weight of the Free World on her shoulders every single day of her life, a woman who was
proud
to do so, a woman who had fought long and hard for the
privilege
of bearing the weight of the Free World.
Pride.
Now there was a word. Didn’t Katya have even an ounce of pride? A shred? Hadn’t she learned anything from her parents? Especially her mother?
Well, yes, she had, but it was all kind of hard to put into words. So she’d bitten her tongue and weathered the awful storm, and been sent to Paris—as far away from Denver and drug murders and car thieves as her mother could get her.
And now she was back, right smack dab in the middle of a full-blown disaster, the whole damn night about as bad as it could get.
Her gaze inadvertently went to the two men in the alley, and she swore softly under her breath, reconsidering her last thought. The night could easily get worse—much worse.
Hawkins hadn’t changed, not nearly enough to suit her. It was all too easy to look at him and still see the nineteen-year-old avenging angel who had appeared from out of nowhere and saved her. Except now he was an avenging angel in an expensively tailored suit with an unnerving quietness about him—a beautiful angel, his face more angles than curves, his silky dark hair brushing the collar of his shirt. He was broader through the shoulders than he’d been as a teenager, possibly taller, still lean, but more solid.
She’d felt safe in his arms, but then she’d always felt safe in his arms, from the very first time he’d held her until the last—which was as far as she needed to go with that train of thought. He was a stranger now, and she didn’t need her mother to tell her that’s exactly what he should remain.
Still, she was as curious about him as she’d ever been. She should ask Alex to do a background check on him. Sometimes her secretary amazed her with the kind of connections he’d forged as an L.A. cop. Alex could find out all about Christian Hawkins, if she wanted him to—unearth his secrets and his sins and hand them all over to her in a sealed manila envelope.
It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had somebody dig through his life. Of course, Alex was bound to do a better job than the private investigator she’d hired years ago, who’d taken a whole lot of her money to tell her Christian Hawkins still lived in Denver and sold cars for a living.
At the time, she’d just opened her new gallery in L.A. and felt like she’d finally left her past behind, overcome it and gotten on with her life—and she’d needed to know he’d done the same. He’d already been pardoned, but she’d needed to know he was okay. The information the investigator had come up with had fit, so she’d paid the price and let it go.
But he was no car salesman.
Light from the doorway spilled over his face, contouring his features with shadows, the square angle of his jaw, harder than she remembered, the straight dark lines of his brows, the seriousness of his gaze—and the world’s most amazing mouth. Or so it had seemed thirteen years ago, when she’d been very young and naive.
It had taken him less than a week in the Brown Palace to change the naive part.
God, what she hadn’t known.
A blush stole up her cheeks, and she had to admit that besides being half scared, half guilt-ridden, and half worried sick about what had happened at the Gardens, she should probably be at least half embarrassed to see him again.
Yes, that was a lovely mix: fear, guilt, worry, and mortification.
She watched him step off Doc’s back stoop and head toward the car, and thanked God she wasn’t eighteen years old anymore.
He slid in behind the steering wheel and glanced in her direction.
“How’s your headache?” he asked.
“Better. Thank you.”
“Doc said he gave you aspirin.”
“Two, and an ibuprofen.” Oh, this was perfect, so polite. She could do polite all night long. It was right up there with apologies on her list of social
proud
to do so, a woman who had fought long and hard for the
privilege
of bearing the weight of the Free World.
Pride.
Now there was a word. Didn’t Katya have even an ounce of pride? A shred? Hadn’t she learned anything from her parents? Especially her mother?
Well, yes, she had, but it was all kind of hard to put into words. So she’d bitten her tongue and weathered the awful storm, and been sent to Paris—as far away from Denver and drug murders and car thieves as her mother could get her.
And now she was back, right smack dab in the middle of a full-blown disaster, the whole damn night about as bad as it could get.
Her gaze inadvertently went to the two men in the alley, and she swore softly under her breath, reconsidering her last thought. The night could easily get worse—much worse.
Hawkins hadn’t changed, not nearly enough to suit her. It was all too easy to look at him and still see the nineteen-year-old avenging angel who had appeared from out of nowhere and saved her. Except now he was an avenging angel in an expensively tailored suit with an unnerving quietness about him—a beautiful angel, his face more angles than curves, his silky dark hair brushing the collar of his shirt. He was broader through the shoulders than he’d been as a teenager, possibly taller, still lean, but more solid.
She’d felt safe in his arms, but then she’d always felt safe in his arms, from the very first time he’d held her until the last—which was as far as she needed to go with that train of thought. He was a stranger now, and she didn’t need her mother to tell her that’s exactly what he should remain.
Still, she was as curious about him as she’d ever been. She should ask Alex to do a background check on him. Sometimes her secretary amazed her with the kind of connections he’d forged as an L.A. cop. Alex could find out all about Christian Hawkins, if she wanted him to—unearth his secrets and his sins and hand them all over to her in a sealed manila envelope.
It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had somebody dig through his life. Of course, Alex was bound to do a better job than the private investigator she’d hired years ago, who’d taken a whole lot of her money to tell her Christian Hawkins still lived in Denver and sold cars for a living.
At the time, she’d just opened her new gallery in L.A. and felt like she’d finally left her past behind, overcome it and gotten on with her life—and she’d needed to know he’d done the same. He’d already been pardoned, but she’d needed to know he was okay. The information the investigator had come up with had fit, so she’d paid the price and let it go.
But he was no car salesman.
Light from the doorway spilled over his face, contouring his features with shadows, the square angle of his jaw, harder than she remembered, the straight dark lines of his brows, the seriousness of his gaze—and the world’s most amazing mouth. Or so it had seemed thirteen years ago, when she’d been very young and naive.
It had taken him less than a week in the Brown Palace to change the naive part.
God, what she hadn’t known.
A blush stole up her cheeks, and she had to admit that besides being half scared, half guilt-ridden, and half worried sick about what had happened at the Gardens, she should probably be at least half embarrassed to see him again.
Yes, that was a lovely mix: fear, guilt, worry, and mortification.
She watched him step off Doc’s back stoop and head toward the car, and thanked God she wasn’t eighteen years old anymore.
He slid in behind the steering wheel and glanced in her direction.
“How’s your headache?” he asked.
“Better. Thank you.”
“Doc said he gave you aspirin.”
“Two, and an ibuprofen.” Oh, this was perfect, so polite. She could do polite all night long. It was right up there with apologies on her list of social
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