Page 14 of Lone Star Country Protector
Blakely couldn’t risk it even though Dalton didn’t seem like the kind of person who would raise a hand toward anyone smaller or more vulnerable than him. Somewhere deep inside, her conscious mind registered the fact she’d brought her hand up to her forehead, where her index finger traced the raised skin at her hairline.
No one ever got to make her feel weak and afraid again. But she would be smart and accept Dalton’s help. She wasn’t handing over her power so much as using all available resources at hand.
The bastard who’d sent her back to that place—even for a few seconds—of being scared and alone wouldn’t get away with it.
“Thank you for the offer of help, by the way,” she said to Dalton. “There’s a blanket and extra pillow in the ottoman. Hope you don’t mind sleeping on the couch since my third bedroom has been turned into my home office.”
“Fine by me,” he said. “Doubt I’ll get much sleep anyway.”
“Okay,” she said before getting out of the room, up the stairs, and as far away from the man as possible. Being inthe same room with him alone made her fingers crave the way his hard muscles under silky skin felt.
Blakely cleared the sudden dryness in her throat. By tomorrow, the perp would be long gone or caught, and Dalton would walk out of her life forever.
Why was the thought no different than a stab wound in the heart?
Chapter Six
Dalton slept in fits and starts over the next four hours until sun streamed in through the windows. He rolled out of bed, fired off a couple dozen push-ups, and then headed to the shower after making a quick trip to his truck to retrieve his emergency supply backpack. In it, he kept a change of clothes and a travel kit with toothpaste and a toothbrush, a comb, deodorant. Pretty much all the basic supplies to get him through a night or two on the road if he couldn’t get back home. There was a backup weapon inside, just in case.
On the ground floor of Blakely’s home sat the living room, kitchen and dining area. A short hallway to the right of the front door led to a full bathroom and a bedroom that, true to her word, had been converted to a home office. The whole downstairs had a comfortable but minimal feel to it. The place was filled with cream-colored furniture with just the right amount of color worked in. He was no decorator and would never claim to be one. But this space felt welcoming. Like it invited you to sit down and get comfortable so you could stay for a while. Unlike its owner, who seemed like she couldn’t get him out of her home fast enough. Blakely was a study in contrasts.
Dalton had no patience for someone who spent most of their time pushing him away despite needing him more than ever. Of course, she wouldn’t see it that way. Thedetermined set to her chin said she’d rather eat nails than admit she needed a bodyguard. She was also intelligent enough to accept his help, which he appreciated about the good judge. And a growing part of him wanted to know more about her. Where did she grow up? What happened to her parents? Did she have any other living relatives other than her sister and nephew?
Of course, all those questions were off-limits since they didn’t help solve who attacked her last night. On the other hand, they weren’t totally out of bounds considering this was an investigation. His job might be to act as bodyguard to the judge, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t put his investigator hat on. Working with Houston PD was out. They wouldn’t share information unless they deemed it relevant to protecting Blakely.
A shower and fresh clothes were the best attitude adjustment he could think of after sleeping on the couch. Since Blakely and her sister were upstairs, he didn’t figure a little noise in the kitchen would wake them. His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d skipped supper last night, and he needed caffeine to think clearly.
As he moved into the kitchen and flipped on the light, he heard the creak of a floorboard at the top of the staircase. It was windy outside. Might be the wind. Older homes had a language of their own, creaking and groaning with the weather. Then again, this house wasn’t too old. Was someone coming down? Blakely?
He checked cabinets until he found a coffee mug. Then moved to the general area of the coffee maker. She had one of those machines that took pods. Wa-la! A colorful carousel filled with pods sat on the opposite side of the black-and-chrome machine. He grabbed a purple pod, popped it into the machine and set the mug underneath the spout. Allthese pod machines worked pretty much the same. The noise was worse than he anticipated, drowning out the floorboard creaks, the machine hissing as it spit out coffee. He figured this was meant to replicate the coffee shop experience. As long as the coffee didn’t taste burnt, he could care less what kind of noise the machine made. His only hope was that he wasn’t waking anyone up.
“Hello,” a female voice he recognized as Bethany’s said.
“Hey,” he answered without turning around. “Do you want a cup of coffee?”
“No,” she said, sounding half asleep. “Thanks, though. I just came down for water.”
“I can make that happen for you,” he said, retrieving a glass and filling it with water from the fridge door before she could plop onto a bar chair pushed up to the granite island.
“Thank you,” she said after taking the offering.
“I’m a regular barista,” he quipped, laughing at his own joke.
Bethany laughed too. Dark circles cradled her eyes. Stress lines were etched into her forehead. She and Blakely looked like sisters. The family resemblance was strong. To his liking, Blakely was the more beautiful twin, but he admitted that he was biased because there was something about her smile—the few times he’d gotten to see it—that sent a tornado whirling around inside his chest.
“Should I know who you are?” Bethany asked, and he realized she’d been studying him as he retrieved his mug and then joined her, standing across the island.
“What makes you ask that question?”
“You seem at home here,” she said on a yawn.
“First time,” he said before she could spin a yarn in her mind that had him shacking up with her sister. Not that he’d mind all that much. But he couldn’t offer anythingmore than temporary, and Blakely Adamson was not the temporary kind.
“Really?”
“Don’t seem so shocked,” he teased. “Kitchens all pretty much work the same. It’s not hard to figure out where coffee supplies are, or a glass for that matter. Most folks keep them in similar places. Glasses near the dishwasher and coffee supplies on the counter.”
“True,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “Do you go into a lot of homes in your line of work?”
