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Authors: Doranna Durgin
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didn’t seem to be overly impressed. “Nice place,” he said, without glancing at it beyond a cursory check of doorways and corners and shadows.
“Mr. James. I’m pleased to thank you in person.” Compton had his smooth persona on, no doubt about that.
Devin didn’t seem much impressed by that, either. “I’m glad I could help. But I actually had plans for today, so...”
Compton ignored the blunt nature of those words. “I should think you would want to rest after last night. I understand you were hurt.”
Devin stiffened slightly—not, she thought, at the suggestion of weakness, but because he simply didn’t want anyone to know how quickly he’d gone from bleeding out to healing up. And indeed, he said, “Barely,” and shrugged as if that would make it so.
“Then I won’t waste your time.” Compton strode smoothly for the staircase, trotting down the slightly curving length of it to emerge at the back of the room. Natalie took a step to meet him, realized that Devin intended to wait, and hesitated.
She did not feel so full of choices any longer.
She felt, in fact, caught up in an oddly disjointed war of responsibility. Of loyalty.
But that was absurd.
Maybe that’s why she did take that final step forward as Compton arrived before them. Trying to create a buffer between them—for just which of them, she wasn’t sure. Compton, who had not seen this man fight the night before and who now pushed at him, trying to define him by his reactions as he always did. Or Devin, who could not possibly be prepared for Compton’s ruthless nature and who still, in fact, wavered in the wake of the night they’d spent.
“Mr. James,” Compton said. “There are those who would bring me down, and they’re especially...let’s call it annoyed... at the moment. This makes them rash.” He stopped, watching for Devin’s reaction—analyzing his every twitch of mouth, his faintest shift of weight, and doing it without any attempt to pretend that he wasn’t.
Devin didn’t give him much. He watched Natalie, not Sawyer Compton. She felt the flush of it on her cheeks.
“The point,” said Compton, just a little bit more loudly, “is that I don’t think the attack on Natalie was a coincidence.”
“No,” Devin said, surprising her. “Neither do I.”
“What?” She turned a startled look on him—couldn’t quite figure out why she felt betrayed.
Maybe because this was just a little bit important. And he hadn’t said a thing about it.
Now he looked at Compton. “However she ended up at a dead-end address, those men were targeting her. They weren’t drunk or on drugs, and they weren’t run-of-the-mill dumbasses.”
“So, then,” Compton said, brows raised. “I’ve chosen well.”
He— what?
Devin looked at Natalie. “Call me a cab, will you? I’ll go wait on the street.”
She stiffened in protest. Out in the cold, with only the sweatshirt, still pale from blood loss, his hand jammed into his pocket to hide the way the arm pained him? “Devin—”
“All right,” Compton said. “No games. I can respect that. I want you to work for me, Mr. James. I want you to stay by Natalie’s side these next weeks, while I conclude the particular business in which I’m involved.”
Devin glanced at her. “You should get someone. But someone who isn’t me. I’m not pro, I’m streets.”
“You’re effective,” Compton pointed out.
More than you’ve guessed, Natalie thought at him, and realized for the first time that she had no intention of telling Compton that two men had died the night before.
“It’s not a good idea,” Devin said, with evident amusement at Compton’s persistence.
Not a good idea? Why not a good idea? Because of what she’d seen? What she knew? Because she’d been in his inner sanctum and seen him hurt and seen him just a little bit crazy?
Because what if she wanted the kind of protection he could offer?
She wasn’t a fool. If someone wanted to reach Sawyer
“Mr. James. I’m pleased to thank you in person.” Compton had his smooth persona on, no doubt about that.
Devin didn’t seem much impressed by that, either. “I’m glad I could help. But I actually had plans for today, so...”
Compton ignored the blunt nature of those words. “I should think you would want to rest after last night. I understand you were hurt.”
Devin stiffened slightly—not, she thought, at the suggestion of weakness, but because he simply didn’t want anyone to know how quickly he’d gone from bleeding out to healing up. And indeed, he said, “Barely,” and shrugged as if that would make it so.
“Then I won’t waste your time.” Compton strode smoothly for the staircase, trotting down the slightly curving length of it to emerge at the back of the room. Natalie took a step to meet him, realized that Devin intended to wait, and hesitated.
She did not feel so full of choices any longer.
She felt, in fact, caught up in an oddly disjointed war of responsibility. Of loyalty.
But that was absurd.
Maybe that’s why she did take that final step forward as Compton arrived before them. Trying to create a buffer between them—for just which of them, she wasn’t sure. Compton, who had not seen this man fight the night before and who now pushed at him, trying to define him by his reactions as he always did. Or Devin, who could not possibly be prepared for Compton’s ruthless nature and who still, in fact, wavered in the wake of the night they’d spent.
“Mr. James,” Compton said. “There are those who would bring me down, and they’re especially...let’s call it annoyed... at the moment. This makes them rash.” He stopped, watching for Devin’s reaction—analyzing his every twitch of mouth, his faintest shift of weight, and doing it without any attempt to pretend that he wasn’t.
Devin didn’t give him much. He watched Natalie, not Sawyer Compton. She felt the flush of it on her cheeks.
“The point,” said Compton, just a little bit more loudly, “is that I don’t think the attack on Natalie was a coincidence.”
“No,” Devin said, surprising her. “Neither do I.”
“What?” She turned a startled look on him—couldn’t quite figure out why she felt betrayed.
Maybe because this was just a little bit important. And he hadn’t said a thing about it.
Now he looked at Compton. “However she ended up at a dead-end address, those men were targeting her. They weren’t drunk or on drugs, and they weren’t run-of-the-mill dumbasses.”
“So, then,” Compton said, brows raised. “I’ve chosen well.”
He— what?
Devin looked at Natalie. “Call me a cab, will you? I’ll go wait on the street.”
She stiffened in protest. Out in the cold, with only the sweatshirt, still pale from blood loss, his hand jammed into his pocket to hide the way the arm pained him? “Devin—”
“All right,” Compton said. “No games. I can respect that. I want you to work for me, Mr. James. I want you to stay by Natalie’s side these next weeks, while I conclude the particular business in which I’m involved.”
Devin glanced at her. “You should get someone. But someone who isn’t me. I’m not pro, I’m streets.”
“You’re effective,” Compton pointed out.
More than you’ve guessed, Natalie thought at him, and realized for the first time that she had no intention of telling Compton that two men had died the night before.
“It’s not a good idea,” Devin said, with evident amusement at Compton’s persistence.
Not a good idea? Why not a good idea? Because of what she’d seen? What she knew? Because she’d been in his inner sanctum and seen him hurt and seen him just a little bit crazy?
Because what if she wanted the kind of protection he could offer?
She wasn’t a fool. If someone wanted to reach Sawyer
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