of being taken care of, something I haven’t felt since I came to this city.

Before I can open them again, I drift off.

A poundingon the outer office door jerks me awake. Sometime during the night, Callahan must have sat at the end of the couch by my feet and slumped over into sleep, his head on my thigh, one arm above and draped over my waist. For a moment, I’m disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings and the comforting weight and heat of his hard, strong body against mine, as if he’s holding me in place as he slept.

Possessive.

The pounding continues, followed by a voice I recognize with a sinking heart.

“Callahan! Open the goddamn door. I know she’s in there.”

Marco.

Callahan is already alert, sitting up and reaching for his jacket, which contains his gun, I assume. “Stay here,” he says quietly.

“No,” I whisper, grabbing his arm. “Let me handle this.”

“Like hell.” His voice is low but firm. “That man is dangerous, Lena.”

“I’ve dealt with him before,” I reply, meeting his gaze steadily. “Let me try to defuse this.”

Something in my expression must convince him—or maybe I’m finally able to compel him—because after a moment he nods, though he still moves to position himself between me and the door as we enter the reception area.

Marco’s silhouette is visible through the frosted glass of the office door, broad-shouldered and menacing, although Callahan’s form matches his. Even though it would be horrible, for a wicked moment I envision a boxing match between the two of them, wanting to see Callahan at his most rough and dangerous.

Callahan unlocks the door and opens it just enough to reveal himself while keeping me partially shielded behind him.

“Russo,” he says coolly. “It’s not even seven a.m. Whatever business you have can wait for business hours.”

Marco’s face is flushed with anger, his eyes bloodshot. He’s been drinking, I realize—unusual for him this early in the day, though he probably hasn’t been to bed yet.