Secrets to Hide 3: Just a Little More by Ella Sheridan Page B

you’re stubborn.” Damien’s strained chuckle ended in a sigh. “You’ve got the number I gave you for Becky, right?”
    The therapist’s business card was still in his wallet, as a matter of fact. Any doubts he’d had about calling her were gone. Tonight his coddling could very well have cost the woman he loved her life. No more. “I have it. I’ll be giving her a call first thing in the morning.”
    “Good, good.” Muffled voices and the sound of clinking glass came through the line. “I’ve got to get things closed up here. Anything, Brad. Remember that. Contact me anytime.”
    “I will.”
    Damien’s grunt was doubtful, and Brad knew he’d be getting another call in the morning. The sound at least drew a smile as the phone went dead in his ear.
    He closed and locked the door. Walking toward Angel was as much a compulsion as a necessity, one he had no intention of fighting. He ignored the closed-off expression on her face, the tight cross of her arms locking the blanket over her body. The reality that she was home and safe, the sheer relief of it rose in a tidal wave that swamped every thought except getting her as close to him as possible. When he scooped her into his arms and dropped onto the couch, he felt for the first time that night that everything would be all right.
    “You shouldn’t hold me; I’m all wet,” she protested, squirming on his lap.
    “I don’t care.” He tucked her head under his chin, leaned back so that she was tipped over onto his chest, and closed his eyes. He let his hands roam over her, reassuring himself that she was okay and massaging warmth into her body at the same time. The sense of rightness, of her being where she belonged, grew stronger. He wanted to stay there forever, but her clothes really were wet—he could feel the moisture seeping into his jeans. Better to get her fully warm and be a sentimental idiot later.
    Scooting closer to the end of the couch, he measured the distance carefully before settling her back against the arm. “Here, let’s check you out.”
    Angel watched as he pulled the blanket open. He checked her hands first, rubbing softly along her wrists and palms and fingers. Still cool, but not the ice-cold shock he’d felt in the car. Her skin was pale but not the stark white of before. Squelching sounds followed the wiggling of her feet, and it took some wrangling to get the tangled shoelaces untied and slide her shoes off. Her socks were wet. “Damn it.”
    He shifted out from under her to sit at her feet. The socks dripped as he tugged them down and dropped them on the floor beside the couch, one after the other. Plop. Plop . When he gripped Angel’s bare feet, she flinched. Then moaned. He glanced up, but Angel pushed her feet harder into his hands. “Warm.”
    “Mmm.” Just hearing the greedy pleasure in her voice choked him up. He massaged her delicate feet, rolled each toe gently between his fingers, but his eyes stayed on hers, watching her reaction, seeing what hurt and what felt good. “How do you feel?” he finally asked. “Any numbness? Do you hurt anywhere?”
    Angel shook her head. “I’m…incredibly tired.” As if the words made it so, her head tipped back to rest gently on the arm of the couch. “Everything seems to be thawed okay, just achy.”
    “Okay.” He wanted to let her rest, wanted to lie down himself and just let everything stop. He couldn’t. If they didn’t move, Angel wouldn’t get warm and dry, and she was a bigger priority than his emotional hangover. He grabbed her hands and drew her up with him as he stood. “You need to get out of these clothes and into the shower. It will get you good and warm. Should be safe by now.”
    And if he hurried, he might not jump her when she needed it least.
    She opened her mouth, probably to protest, but Brad ignored her. He pulled her down the hall and into his bedroom, straight through to the bathroom. Putting the lid down on the toilet, he nudged his chin at