Page 65 of Guarding Grace

Several seconds of silence followed.

“Or, better yet, I think I’ll introduce you to my Australian spider collection. They say that if one of those bites you, the pain is so intense you wish you were dead.”

His words made me cringe, but neither of the men said anything. Sirens sounded in the distance.

“Winston, give Terry your keys and we’ll take these two to our guest quarters,” Lucas commanded. “Terry, get Grace out of here, now.”

A moment later, Terry took my hand and led me the long way around the wrecked car to Winston’s Porsche, shielding me from viewing the driver.

My pulse was still tripping a million beats a minute as we started off at a normal speed, which seemed so slow after that breakneck chase. My hand trembled uncontrollably.

“Are you okay?” Terry asked, a block away from the crash scene.

I nodded and put my hand under my thigh to hide the tremors. “Yeah, I guess,” I said after a moment when I got myself settled enough to talk. “I’m scared,” I admitted.

“Grace,” he said, placing his large hand on my thigh, “you can count on me. I will always do anything and everything to keep you safe. I promise you that.”

I nodded, feeling ashamed of my behavior with the gun. I thought it was good to help, but he didn’t agree. Hell, I knew what I was doing with a gun. Pete had seen to that.

Now I could see our arguments in different light. He’d been doing everything he’d just promised—telling me what was the safest path forward and insisting on it in his dictatorial manner. His approach lacked subtlety, but his words, “anything and everything to keep you safe,” summarized it all—he cared.

He squeezed my thigh in a reassuring way.

I added my other hand to hold his. I didn’t want to let go of this big, strong, grumpy, annoying, opinionated, caring, overprotective man.

“No more heroics. You’re doing exactly what I say,” he continued. “I’m done with your bitching. It doesn’t matter how much you complain. I’ll drag you by the fucking hair if I have to.” There it was again, the same old sensitive, considerate, soft-spoken Terry.

I laughed. “Oh my, Rambo, you say the sweetest things.” The big lug didn’t know a different way to say he cared.

He tried to pull his hand away, but I didn’t let him. Unwilling to admit just how scared I was after the conversation about the Albanians and being shot at, I held onto my rock, my anchor, my protector.

With every squeeze of his hand, I regretted more and more my earlier reaction to his protectiveness. How much of the angry and argumentative dynamic that we’d fallen into over the years had been my fault? Seemed like maybe a lot.

I looked at Terry in profile for the longest time. I’d always been attracted to the sexy man, but put off by his character. Why did it take being beaten up, almost kidnapped, Tasered, and shot at to see the admirable man beneath the gruff demeanor?

“What?” he demanded.

“Nothing. I’m just trying to see behind the mask to the nice guy underneath.”

He puffed out a breath and shook his head. “Maybe I need to take you back to the ER for another CAT scan. You, of all people, should know there’s nothing nice about me and never has been.”

There it was again, the attempt to push me away. What was it he’d said earlier?He’d never disliked me.

The man who’d vowed to protect me no matter what, didn’t hate me the way I’d always thought. So why had he always gone out of his way to anger me?

He slowed the car. We’d reached Marina del Rey. “I’m going to need my hand back to park.”

“Of course.” I released my grip, feeling a bit self-conscious.

We were in front of an Ironman Fitness. He reached for the sun visor, pressed a clicker, and a garage door next to the gym opened.

“I’ve always known you worked out, but I never imagined you lived in a gym,” I joked.

“Not in, above,” he clarified. “Lucas owns the building. He sold me a ten-percent interest, and with that I get the apartment.”

He pulled into the garage, parking alongside an old Mustang with its hood up and a huge motorcycle. Not being a gearhead, I couldn’t tell much more than that. The door closed behind us, and the noise of the street receded. He led me upstairs where he opened a fancy electronic lock with a palm scan.

His home wowed me. It was light and spacious. No, spacious didn’t do it justice. It was huge, with a view of the boat harbor and even a terrace. “This is gorgeous. How can you possibly call this sublime space an apartment? It’s larger than a lot of homes in this town.” It was no bungalow. This much space in Marina del Rey spelled money.