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Authors: Doranna Durgin
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Compton through her, she wanted that someone to have to go through a man like Devin James.
She’d been on the street, too. She knew what it took to survive.
She wasn’t expecting him to look straight at her, his gaze serious, to say, “I’m not what you need. You know that.”
No. She damned well didn’t.
“Maybe you should think about it,” Compton said, unreadable.
A flash of annoyance crossed Devin’s features, a brief lowering of his brow. “I’m glad I was able to help,” he said. “But you should—”
And he faltered. Not physically, despite the obvious strain, but his face showing brief struggle—a twitch of his lip, a narrowing of his eye, one shoulder jerking back in the faintest of movements.
Natalie felt it in him. She knew. One night of watching him fight it at its worse, and she knew.
She moved without thinking, closing the space between them to put a hand on Devin’s arm. He sucked in a breath, closing his eyes—she thought he leaned into her touch.
In a moment his gaze found Compton’s again. “You should find yourself another man.”
She couldn’t begin to understand the faint smile on Compton’s face. He said, “Natalie, it’s been a difficult time for you. Why don’t you take Mr. James home, and then take the rest of the day off. I suggest you spend the time here, of course, where we know it’s safe, but it’s entirely up to you.”
“I—” Natalie struggled to process all the surprises in those words. She gave Devin a dazed look of her own; he lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
A ride home. A day off. Fine.
Good.
Because suddenly she’d seen too much, and she knew too much without knowing nearly enough—and now she wanted answers.
She mustered her professional smile, the one that came with all the slightly formal manners she’d layered over her past. “Of course, Mr. Compton,” she said. “I’d be glad to. And thank you.” She waited for Devin to offer a hard little nod of acknowledgment to Compton, and let him precede her out the door.
She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.
The moment the door snicked closed behind him, he turned on her—a fast move that startled her up against the other side of the double door; he pushed up close, shattering any illusion of personal space. She gasped as he jammed a hand behind her neck—tangling in her hair, curving to encompass the side and back of her head, his thumb brushing her ear.
Not gentle.
Personal.
“What,” he said, not so very far away at all, brooding eyes full of demand and close enough to show the smudgy layered strokes of blue and gray iris, “was that?” And his hand tightened ever so slightly at the back of her head.
She could have slammed a fist into his injured arm. She could have jerked a knee up into his crotch. For all of that, she could have rammed her head into his nose.
But she did none of those things, and she didn’t look over to the entry security camera; she had no doubt Devin knew they were being watched. She narrowed her eyes and bit her lip, pulling in air—scents of stress and soap and something cinnamon. With tight control, she said, “You’re welcome.”
He held her gaze a moment longer, his own eyes narrowing. And then, abruptly, he laughed. That guileless expression, backed up with its borderline boyish grin. He laughed and he said, “Yeah, okay,” and then to her astonishment, he leaned in those last inches and kissed her forehead. “Guess we’ll see.”
And then he left her there, the cold air rushing in around her like a slap of reality, and helped himself to the passenger seat of her car.
* * *
Getting in the warm car was a mistake; sitting down was a mistake. The flush of heat rippled up Devin’s arm like a living thing, sinking talons into every stitch of puckered, healing skin.
Kissing her—that hadn’t been a mistake. Soft skin under his lips, the surprise on her face, blue eyes opened wide.
Impulse. Not always a bad thing.
Because that
She’d been on the street, too. She knew what it took to survive.
She wasn’t expecting him to look straight at her, his gaze serious, to say, “I’m not what you need. You know that.”
No. She damned well didn’t.
“Maybe you should think about it,” Compton said, unreadable.
A flash of annoyance crossed Devin’s features, a brief lowering of his brow. “I’m glad I was able to help,” he said. “But you should—”
And he faltered. Not physically, despite the obvious strain, but his face showing brief struggle—a twitch of his lip, a narrowing of his eye, one shoulder jerking back in the faintest of movements.
Natalie felt it in him. She knew. One night of watching him fight it at its worse, and she knew.
She moved without thinking, closing the space between them to put a hand on Devin’s arm. He sucked in a breath, closing his eyes—she thought he leaned into her touch.
In a moment his gaze found Compton’s again. “You should find yourself another man.”
She couldn’t begin to understand the faint smile on Compton’s face. He said, “Natalie, it’s been a difficult time for you. Why don’t you take Mr. James home, and then take the rest of the day off. I suggest you spend the time here, of course, where we know it’s safe, but it’s entirely up to you.”
“I—” Natalie struggled to process all the surprises in those words. She gave Devin a dazed look of her own; he lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
A ride home. A day off. Fine.
Good.
Because suddenly she’d seen too much, and she knew too much without knowing nearly enough—and now she wanted answers.
She mustered her professional smile, the one that came with all the slightly formal manners she’d layered over her past. “Of course, Mr. Compton,” she said. “I’d be glad to. And thank you.” She waited for Devin to offer a hard little nod of acknowledgment to Compton, and let him precede her out the door.
She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.
The moment the door snicked closed behind him, he turned on her—a fast move that startled her up against the other side of the double door; he pushed up close, shattering any illusion of personal space. She gasped as he jammed a hand behind her neck—tangling in her hair, curving to encompass the side and back of her head, his thumb brushing her ear.
Not gentle.
Personal.
“What,” he said, not so very far away at all, brooding eyes full of demand and close enough to show the smudgy layered strokes of blue and gray iris, “was that?” And his hand tightened ever so slightly at the back of her head.
She could have slammed a fist into his injured arm. She could have jerked a knee up into his crotch. For all of that, she could have rammed her head into his nose.
But she did none of those things, and she didn’t look over to the entry security camera; she had no doubt Devin knew they were being watched. She narrowed her eyes and bit her lip, pulling in air—scents of stress and soap and something cinnamon. With tight control, she said, “You’re welcome.”
He held her gaze a moment longer, his own eyes narrowing. And then, abruptly, he laughed. That guileless expression, backed up with its borderline boyish grin. He laughed and he said, “Yeah, okay,” and then to her astonishment, he leaned in those last inches and kissed her forehead. “Guess we’ll see.”
And then he left her there, the cold air rushing in around her like a slap of reality, and helped himself to the passenger seat of her car.
* * *
Getting in the warm car was a mistake; sitting down was a mistake. The flush of heat rippled up Devin’s arm like a living thing, sinking talons into every stitch of puckered, healing skin.
Kissing her—that hadn’t been a mistake. Soft skin under his lips, the surprise on her face, blue eyes opened wide.
Impulse. Not always a bad thing.
Because that
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