Haunted. Gena Showalter
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“Yes, ma’am. Are you okay?”
“Wow, that hurts!” she said, ignoring his question a second time. “Just how old do you think I am?”
A minefield of a query, and one he was better off disregarding. He motioned to her stained hands with a tilt of his chin, even as he reached for the handle of his gun. “Let’s try this again. Are you hurt?” He scanned the walkway. Empty. No suspicious shadows, marks or noises. “Is someone following you? Bothering you?”
“Why would you—” She glanced down, chuckled and wiggled her fingers at him. “This is paint. I’m a painter.”
Paint. No mortal danger, then. His concern faded, and the surliness resurfaced. “Then what are you doing here?” Okay, so he probably should have pretended to be nice. She’d tell her friend he was a tool, and the friend would tell him she’d rather date a dishrag when he finally asked her out.
“As I was saying,” she continued blithely. “My amazing art does not contain …” A shudder of revulsion shook her. “You know.”
What? Blood? Probably. So many people had an aversion to the stuff, but he’d never had such qualms. “‘You know’?” he parroted.
“Yeah. The elixir of life.”
You’re kidding me. “And the elixir of life is?” Levi was having what he suspected was fun for the first time since his suspension. The girl was brave enough to knock on a stranger’s door and demand he open up, but she couldn’t say a certain five-letter word? How cute was that?
She ran her tongue over her teeth and whispered, “Fine. I can do this. It’s B-L-O-O-D.” Another shudder shook her.
Would it be rude to laugh at her? She’d actually spelled the word rather than said it.
His stance softened, and he allowed his arm to fall to his side. “So you’re an artist, huh?”
“An amazing artist.”
“I don’t know about amazing,” he said, “but you’re definitely modest.” And she was more than cute, he realized. She was short and curvy, her face something you might find on a little girl’s favorite doll, with big blue eyes, a button nose and heart-shaped lips. She was utterly adorable.
“By the way,” he added, “being called ‘sir’ would be a reason to have a hissy. Ma’am’s all good. I say that to everyone with—” his gaze automatically dropped to give her a once-over, but he got caught on her breasts, which were straining the fabric of her pajama top. He managed to jerk his attention back up and choke out “—estrogen.” Girl was stacked.
“Good point,” she said, tossing that tumble of pale hair over one shoulder, “but I assure you, I’m all woman.”
Noticed. Believe me. Rather than voice the sentiment aloud—and risk finding his testicles in his throat—he gave her a single nod of affirmation. “No argument here.”
A relieved breath left her. “Thank you for not telling me I need to double-check my woman card.”
“A double check isn’t necessary.” Are you … flirting?
“Well, isn’t the big, strong he-man sweet?”
“Yes, ma’am, he is.”
He wasn’t the type to flirt, but yeah. Yeah, he was flirting, and she was flirting back.
He’d planned to ask the redhead out, not really wanting anything to do with the blonde and all that guilt and shame she’d caused, but now, with the emotions out of the way, he changed his mind. He wanted this one.
In female-speak, that meant he wanted to get to know her better. In male-speak, he wanted her in his bed, like, now.
She was young, probably in her mid-twenties, with that cascade of wavy blond hair, blond brows and blond lashes, those delicate doll features and the fair skin of someone who preferred to hiss at the sun rather than to bask in it. And she was—
Familiar. He knew her, he realized. Somehow, someway, he knew her. Finally, an explanation as to why he’d felt what he’d felt when she’d first moved in, and yet he had no idea when or where they would have met.
“You’re staring,” she said, chewing on her bottom lip.
A nervous habit, definitely. One that made him think she was slightly … broken.
A protective instinct he usually only experienced on the job sprang to life. Annnd, yes, there was the guilt and the shame again.
Why? Why would he feel this way about her?
Well, no matter the answer, Red was back in the running. Levi didn’t date the broken. Ever. He protected, he avenged, but he didn’t fix. How could he? He couldn’t keep his own life on track. Besides that, he didn’t like feeling this way.
“Seriously. What?” she demanded.
“Just wondering if we’ve met before.” Even as he asked, his arms felt heavier, the muscles tense, as if memory had been stored there and he was now reliving his time with her. But … that would mean he’d held her. That wasn’t something he would forget.
Her nose scrunched up endearingly. “Is that a line? Because that sounds like a line.”
“Actually it’s a question—” can’t date her, can’t date her, really can’t date her, even though you dig her straightforwardness “—and an answer would be nice.”
“Oh.” Was that disappointment in her tone? “Well, the only answer I can give you is no. I would remember someone with your particular … attitude.” Her gaze raked over him, and the little tease shuddered as if they were discussing B-L-O-O-D. “And for your information, I’m entirely lacking in modesty about my paintings because there’s no need for it. I’m an incredible artist. Incredible!”
Confidence was more of a turn-on than straightforwardness, and she possessed more than most. There was no way she could be the broken girl he’d imagined her. Right? And guilt and shame weren’t that bad. Right?
“Never said you weren’t incredible. And what’s wrong with my attitude?”
“It kind of sucks, but I’m sure you’re told something similar all the time.” Up her hand went, her nail back in her mouth, her teeth nibbling. “I, uh, smell coffee,” she said, a sudden tremble in her voice, “and yes, I’d love some. Thanks.”
She darted around him and breezed inside, a waft of cinnamon and turpentine accompanying her. As he watched, momentarily speechless, she stalked to his kitchen.
His brain eventually chugged out of the station. Who did she think she was? His home was his sanctuary and strangers were never allowed. Not even hot ones.
To be honest, this girl was the first person other than himself to ever step inside the apartment. His partner was avoiding him, and his family was … well, he had no idea where. At eighteen, he’d left home and had never looked back. His parents had died when he was six, and none of his relatives had wanted him, so he’d hopped from one foster family to another until the age of thirteen, when a depressed housewife and her emotionally abusive husband had adopted him. Good times.
So, yeah, call him paranoid, call him domineering and selfish and rude, but what was his was his, and he never shared.
But you’re learning to share, remember?
Not anymore!
He would kick her out after scolding her for her daring—
and, as a courtesy, he wouldn’t shoot her in her pretty face—and then they could discuss going to dinner, maybe a movie.
He would have the blonde or no one, he decided.
But he took one look at her and found himself rooted in