Page 48 of Bishop's Queen

Bishop stood back and watched them process the scene, then ground his teeth after he led them to Ella’s unit and watched two damn good investigators do their job. An hour and a half later, all statements had been given and all signs of the mail were gone.

What an awful damn night.

Except for kissing her. That’d damn near been a career highlight.

Ella had curled onto the couch with FB and LK, which is what he’d decided to call her dog and kitten.

“Rough night.” Bishop sat on the opposite end of the couch and listened to the kitten purr. “Need anything?”

“I should probably call Tara.”

He rolled his bottom lip into his mouth, keeping his disagreement to himself. To Ella’s credit, she hadn’t broadcast the night’s troubles to the world.

“She’s pissed I went silent tonight.”

He turned, ready to change his stance on keeping quiet. “She told you that?”

“No. I just know. No time to go quiet. But I’m sure she had things scheduled, or posted something on my behalf. So it’s fine.”

“Good. That’s her job.” Ella trusted everybody. She trusted her team. Tara, he hadn’t met, and Jay, he didn’t get a good read on. Bishop didn’t trust any of them, and hell, right now, he blamed each and every one of them for letting this situation spiral.

They were all at fault. Ella had put herself in this predicament, surrounding herself with crazy people and a team that couldn’t see logic or reason. Her life was documented on the Internet—her condo, where she ate breakfast, where she went out to dinner. She showed people how she dressed and where she went on almost a twenty-four-hour basis. It wasn’t safe. Was it a big surprise that someone had found her home mailing address?

“Tara is…”A piranha. Or a leech. Actually, much more like a leech.

Bishop wanted to see her face when she learned about this latest incident. Would she be excited that it was newsworthy, which would mean bigger ratings?

Yeah, Bishop wanted to talk to the FBI and see what they thought about little Miss Tara, the publicist. For that matter, he wanted to talk to them and see what they thought about Jay. He wanted access to the investigative file. He wanted to be read-in on everything. This was too close to home. This was too close to his girl—or someone who used to be his girl. She was somebody he cared for, regardless. Somebody heworkedfor. Someone he had just kissed.

***

The shower was hot, but it couldn’t wash away his irritation. The soap did its job, and the slime was gone. Breathing in the steam, Bishop tried to ignore how Ella pushed his buttons and his memories, but he couldn’t. The soft towel smelled like her, and that served only to irritate him. This was a job. Titan was his dream. Distraction made him useless. Kissing her was stupid.And hot. He pulled his jeans back on and slung the towel around his neck.Damn it.

“Ella?”

Padding down the hall, he didn’t see her. There was a bottle of all-natural cleaner on the counter, an emptied landfillcan without a liner, and a bright-pink Post-it with Ella’s cursive scrawl.

Had to walk Furry Baby. Potty emergency. DON’T BE MAD. Things were happening everywhere. Be back.

He crumbled the note and threw it. “Are you kidding me?” What was the point of trying to keep her safe? He pinched the bridge of his nose. She was hell-bent on doing whatever she wanted.

“Screw it.” In five minutes, he would know if he’d lost his client to the dark world of pet walking and stalkers. Or she would bop back in as if venturing out was no big thing. Either way, she was calling the shots at the moment.

DON’T BE MAD.

He shook his head.Not mad. Furious!Her dog had the shits, and Ella might die. All because he took a shower.

Bishop pulled his towel off his neck and stomped down the hall, slamming doors open. Why not? Everyone else on earth had seen this place. Where the hell was her washer-dryer? He would throw his shirt in the dryer and decide if this job was too much for his sanity with all the back and forth.

He twisted a doorknob and discovered a room that was all new to him, completely sight unseen.Never on her blog. Relief slammed over him as he took in the second bedroom, as did an insatiable curiosity. This was the real Ella? Private life, uncensored?

Holding his breath, Bishop took a barefoot step into her sanctuary. The space wasn’t as matched as the rest of the condo, and it looked lived in. His skin tingled as if the air had shifted, as if the air inside her hideaway was in and of itself sweeter. He gulped.

This was messed up.

Him. In here.

But still, he crept in until he had no excuse. He stood in the middle of Ella’s private escape, uninvited. And it was nothing like the rest of her condo. A doggie bed and cat tower lined one wall, and he ran his fingers along a weathered white dresser, stopping in front of a bookshelf filled with DVD cases. They were labeled with locations and years, arranged chronologically on the shelf.

---