She turned and stared at the wall, feeling angry and confused and frustrated all at the same time. She thought about all the lonely, restless nights she'd endured over the past month. She'd never minded sleeping by herself before, but that had changed recently. She'd felt so alone. All those endless hours in that cramped little room at the back of the inn. No TV. No friends. Nothing to keep her company besides books and yoga and her depressing thoughts.

She didn't want to run.

She didn't want to spend every day looking over her shoulder.

In Austin she'd felt terrified, but in Silver Creek she'd felt isolated beyond belief. Alienated from everyone and everything around her.

Empty.

And when Will had shown up, she'd felt a deep, drowning sense of pure relief that someone cared enough to come. She'd felt wanted, for the first time in her life, and now she was terrified for a new reason.

He'd come for her.

He was angry, and hurt, and probably humiliated, but he'd come anyway. And it wasn't about his job. She knew that. If this were official police business, he would have come with a local sheriff or maybe sent a bounty hunter.

But he'd come by himself. For her. And now he planned to force her back to Texas to face all her worst fears.

He must know about Walter.

Fiona had said she thought that's what the arrest warrant was about-Walter's unsolved murder and her presumed involvement. If she'd killed one man, why not two?

And if Will knew about Walter, he knew about her past. And if he knew about her past, he knew about her record, maybe even the juvenile stuff that was supposed to be sealed. And if he knew about all that, it was even more astonishing-and more terrifying-that he was here now, conked out beside her in some dumpy motel room.

"Hey." His voice was husky.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and glanced over at him. "Hey, what?"

His eyes were dark and luminous in the bluish light. His brow furrowed. "Are you crying?"

She turned away and pressed her cheek into the pillow. She was crying. She didn't know why. She didn't want to try to explain, either.

His arm tightened around her waist and pulled her closer. He pressed a kiss against her shoulder, and she tensed.

A kiss. It was almost like a truce. It was a peace offering. She turned toward him, and then his mouth was against hers, and it tasted so good, she wanted to drink him in. His cuffed hand was pressed awkwardly between them, but his free hand reached for her cheek and slid into her hair. She wedged her leg between his and scooted herself closer, close enough to feel that hard body from her thighs to her breasts.

He wanted her.

He didn't want to sleep; he wanted her. The knowledge made her thrilled and scared and giddy all at the same time. Whatever had happened, whatever she'd done, this man wanted her, right here, this instant. She kissed him and pressed into him. She breathed in his warm, male scent until the pain in her chest eased and the loneliness of the past four weeks faded away.

He rolled onto his back and sighed. He muttered a curse under his breath as he dug something from his pocket, and then she heard the snick of the handcuffs coming off. She was free again.

"I'm going to regret this," he said quietly to the ceiling.

She propped on her elbow and gazed down at him. "Why?"

Instead of answering, he reached over and hauled her on top of him. All her breath whooshed out, and she barely had time to catch it before he reached up and pulled her head down to his.

He made her dizzy. One hand tunneled into her hair and the other gripped her bottom, pulling her against him while he kissed her until there was nothing but his mouth and his steely body beneath her. He tasted like him, and she hadn't known how much she'd missed it until just this moment.

And then he sat up, and she started to fall back, but he caught her around the waist. She nestled onto his lap, and his eyes went black, and he pulled her cotton tank top over her head and tossed it on the floor. And then he was kissing her again, taking away all her breath and all her thoughts except him. He felt so good-his mouth and his hands, even the scrape of his beard against the tender swell of her breast was like heaven. She tipped her head back and shivered at the pleasure of it. They were here. Together. It still didn't quite feel real, but it was real. Her fingers in his hair were real. His palms sliding over her thighs were real. His mouth against her throat was good and hot and very real.

"I missed you," she whispered, and then he pulled back and looked at her, and she felt a rush of panic. She shouldn't have said that. It was too close to what she wanted to say, and he knew.

But then everything shifted suddenly, and she was on her back with him staring down at her. She wrapped her legs around him and arched against him, and he groaned, and she knew he wasn't thinking about words anymore.

And then it was a wrestling match, only not really because it wasn't a contest, but a frantic race to the same finish. There was something fierce about him, and even angry, as they pulled and clutched at each other, jerking and yanking on clothes until everything was a heap on the floor, and their skin was slick against each other's and they were fused together in every possible way.

"Look at me."

His voice was like a growl, and she opened her eyes and gazed up at him, wondering at the tension in his face and his shoulders as he rocked into her. He was trying to say something, something with his body, something he didn't have the words for, as he drove himself into her. And then she was shaking and shattering, her whole world breaking apart, as the full, brutal force of it hit her.

CHAPTER 22.

He rolled off her, onto his back, and she stared at him in the darkness as reality sank in. He loved her...or something. That's what this was about. That's why he'd come all this way. His chest rose and fell in the dimness as his breath came back, but he didn't look at her. Finally, he got up and ducked into the bathroom.

She gazed at the ceiling. Her heart hammered, and her lungs seemed to shrink, like she was having a panic attack, only she didn't know for sure because she'd never had one before. She glanced at the nightstand, where he'd left his keys. She glanced at the door, where he'd secured the chain. She bit her lip and wondered how long it would take him to drift off again.

"Don't even think about it."

He stood in the bathroom doorway, gazing down at her, his shadow huge and intimidating. Or it would be to most people. She wasn't intimidated because she knew he'd never lay a hand on her.

