she pulled away and vanished into the throng of partygoers.
Liam suppressed a growl and took off after her.
Wallace Clark was going to have his revenge yet.
* * *
The cold bit into Jess the second she walked outside. She lifted her chin and turned down the sidewalk, appreciative of the revitalization of her senses. She needed to be sharp like the wind. She needed air. She needed space.
She needed away from the swarming crowd pressing her against Armstrong’s hard body.
Irritation flashed through her. Her head pounded and her stomach roiled, but through the haze, she remembered a low masculine roar as she hit the ground, the sight of Armstrong dropping to her side, the feel of him cradling her in his lap.
For such a hard man, he had unbearably gentle hands.
The memory burned.
The lethargic way his touch made her feel burned even more.
She was a cop, damn it. Hard, focused, objective. He was a man whose daughter was missing, a man her father went to his grave believing belonged behind bars.
Jess knew the danger of thinking of him in any other light. She wished she hadn’t seen him this afternoon in nothing but ratty gym shorts. She wished he hadn’t forfeited his chance of going after Braxton in favor of tending to her. She wished he hadn’t touched her, showed her a seductive glimpse of a compassionate man behind the hardened exterior.
God help her, she wished she’d stayed in bed.
“Running from me, Detective?”
The rough-hewn masculine voice revved through her like a bolt of raw electricity. She kept her stride brisk, her gaze focused on the antics of three young men at the end of the street. “Don’t flatter yourself, Armstrong.”
He surprised her by laughing. “Ah, there she is,” he mocked, settling his hand at the small of her back. “Welcome back, Jessica.”
She flinched at his touch, the use of her first name. Picking up her pace, she glared at him. “What are you doing?”
An overly gallant smile touched his mouth. “Making sure you don’t take another tumble.”
“I’m fine,” she said, this time with more conviction. Damn it, where was the stone man from the night before?
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Jess drew a deep breath, enjoying the affirming sting of the cold air. She eased it out, noting the cloud of vapor. Below freezing, she guessed, despite how warm she felt.
Armstrong fell into step beside her. He still wore the knit cap, still sported the diamond earring, a dark trench coat still covered his body. Odd that he could appear bohemian and dangerous at the same time.
She tried not to look at him, didn’t want to see his profile, but the cop in her couldn’t stop assessing. In William Armstrong’s penetrating blue eyes she saw intelligence. In the set of his jaw and hard line of his mouth, she recognized determination. In the broad expanse of his shoulders, she found strength.
What must he be going through? she wondered, then berated herself for doing so. He was a case; that was all.
Emotions didn’t enter the equation.
She turned abruptly down an alley between two nightclubs. The sudden movement sent her head reeling, but she blocked the reaction, not wanting him to spring to her aid once again.
Too late. “Jessica?” he asked, reaching out to steady her.
She ignored the feel of his hand on her shoulder, the question in his gaze. Instead she imagined herself in an interrogation room. She saw herself standing before a table, leaning forward with her palms down. She pictured Armstrong seated before her, a single lightbulb glaring down on him.
Familiarity flowed through her, and she felt a slow smile touch her lips. She flinched at the pull against tender flesh, automatically raising her hand to the corner of her mouth. But she didn’t back down.
“It’s just you and me now, Armstrong.”
He cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “That it is,” he said. “What are you going to do about it?” he asked darkly, but there was a hint of
Liam suppressed a growl and took off after her.
Wallace Clark was going to have his revenge yet.
* * *
The cold bit into Jess the second she walked outside. She lifted her chin and turned down the sidewalk, appreciative of the revitalization of her senses. She needed to be sharp like the wind. She needed air. She needed space.
She needed away from the swarming crowd pressing her against Armstrong’s hard body.
Irritation flashed through her. Her head pounded and her stomach roiled, but through the haze, she remembered a low masculine roar as she hit the ground, the sight of Armstrong dropping to her side, the feel of him cradling her in his lap.
For such a hard man, he had unbearably gentle hands.
The memory burned.
The lethargic way his touch made her feel burned even more.
She was a cop, damn it. Hard, focused, objective. He was a man whose daughter was missing, a man her father went to his grave believing belonged behind bars.
Jess knew the danger of thinking of him in any other light. She wished she hadn’t seen him this afternoon in nothing but ratty gym shorts. She wished he hadn’t forfeited his chance of going after Braxton in favor of tending to her. She wished he hadn’t touched her, showed her a seductive glimpse of a compassionate man behind the hardened exterior.
God help her, she wished she’d stayed in bed.
“Running from me, Detective?”
The rough-hewn masculine voice revved through her like a bolt of raw electricity. She kept her stride brisk, her gaze focused on the antics of three young men at the end of the street. “Don’t flatter yourself, Armstrong.”
He surprised her by laughing. “Ah, there she is,” he mocked, settling his hand at the small of her back. “Welcome back, Jessica.”
She flinched at his touch, the use of her first name. Picking up her pace, she glared at him. “What are you doing?”
An overly gallant smile touched his mouth. “Making sure you don’t take another tumble.”
“I’m fine,” she said, this time with more conviction. Damn it, where was the stone man from the night before?
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Jess drew a deep breath, enjoying the affirming sting of the cold air. She eased it out, noting the cloud of vapor. Below freezing, she guessed, despite how warm she felt.
Armstrong fell into step beside her. He still wore the knit cap, still sported the diamond earring, a dark trench coat still covered his body. Odd that he could appear bohemian and dangerous at the same time.
She tried not to look at him, didn’t want to see his profile, but the cop in her couldn’t stop assessing. In William Armstrong’s penetrating blue eyes she saw intelligence. In the set of his jaw and hard line of his mouth, she recognized determination. In the broad expanse of his shoulders, she found strength.
What must he be going through? she wondered, then berated herself for doing so. He was a case; that was all.
Emotions didn’t enter the equation.
She turned abruptly down an alley between two nightclubs. The sudden movement sent her head reeling, but she blocked the reaction, not wanting him to spring to her aid once again.
Too late. “Jessica?” he asked, reaching out to steady her.
She ignored the feel of his hand on her shoulder, the question in his gaze. Instead she imagined herself in an interrogation room. She saw herself standing before a table, leaning forward with her palms down. She pictured Armstrong seated before her, a single lightbulb glaring down on him.
Familiarity flowed through her, and she felt a slow smile touch her lips. She flinched at the pull against tender flesh, automatically raising her hand to the corner of her mouth. But she didn’t back down.
“It’s just you and me now, Armstrong.”
He cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “That it is,” he said. “What are you going to do about it?” he asked darkly, but there was a hint of
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