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Her Forgotten Betrayal(39)

By:Anna DeStefano


He’d been determined to give her the privacy she needed, as much of it as she needed, while he scoured the mansion for any signs of new threats to her safety. Then he’d heard Shaw curse. A crash had followed. He’d run to find her, bounding up the back staircase, rounding the top banister at a sprint.

“Shaw?” he called.

He raced to her bedroom. He heard a cry of pain from inside, too muffled to make out what she was saying.

“Honey?”

He tried the knob. It was locked. He pounded on the door with his fist. Had he pushed her mind too far?

“Darlin’, talk to me.”

“Cole?” she called out, the broken sound of his name overriding his decision to wait for her to come and find him when she was ready to talk.

He stepped back, drew his Glock, and kicked the heel of his boot into the door just above the knob. The frame splintered, giving way. The door swung inward to a bedroom filled with a haze that grew heavier as he scanned the room. A split second of fear shook him.

Fire!

Then he realized he was looking at steam instead of smoke. Weapon drawn, he entered the room, his weight balanced forward, prepared to react to whatever had upset her.

“Shaw?” If he didn’t find her in the next two seconds, he was going to—

“Cole?” came her whisper from the doorway to the bathroom while her cat raced from the room.

Shaw stood there, fully clothed, shock dulling her beautiful eyes, her complexion paper white. She was cradling her right hand, a dripping washcloth draped around it. Clouds of steam billowed from the half-full bathtub. Water rolled from the ancient dual spigots.

“What happened?” He approached, his gaze inspecting the ultrafeminine surroundings, searching for whatever had scared her.

Shaw didn’t respond. She had eyes only for his gun. The washcloth slipped from her fingers, revealing the flaming red skin beneath.

“God Almighty.” He returned his weapon to its holster, making sure the tail of his shirt covered both. “How the hell did you—”

“I don’t know. It’s too hot.” She swallowed and glanced at the tub. “I didn’t even look. I wasn’t paying attention, but I turned it on the same as I always do.”

Cole left her to turn off the water. The metal of the tap labeled HOT lanced the nerves in his own hand.

“Shit!” He licked his forefinger to cool it.

He reached for Shaw’s hand and grimaced. She was trembling head to toe, but she bravely held her arm out to him without hesitation. Even after whatever she’d remembered about Sebastian, even after she’d run from Cole in horror, her subconscious trusted him.

Right then, right there, Cole became hers again.

Whatever happened next, whatever it cost him in the career that was his entire life, even if Shaw decided to have nothing more to do with him once she regained all her memories and hated him for his role on the task force—he’d remember this one moment forever.

He swept her off her feet and carried her out of the bedroom to the front staircase.

“Put me down,” she said, struggling as she had when she’d hurt herself in the kitchen and hadn’t wanted him to hold her.

“Let me.” He couldn’t let go. Not this time. He wasn’t certain who most needed the reassurance of physical contact—him or her. As he felt her relax into his embrace, the primal instinct to bind Shaw to him raged ever closer to the surface.

“Cole?” Her head settled exactly where it belonged against his neck, his name a whisper against his skin.

“I’ve got you, honey.” He’d be damned if he let anything or anyone else harm her. “I know we need to talk. But let’s put some ice on your hand and see how bad it is.”

How much of the truth did he give her next? How much danger was she really in, even from simply remembering too much, too quickly, and carelessly injuring herself in the aftermath? He had no idea. But he’d carved a career out of doing his best work without a concrete game plan. He’d nail this assignment, too, once they got her nerves back on an even keel.

A step halfway down the dimly lit staircase squeaked and sagged dangerously, threatening to crumble beneath their combined weight.

“Jesus!” He jostled her to mostly one arm and grabbed the railing with the other, his pulse lurching along with his body. “I think this house has a personal vendetta against you.”

“Sorry.” The arms she’d wrapped around his neck held on tighter. “I should have warned you. It’s been like that since I got here.”

“I’ll take a look at it later,” he promised. He sidestepped the weakened boards and cleared the rest of the stairs in three strides.