"Think about what?" she asked.

"Taking off." He pulled back the sheets and blankets and slid into bed, then lifted her legs and pulled her under the covers with him. The sheets felt cool, and his body was warm as he tucked her head against his chest.

He knew she wanted to run. Did he know she felt panicked, too? Did he know why? Her heart was beating a million miles an hour. Maybe he could hear it right there in the dark.

He stroked a hand down her back and up. Then down, then back up to tangle in her hair. She'd cut it chin-length, which was a completely new style for her. She'd had long hair since high school.

"Blond, huh?"

She closed her eyes and tried to think only about his fingers in her hair. "Uh-huh."

He pressed a kiss against the top of her head, but didn't comment.

"You don't like blondes?"

"Not particularly."

"All guys like blondes. It's a proven fact."

He shrugged. "I like redheads."

She smiled in the darkness and felt herself relax. The slow, steady beat of his heart against her ear was helping. This felt good. Friendly. She could worry about the other stuff later.

His hand trailed down her back again, and she sighed.

"Courtney?" His voice was low.

"Hmm?"

"You don't need to be scared."

She tensed. "Scared?"

"Of tomorrow."

"What happens tomorrow?"

His hand settled on her hip. "We get back to Austin."

The panic was back, full force, and she sat up. The sheet dropped, and she pulled it up to cover herself. "How can you be sure?"

He watched her calmly. "Because I can."

"Can you control your lieutenant? Can you control some assassins who want to kill me?"

God, what was she doing here? She eyed the keys again and tried to think of a way out.

He sat up and leaned back against the headboard. "I can't control anyone but me. And I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."

"But they could still arrest me and put me in jail, right? If they run out of suspects? They think I'm a murderer, Will."

He pulled her against his chest and wrapped his arms around her. "Everybody knows you didn't kill Alvin."

"I didn't kill anyone! I didn't kill Walter, either."

His arms tightened. "I wouldn't blame you if you had."

"I didn't."

"I know."

And then it got quiet, and the only sound was their breathing and the soft hum of the vending machine outside their door. He knew. He knew everything about her, and he was here anyway. It didn't make sense.

And she knew he meant what he said about protecting her, but that might not be enough. He couldn't control a whole police department. He couldn't control a team of killers. The stakes were high-millions of dollars high-and way too many people would be much better off with her dead.

"Stop worrying," he whispered. He laced his fingers through hers and rested their hands on his lap, on top of the blanket. She turned his hand over and looked at it. She traced the jagged silver scar across his palm. She trailed her finger up to the one at his wrist.

"It's from bone fragments."

She looked up at him.

"It happened in Afghanistan."

She gazed back down at his hand, puzzled now.

He cleared his throat. "It was one of those crazy days. Everything was fine, but then it all went to shit, all at once, before you could even react. One minute was routine, and the next was this bloodbath."

She didn't say anything. In an odd way, she could relate. The day David died had started out so normal, and then everything turned upside down.

"It was the end of the tour," he said. "That was the worst part. Twelve fucking days left."

He paused, and she could feel his muscles tighten. She waited.

"We were on this pass through the mountains. Real narrow, you know? Not much more than an animal trail, really, but it was the quickest way through. We'd been over it a couple times. Locals used it. Everything seemed fine, and then boom."

"You got shot?"

"Land mine. Two, actually. Guys up front took the brunt of it. I was in back, humping extra gear, but it knocked me right off my feet. Just picked me up and dropped me flat on my ass."

He stopped again, and she held his hand, running her thumb over the scar.

"Dust was everywhere, guys screaming to get down, get cover. Then bullets were flying. It was an ambush. Soon as I could move, I got behind a rock and returned fire. Then I looked off to my right and saw Denton-this guy from Mississippi, twenty-three. He was lying there in the dirt, bleeding like a faucet. His whole leg was gone, and he was just lying there, not ten yards away."

She squeezed his hand. "What happened?"

"I made a run for it. Grabbed him and dragged him behind some rocks. It was bad, though. The blood was pumping out. I tried to get a tourniquet around it, but there wasn't much left to secure it to, so I just started pressing on the wound, stuffing anything I could in there, bandages, clothes, whatever I could get my hands on. Blood seeped through all of it, but I just kept pressing and plunging my hand in there, trying to get the blood to stop. Whole time, he's screaming at me to just let him bleed out. He can't go home without his leg."

"Did you let him?"

"No. It seemed like forever, but finally we got some air cover. We got a chopper in there, got our team the hell out before it could get any worse. Not that it could, really. Out of six guys, we'd just lost three, plus Denton's leg."

"He made it back?"

"Thanks to me." Will's voice sounded bitter. "Got a great homecoming, too. Came back just in time to find out his wife was seeing someone else, had already filed for divorce."

"That's awful."

He shrugged. "Happens a lot. The stress. The absence. It puts a lot on a marriage."

She looked down at their hands now, and had so many questions, but she didn't want to ask them yet. She wondered why he'd signed up for a job like that.

"Are you glad you're back now?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes it's weird. Everything's so nice over here, and people don't even realize it. They take it for granted." His chest lifted, and he let out a deep sigh. "I'm glad to be away from all the killing, though. It gets to you. I can't explain it. It's like you get numb to it. I never wanted to be numb. That's why I didn't re-up."

"So why'd you decide to be a cop?"

He glanced down at her. "A detective. I set out to be a homicide detective, not just a cop."