Page 9 of Lone Star Country Protector
“Why not let him sleep here tonight?” Blakely asked, surprising her sister with the question.
“Is it safe?” Bethany asked.
“Safer than you getting back on the road this late,” Blakely pointed out. “Plus, I have new security cameras and a personal bodyguard.” She walked over and rubbed Chase’s back. “He’s already asleep. Why risk waking him when you can put him to bed here?”
“Greg will worry,” Bethany countered. And then a spark passed behind her eyes. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing tonight.”
“What happened between the two of you?” Blakely asked.
“Nothing,” Bethany said, her body stiffening like she was tensing up to protect herself from a physical blow.
Blakely bit down on her bottom lip. “It doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“We had a fight,” Bethany said. “Married couples argue.” Her gaze shot toward Dalton. “Are you married?”
“No, ma’am,” he said.
Bethany shook her head. “Call me ma’am and I look over my shoulder for my mother.”
“She’s dead,” Blakely said with a hollow cast to her voice that sent a nail through the center of his chest. He was starting to regret the pact they’d made in Galveston not to discuss their personal lives. Now more than ever, he wanted to know more about the off-limits judge.
“Doesn’t matter,” Bethany said. “You know what I mean.”
“Right,” Blakely conceded. “It wasn’t my intention to be defensive about our parents. Tonight has been hell.”
Bethany sighed. “Every worst-case scenario possible slammed into me after I heard your first message. All mythoughts went to something happening to Chase. It never once occurred to me that something might have happened to my big sister.” Bethany’s tense expression softened. “What happened to your face?”
“Put Chase to bed,” Blakely said. “I’ll open a bottle of wine.”
“Are you sure it’s safe to stay here?” Bethany asked before another glance at Dalton, searching for confirmation from a second source. He gave a slight nod as her sister reassured her the home was safer than Fort Knox. Bethany nodded before another glance in Dalton’s direction. “I could use a drink.” Then, she disappeared up the back stairwell in the kitchen.
He had questions but didn’t figure it was his place to ask. So he joined Blakely in the kitchen as she pulled out a bottle of white wine from the fridge. “Can I help?”
“Sure,” she conceded like she’d just asked to borrow a thousand dollars, and he’d agreed to be her lender. “Corkscrew is in that drawer over there.” She motioned toward the granite island and the row of drawers closest to him. The all-white kitchen somehow managed to come off as modern and welcoming with the touches of green plants instead of sterile. The decor fit Blakely to a T.
Dalton moved over to the drawer and then located the metal opener. Joining Blakely on the other side of the counter, he stood close enough to smell her clean citrus and flowery scent—a scent like none other. But he didn’t want to think about her unique traits despite seeing her pulse rise at the base of her throat when their fingers grazed as she handed over the chilled bottle.
“Do you want a glass?” she asked after clearing her throat.
He gave a small headshake, needing to be clear-mindedin case the perp returned tonight. Plus, he didn’t need to relax and let his guard down again around Blakely. There was no logical reason to touch that hot stove twice.
Dalton removed the packaging on the wine bottle, revealing the cork.
This close, he was reminded of the four-inch scar hidden behind bangs. Was that part of the reason she’d bolted? There were other scars too. One just under her third rib. He’d smoothed his fingertips along all the markings on her body. But ran into a hard wall when he’d asked how she’d accumulated so many.
Dalton stabbed the pointed end of the corkscrew into the plug and twisted.
She’d muttered something about Krav Maga training, but unless she’d actually served time in the Israeli military, there was no reasonable explanation for her to have this many scars.
His ego tried to convince him that the marks were somehow related to why she’d bolted out the door. Were they?
Or had he done something wrong?
With effort, Dalton freed the cork from the bottle with athmpsound.
“I should probably know what you prefer to drink after…”
“We weren’t there to talk about personal habits, remember?” he quipped, wishing he could reel those words back in after seeing the blow they landed. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
