Page 20 of Quiet Protector
Dark hair falls into Leo’s eyes when he shakes his head. “You defended yourself when you were touched without permission. Much to Vincent McGee’s disgrace, that isn’t an offendable crime.” His dark blue irises glisten in the streetlight when he slants his head to hide the curve of his lips. “If your second hit had been a little to the left, our conversation might have been starkly different.”
Certain I’m reading the humor in his eyes right, I mumble, “I’ll put more thought into my aim next time.”
“I most certainly hope you do.” When he stands to his feet, I attempt to hand him back his unused handkerchief. “Keep it. It’ll do me great pleasure for Julian to find it in your underwear drawer.”
He grazes his knee against my shoulder before signaling to someone across the street. My heart leaps into my throat when I spot who curls out the back-passenger door of a heavily tinted SUV. Julian’s knuckles are still red and swollen from when he roughed-up Mr. McGee, but the fury on his face when he was marched out of the DA’s office in handcuffs is nothing like it once was. If anything, he looks panicked that I’ll react negatively to his gallantry. I would have preferred to keep him out of my messy life, but I guess he knew what he signed up for when he asked me to become his wife.
When Julian stops in front of me, I slip my hand between his before raising my watering eyes. “I’m sor—”
“Shh.” He pulls me into his chest before weaving his fingers through my hair. “I don’t need your apologies, Mel. I just need to know you’re okay. No woman should be required to handle Vincent alone, let alone one who’s been through what you’ve been through.” He whispers his last sentence only loud enough for me to hear.
“I’m okay.” My words are muffled since he’s holding me close, but I know he hears them as his racing heart calms within a nanosecond of them leaving my mouth. “But I’d really appreciate it if you could take me home. I need to shower.”
Nodding, Julian inches back, secures my hand in his, then guides me toward his guarded, and most likely, bulletproof car. When he advises the driver to take us to my loft, I curl my unclutched hand over the balled one resting on his trousers. I don’t know what was said between Mr. McGee and him, but it was clearly unpleasant. His jaw is ticking, and his blue irises are swamped by black pupils. I’ve never seen him so worked up.
“Can we stay at your place tonight? I don’t want to go back to my loft.” I didn’t acknowledge it at the time, but shockwaves rained down on me when Mr. McGee said he had dropped by my apartment. Just the thought of our exchange taking place in my home has me breaking out in hives. I struggle being alone with Julian, so you can imagine how hard it is when your male guest shares the same blood as the man who raped you. “It’s closer, and I’m really tired.” I’m lying. We can walk to my loft within five minutes at this time of the night. I just don’t want to go there right now.
I also don’t want to be alone.
“Of course.” Julian hides his surprise at my request to spend the night at his penthouse for the first time with a high tone. “Shall we swing by your apartment and pick up some of your belongings first?”
I shake my head. “I have everything I need right here,” I assure him while snuggling into his side. “Just take me home.”
“Home,” Julian repeats, smiling. “I like the sound of that.”
9
Brandon
Isabelle’s eyes lower to the clipboard in her hand when Hugo asks, “Are you sure this is the address you're looking for?”
He pulls my BMW into the dusty driveway of the Shroud family ranch before swinging his eyes to Isabelle. How is he driving my car on the day Isabelle and I decided to travel to Megan’s family home for some private investigative work? He took command of it when Isabelle shot out the tires of his Isaac-owned Audi hours ago.
I had noticed we were being tailed not long after we left Isabelle’s apartment, but since I was too busy getting IA off Isabelle’s ass, I failed to notice a second vehicle until we were on the freeway. I knew Isabelle’s gall would be as high as she is tall—she was raised by a big, balding Russian with a short fuse—but I never anticipated for her to respond to the news we had a tail in the way she did. She approached the target as she was taught in the academy, then halted his wish to retreat when he failed to yield at her request.
I shouldn’t have been relieved when we discovered the perp was Hugo but, for some reason, I was. I’m planning to toss Isabelle into shark-infested waters next weekend, so the more protection she has, the better it will be for all involved. I won’t let Castro or anyone from his crew get to within an inch of Isabelle, but not even the most confident agents turn down a third set of eyes.
After double-checking the number hand-painted on a microwave at the front of the Shroud’s family ranch, Isabelle nods. A stern mask slips over Hugo’s face when he returns his foot to the gas pedal. He’s barely driving five miles an hour, but dust still kicks up behind us. It doesn’t look like these parts have seen a rain cloud for a few months.
It’s as drought-affected as my mouth when a once-regal farmhouse comes into view. The steps are rickety, the porch is unloved, and it looks like no one has lived here in years. It has me wondering what my mother has endured the past two months. She moved back to our family ranch in Saugerties the day she filed for divorce from my father. I’m glad she has finally seen through his gleaming exterior, but I’m still not convinced the ranch is the best place for her. It’s not just filled with haunted memories, no one has lived there in years. It’s most likely in a state of disrepair.
My eyes float back to Hugo when he asks, “Whose house is this?”
When Isabelle seeks my advice on how to answer him, I shrug. If she’s not comfortable being honest with him, it isn’t my place to intervene. I’ll go with anything she chooses.
After a few seconds of silent deliberation, Isabelle answers Hugo’s question. “Megan Shroud.”
I take a mental note to keep a closer eye on Hugo when air whizzes out of his nose. Has he heard of Megan before because she’s stalking Isaac’s brother? Or because Megan’s father dabbled in the same industry Isaac is tiptoeing his empire toward?
A grin curls on my lips when Hugo foils Isabelle’s attempt to exit the car when he pulls in front of the ranch. “Let us check it out first.” He gestures his hand to me during his statement.
Although I commend Hugo’s protectiveness, Isabelle has a point when she snarls. “I'm a federal agent, Hugo, I amnota child.”
A chuckle steals the air from my lungs when Hugo snaps back, “Yeah, and that's Freddy-fucking-Kruger’s house. If Isaac finds out I let you go in there without me first scoping the premises, I won’t be on his Christmas card list anymore. He gives very generous bonus checks in his Christmas cards.”
An average man would believe he’s merely doing the job he’s paid to do. I’m far from average. He cares for Isabelle, but I am unsure if it’s friendship based or because he lives his life in guilt from what happened to Gemma—the woman he was convicted of raping. It may be a bit of both.
Believing he has Isabelle subdued, Hugo exits the car. I quickly shadow him. We’ve barely creeped up the front stairs when the crank of a car door breaks through the silence teeming between us. Forever willing to test the boundaries, Isabelle has joined us on the porch.
