Undercover Passion. Melinda Di Lorenzo
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an internal battle. If she was on the edge of telling him the truth—or even a small piece of it—he didn’t want to spoil it by breaking contact. In hopes of getting her to talk about whatever it was that had rattled her, Harley had deliberately bought them some one-on-one time by keeping Teegan occupied. What he needed to do now was to use it effectively. To get her to trust him and open up even more. If that meant some literal hand-holding, then so be it. So, instead of pulling away, he ran his thumb over the back of her hand.
“Hey.” His voice came out a little huskier than he’d meant it to, and he had to clear his throat before adding, “My head might look thick, but I can tell something’s bothering you.”
Her eyes, which had been focused on their clasped hands, flicked up to rove over his face. “Your head’s not thick.”
He feigned surprise. “It’s not? Well. That’s going to be a big shock to my brother. He’s been telling people for years just how thick it is.”
Liz laughed, her shoulders loosening visibly. “Let me guess. An older brother?”
Harley nodded, wondering if he should feel less comfortable with telling her a few true details about his life. But who was to say that Harley-the-artist and Harley-the-detective didn’t have things in common?
“Not even two years between us,” he told her. “Thinks he’s pretty smart, though.”
“Well, trust me. If he’s calling you thickheaded, he’s not the smart one.” She blushed. “Sorry.”
“What for? Complimenting me?”
“For insulting your brother.”
He shrugged. “Don’t worry. He can’t hear you.”
“I know,” Liz said ruefully. “And that makes it worse. I’m talking behind his back, and I’ve never even met him.”
“Feel free to send him an apologetic email. He likes that kind of thing.”
She started to laugh, but the sound cut off as quickly as it had come. Her expression sobered, and she bit her lip, hesitation clear on her face.
“Harley?”
“Yes?”
“I—” She stopped, then pulled her hand away and shook her head.
Harley quashed a stab of regret at the loss of contact, flexed his fingers and made himself smile. “You what?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Nothing usually means something.”
“Says who?” Her reply had a forced lightness to it, and Harley responded in kind.
“Every man since the dawn of time,” he teased. “And just FYI, I have it on good authority that I’m an excellent secret-keeper. I mean, have I even once mentioned that secret stash of chocolate-chip cookies in Teegan’s sock drawer?”
“She has a—” Liz groaned. “Ha ha. Very funny.”
“Made you laugh, though, didn’t it?”
“You realize that saying ‘ha ha’ doesn’t count as a laugh, right?”
“No?”
She smiled. “Afraid not.”
“Hmm,” he replied. “I guess it’s an imperfect talent. I’ll keep working on it.”
“On the other side of things...you’re pretty good at the rest of this stuff.”
“That’s great.” He leaned forward and, in a conspiratorial whisper, added, “But you’re going to have to define ‘this stuff.’”
Her smile widened. “Talking. Listening. Making me say ‘ha ha’ and generally distracting me.”
“In that case, I’m happy to help. Even if I don’t know what it is I’m distracting you from.”
She opened her mouth, and Harley expected to hear another denial, but instead she let out a vague affirmation that sounded like a sigh. “Yes.”
It’s a step in the right direction, Harley thought to himself, while out loud he stated, “You know, not too long ago, some woman I know told me I’m a good listener.”
She smiled. “Some woman, huh?”
“Mmm. You may have seen her around. Has a noisy kid. Owns an art shop. Pretty blue eyes.” The last bit slipped out before Harley could stop it, but she blushed in response, and he was glad—just this once—that his mouth was working faster than his brain. “Anyway. This woman. She’d probably tell you it’s okay to use me as a sounding board.”
“This woman might be right, but she might not have the whole story.”
“Try me.”
Liz’s mouth worked for a second, like she was trying to find a way around his words. “You know, Mr. Maxwell, I get the feeling that you could charm your way into anything.”
It was Harley’s turn to laugh. “Well, Ms. James, if my brother could hear that, he’d be even more shocked than if he heard you say I wasn’t thickheaded.”
“He doesn’t think you’re charming?”
“I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m still an awkward kid, doodling in a notebook.”
It was a bit of an exaggeration. Harley knew that Brayden appreciated his talents, and also took advantage of them whenever needed. But he couldn’t very well tell Liz that he’d morphed from doodler into detective, so he just offered a grin and let her doubtfully sweep her gaze over his chest and shoulders.
“You know what?” she said after a second. “I just can’t picture it.”
“What? My doodling?”
“You, being awkward.”
“Perfect. I’ve got you fooled. My work here is done.” He pretended to stand, and Liz’s face abruptly crumpled.
Under other circumstances, her obvious distress at the thought of his leaving would’ve been a huge fan to his ego. Right then, it just deepened his concern. He dropped back into the chair and slid it closer to Liz, then reached out with the intention of putting his hands on her wrists and offering a word of comfort. Instead, she leaned into his chest, and his only choice was to either push her away or wrap his arms around her. He picked the latter without even thinking about it. As she clung to him without any sign of letting go, her body shook a little, and he knew she had to be crying.
Automatically, Harley’s hands started to move in a soothing circle over her back. “It’s all right. I’m not going anywhere.”
When she answered, it was without pulling away, and her words were small and muffled. “I’m scared.”
The statement tugged at him. “I can see that.”
She held tightly for a few more seconds before finally easing back. Harley couldn’t help but note that she didn’t pull away fully—their knees still touched, and the tiniest move would propel her into his arms once more. He could also see the streak of tears down her face, enhanced by the transfer of clay from his shirt, and it took real effort to keep from reaching up to brush them away in a too-intimate gesture. In the end, she beat him to it. She lifted up her thumb to wipe at the damp spot she’d left on his clothes.
“Sorry about that.” There was a mix of regret and frustration in the apology.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said back. “It’s probably cleaner now than it was before. I should be thanking you.”
“Thank the woman you barely know for literally crying onto your shoulder? That’s gotta be a new one.”
“I know you at least a little.” He gave her knee a squeeze.
“Well