Laura Kaye - Hard As It Gets

Shit, shit, shit. So not helpful, Bec.

But likely true.

Squeeeeak.

Oh, God. That’s the fourth step from the top. Get out now!

Holding her breath, she slipped her cell into her pocket and approached the door. The minute she opened it, the noise would tell the intruder exactly what was going on. In case he pursued, she’d have to move fast and not look back. A plan took shape—out the door, down the steps, run to the sidewalk and then back toward the alley. Then she’d just keep running until she found a place to hide or heard sirens.

It was possible she was going to have a heart attack first, the way the damn thing was booming against her sternum.

She reached for the doorknob.

It started turning on its own.

For a split second, her brain couldn’t process the information.

And then it did. Someone was coming in the back door. She was trapped.

It all happened in a blur.

The door eased open. A man all in black stepped out of the darkness with a gun.

Becca swallowed her scream and lunged with the knife.

Light reflecting off steel.

That was all the notice Rixey had that something sharp and bladed was coming his way.

He holstered his gun with his right hand and reared back as he caught her striking wrist in his left. He forced her hand backward over her shoulder, the position bending her over the sink. The pressure on her joints loosened her grip, and he whipped the knife from her fingers and clamped a hand down on her mouth, his body holding hers in place.

“Sshh, Becca, it’s Nick Rixey. Someone’s in your house,” he whispered, lips against her ear. Her pulse beat against his skin everywhere they touched. “I’m gonna let you go, but stay quiet.”

She nodded, her breath puffing fast over his knuckles.

Dropping his hands, he eased off her. Her eyes were wide blue saucers in her face, and her pulse visibly jumped on the side of her throat. Distrust poured from her gaze as it raked over his face, but then she pointed a shaking finger toward the arch that led to the next room and mouthed, On the steps.

“Stay here,” he whispered, pushing the knife back into her palm to give her a sense of security. He was going to do his best to make sure she didn’t need it. Gun in hand, he sidled up to the wall where the kitchen met the dining room. In a smooth set of motions, he swept his gaze and his gun over the room, clearing it.

A snick sounded ahead of him, followed by a rattle. The door.

Leading with his gun, Rixey followed the sound in time to see someone jet out the front door. He bolted in pursuit. He reached the stoop just as a body dove into the back of a dark-colored sedan sans lights. Tires squealing, the car sped down the one-way street, ignored the stop sign, and careened around the corner.

Sonofabitch.

Rixey secured the front door, eyeballed the dark stairs, and hustled back to the kitchen. “It’s Nick,” he said before he turned the corner. Didn’t want to have to dodge that butcher knife again.

Air whooshed out of her as she lowered her hands, her knuckles white around the hilt of the weapon. “Gone?” she said, her voice little more than breath.

“Someone left out the front door, but I haven’t cleared the rest of the house.” She smoothed back wisps of hair that had fallen loose from her ponytail. The movement drew his gaze to a mark on her temple, and ice crawled down his spine. “What happened to your face?”

She fingered the angry red scrape, barely touching it, as if it was as tender as it looked. “Long story.”

Later. Becca would tell him that story later. Along with the rest of it. Everything he hadn’t let her say when she’d first come to him at Hard Ink yesterday. Guilt flooded acid into his gut. Jeremy’s assessment was right. He was a dick. And worse. Had he given Becca a chance, she wouldn’t have been standing there hurt, scared, and clutching a knife like it was the only thing that stood between her and the great white beyond.

She blew out another breath, and her muscles went all loose. She turned, dropped the blade, and bent her toned body over the counter, elbows on the laminate surface and shaking hands holding her head. “Holy shit,” she rasped. “Okay. Okay.”

His gaze skated down the arch of her back and landed on the round swell of her ass, jutting out toward him. The thin material of the green scrubs left little of her curves to the imagination. His fingers twitched and his cock stirred with interest.

Which was wrong on about forty-seven levels.

“How is it that you arrived to my house right when the intruder was here?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.

Rixey didn’t blame her for the distrust he saw in her still-wide gaze. “I should’ve listened yesterday, and I’m sorry I didn’t. I decided to keep an eye out for a day or two. Make sure you were safe.” Which, of course, she wasn’t. Had something happened, that would’ve been on him.

