Targeted

at her work, someone definitely wanted her dead, and he expected her to stick around?

“Shower first. Answers later.” That pale gaze of his was so damn intoxicating.

Maybe he thought he could hypnotize her into staying. She blinked and forced herself to glance away. After the way he’d tackled her at the restaurant, then their running for their lives, only to be followed by a car crash and an unexpected swim in the freezing ocean . . . Yeah, she could do with a hot shower. “Okay.”

He stopped her with a gentle hand on her upper arm as she stepped through the bedroom door. “I noticed earlier that you’ve got a few scratches on your leg. Will, uh . . .” He scrubbed a hand over his face, and something told her he rarely stumbled over his words.

It was all she could do to ignore what the feel of his callous hand against her skin was doing to her senses. There was something so frustratingly familiar about it, and it was driving her crazy. This man was likely a criminal! She’d never been one to get turned on by the bad-boy image, but apparently her body was making decisions for her now. Her nipples hardened involuntarily under the thick towel. “What?”

“There’s probably a little blood on your legs too. Do you want me to wait outside the bathroom or anything?” He rubbed his hand over his face in a manner so similar to the way her Sam had done, it made her breath catch.

“I’ll be fine. I promise.” Despite the sudden heavy sensation in her chest at the thought of a man who had died way too young, the ghost of a smile teased her lips as she shut the bedroom door behind her. Jack’s tripping over his words gave her a strange comfort.

The bedroom was furnished but sparse. There was a bed with a white-and-yellow paisley comforter, a dresser, a nightstand, and two inexpensive pictures of palm trees hanging on the wall. A man had definitely “decorated” this place.

He’d laid out a green halter-style summer dress on the bed for her. It looked a little too big, but at least she had something to put on. A small part of her wondered where he’d gotten it from, but she really didn’t care. Clean clothes sounded pretty damn good at the moment. No underwear, though, so she’d be going commando for a day. Thankfully the dress had a built-in bra.

After stripping off the sweatpants he’d given her, she opened the bathroom door and some of the tension ebbed from her shoulders. There was a toothbrush, a washcloth, shampoo, a razor, and bath soap. She pulled back the nautical-themed shower curtain and twisted the shower knob. As soon as steam rose, she stepped under the pulsing jets, but quickly turned the pressure down.

Bruises were starting to show up on her right hip, and she could only guess where she’d gotten them. She also had a few dark splotches dotting all down her arms and legs. And they were only going to get bigger. She’d probably look as if she’d been in a bar brawl.

Her movements were sluggish, but she managed to wash her hair and scrub the dried patches of blood off her legs.

When she was younger, she used to pass out at the sight of blood all the time. But she hadn’t passed out since after . . . that night. Bile rose in her throat as a sudden image of her last foster father flashed in her mind. To this day the smell of whiskey made her ill. Despite the hot water, a chill skittered over her skin, giving her visible goose bumps. When another unwanted shudder snaked through her, she grabbed the bar of soap and began vigorously scrubbing her arms. She had more important things to worry about. Like why was someone trying to kill her and who was the man supposedly helping her?

Jack Stone. The name lingered in her mind and on the tip of her tongue.

Sophie wished she was dealing with anyone but him. Every time she looked at Jack, she was reminded of Sam. He’d been her best friend. The boy she’d lost her virginity to. He’d been her everything. Her whole damn world at one time. The one person she could count on for anything and the one person she’d been able to completely be herself around.

Inevitably, she was also reminded of the last hateful words she’d said to him. She tried to pacify her guilt by telling herself she’d been young and hurting, but there was no excuse for the way she’d blamed Sam. Nothing that had happened had been his fault. And she’d never get the chance to tell him how sorry she was for shutting him out of her life. They’d been so close and she’d just ended things. She’d been in pain and as awful as it was to admit, she’d wanted him to suffer too. God, she’d been a wreck back then.

A few errant tears escaped. For Sam’s memory, or for herself, she wasn’t sure. She brushed them away as the last soapy suds rushed down the drain; then she turned the water off. Despite her burning questions, Sophie took her time. She found lotion under the sink and smoothed it over her arms and legs. After running a towel over her hair and combing it with her fingers, she slipped the dress on. The thin material was soothing against her skin. She spared herself one last glance in the mirror before opening the bedroom door.

Jack wasn’t going to hurt her. Nothing he’d done so far indicated that was his intention. She found him in the living room on a laptop and hated that little tingling sensation she got when she saw him. He was working on a laptop, his long fingers flying across the keyboard. His forearms slightly flexed, drawing her eyes up the length of his arms to those wickedly broad shoulders. She wanted to smooth her hands over them, dig her fingers into his bare flesh while he kissed her again. Okay, not the time to indulge in that fantasy, she chided herself. “Where’d you get the computer?”

He closed the computer and looked up. “It was here.”

For a brief moment, his eyes darkened as they raked over her body. The look was quick, but he did a complete sweep from her head to feet and there was no denying the way his gaze lingered on her breasts. Men. Not that she could judge since she’d been checking him out too. She curled her toes into the plush carpet as she stood in between the entrance of the hallway and the living room, every inch of her aware of his raw masculinity.

He saved her by standing. “Come on. I want to bandage your shoulder before we do anything else.”

Sophie nodded and followed him to the kitchen. At least with this dress she didn’t have to take off her clothes again. His hands were gentle as he pressed the butterfly bandage to her exposed shoulder. A flutter settled in her stomach as his fingers glided across her skin, but she ignored the strange sensation. He still hadn’t mentioned that kiss and it was doubtful he ever would. She’d been freaking out and it had obviously been the only way for him to calm her down. He had enjoyed himself, though. Of that much, she was sure.

When he was finished she took a couple of steps forward and turned to face him. Using the counter as a support, she found her voice. “Ready to answer my questions?”

“Do you want to sit?”

“No. I want to know who you are and who you work for and why you wanted to meet me today. I know you don’t work for Keane Flight, so don’t even go there. And I want to know who the hell was shooting at me.”

His dark eyebrows rose slightly. “That’s a lot of questions.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Why don’t you start with who you are?”

He leaned against the other counter, eyeing her with an expression she didn’t understand. “That’s a complicated question.”

Her temper ignited. “Well, how about you try to answer anyway?”

He was silent for a long beat and she was under the impression he was sizing her up. What, did he think she knew what was going on? The thought was so stupid she almost rolled her eyes.

“I work for the government . . . in a clandestine capacity.”

Okay, that wasn’t what she’d been expecting. “Like a spy?”

His lips twitched. “Something like that.”

If someone hadn’t tried to kill them multiple times today, she’d probably laugh in his face. “What agency?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

He ignored her question and asked another. “What’s your next question?”

For a split second she contemplated grilling him, but something told her that he was the kind of man who would only crack under torture. And probably not even then. He stood there watching her, his face completely impassive, like a granite statue.

She tried to bite back her frustration. “Okay, who was trying to kill us?”

“You. Not us. And I should be asking you that question.” One of his eyebrows lifted