A series of emotions flitted over her expression. “So, you’ve been . . . watching me?”

Aw shit, in for a pound . . . “Basic surveillance. But, generally, yeah.”

For a long moment, she didn’t say anything, just seemed to study his face. Would be perfectly within her rights to come at him with all kinds of accusations, and he’d have to take that shit lying down. “You were on my dad’s Special Forces team?”

Rixey schooled his expression. “For five years.”

After another moment, she nodded. “Well, thank you. I’m glad you’re here.”

Twin reactions coursed through him. Admiration that she’d taken the high road when no one would’ve begrudged her a bitch fit, including him. And irritation that she’d apparently just used her father as a way of measuring his trustworthiness. The fucking irony. “Look, I should clear the house. The way he bugged out, probably no one else here, but I should make sure.”

She stood, hands braced on the counter, and nodded. “Okay. What do you want me to do? I have a gun, but it’s up in my bedroom.”

Sweet, innocent-looking Becca had a gun?

Sirens echoed off the buildings in the distance. Becca’s eyes went wide, and she shot to the other counter and grabbed the phone receiver lying beside its base. “Hello? Hello?” She sagged and lowered it to its cradle. A shrill screech sounded right out front, and red lights flickered off the dim dining room walls. “I called nine-one-one. When I first realized someone else was here.”

“That’s good.” Rixey holstered his weapon and zipped his jacket.

She’d called for help. Armed and defended herself. And held it together when help arrived. Smart fucking girl. Becca clasped her hands on top of her head, heaving another deep breath that drew his gaze to the lift and fall of her breasts. Make that woman. Jesus.

“Come on,” he said, leading the way to the door just as the knocking commenced. He glared up the steps, his nerves rankling to have uncleared spaces at his back, as Becca jogged to the door and pulled it open.

“Thank you for coming,” she said to the pair of uniforms standing on the other side. “There was an intruder, but he ran out this door just a few minutes ago.” The cops urged them outside onto the stoop as a second squad car arrived. The new uniforms went through the house to secure the scene and ensure no one else remained inside. She answered the officers’ basic questions about her identity and the incident.

Rixey eyeballed the street in both directions. Realizing they weren’t needed, the EMTs were reloading their equipment onto the back of their rig. Here and there, neighbors gawked on stoops.

“And who are you?” one of the cops asked.

He turned his attention to the conversation. “Nick Rixey. Friend of the family,” he said, managing not to choke on the word friend. Once, it had been damn true. Frank Merritt had been more than a mentor; he’d become a friend and confidant. Right before the old man had violated every principle they’d ever held dear: loyalty, trust, integrity, honor.

“Nick’s a friend of my late father’s. They fought in Afghanistan together,” Becca said, the casual familiarity of her words aggravating him. She didn’t know shit about him or what had happened in Afghanistan. The Army had made damn sure of that.

“Oh, yeah? I was there in ’06 and ’07. Marines. Reserves, now. You?” Cop was late twenties. Stocky. Hair high and tight. Shoulda guessed he was a jarhead.

“Army Special Forces. Whoever broke in picked the lock on the back door,” Nick said, steering the conversation back where it belonged.

“Crime scene techs will be here soon. They’ll give the place a full once-over,” the Marine-cop said.

“Soon” turned out to be thirty minutes later. Two more uniforms carrying briefcases of gear disappeared inside. Nick’s gut said Becca shouldn’t be standing out there in the open, but there was little they could do but wait to be readmitted to her house, which surprisingly only took another fifteen minutes.

“Okay, Miss Merritt, why don’t we walk through and see if you can tell if anything was stolen,” one of the uniforms said.

Inside, Becca made for the upstairs first. Apparently nothing was off in the bathroom at the top of the steps or in the neighboring bedroom, but her gasp in the front bedroom-turned-office brought Rixey right to her side.

Several desk drawers stood open, and papers protruded from one file cabinet drawer as if the guy hadn’t wanted to take the time to right his handiwork. So, he’d been rifling through her drawers and files. What the hell for?