Kate Hoffmann: Conor

He nodded once, dismissively, and she felt her temper rise. She let out a colorful oath, then drew back and kicked him squarely in the shin. “I thought you were a bad guy!” she cried, ignoring his yelp of pain and the little one-footed dance he did as he rubbed his bruised leg.

“Damn it, what did you do that for?”

“You scared me half to death! I thought you were going to kidnap me. And-and then, put a bullet in my brain or-or fit me with cement overshoes. My life flashed before my eyes. I nearly had a stroke. I could have died.”

He stared up at her, bent double with the pain. It was only then that she noticed his eyes, an odd shade of hazel mixed with gold. She’d never seen eyes quite that color. Eyes filled with cold, calculating anger-directed at her. “Yes, you could have died,” he muttered. “And I want you to remember how scared you were. Because that’s what it’s going to be like when Keenan finally gets you. Now get in the house,” he continued, emphasizing each word. “Or I’ll shoot you myself.”

With a sniff, she spun on her heel and flounced up the steps. Of all the nerve! What right did he have to treat her like some-some recalcitrant child? Next thing, he’d be throwing her over his knee and spanking her. Olivia risked a look back as she walked in the door. Good grief, why did that notion suddenly appeal to her?

When she got inside, she found Detective Wright nervously pacing the room. He looked up and relief flooded his expression. Olivia almost felt sorry for him and was about to apologize when the door slammed behind her. “What the hell were you thinking, Wright? You never, ever, let a witness out of your sight. She could be dead now and then where would we be?”

Olivia turned and sent the dark-haired cop a livid glare, one he returned in equal measure, sending a shiver down her spine. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic? Besides, it’s not his fault. I snuck out.”

He took a step toward her and she backed away. “Did I ask for your opinion?” He turned back to Detective Wright. “Why don’t you watch the road and the perimeter? I’ll stay with Ms. Farrell for now.”

“I don’t want you here,” Olivia said, tipping her chin up defiantly. “I want Officer Do-Right to stay. You can leave.”

“Officer Wright is needed outside. And since you’ve decided to ignore his warnings, you’re stuck with me. Or more precisely, I’m stuck with you.” His gaze raked the length of her body and stopped at her toes. “Give me your shoes.”

“What?”

“Take them off.” He turned and stalked to her bedroom, then emerged a few moments later with the boots and loafers she’d hurriedly packed after the incident at the shop. “You can have them back once I’m sure you’re going to stay inside. Now, give me your shoes.”

Olivia had every intention of refusing but the look in his eyes told her otherwise. She sat down on the sofa and yanked both shoes off, then threw them in the direction of his head. Then she crossed her arms and sank back into the cushions, watching him suspiciously and waiting for the next demand.

He drew Detective Wright aside and spoke softly with him, giving Olivia a chance to observe him in an objective light. He stood at least half a head taller than Wright and his dark good looks stood in sharp contrast with Dudley’s clean-cut choirboy features. When his face wasn’t filled with fury, the guy was actually quite handsome-high cheekbones and a strong jaw, a mouth that looked as if it had been sculpted by an artist. His hair was dark, nearly black, and his eyes were that strange shade that she couldn’t quite describe in words. Fascinating. Unearthly. Riveting.

While Dudley looked conscientious and trustworthy, this new guy had a wild and unpredictable air about him. His hair was just a little too long, his clothes a bit too casual. He had a sinewy build, long legs and broad shoulders and a flat belly that showed no evidence of too many donuts. When they both turned her way, she averted her eyes and casually picked at the fringe of a throw pillow she’d pulled onto her lap.

Detective Wright approached the sofa. “Ms. Farrell, I’m going to leave you in the care of Detective Quinn. He’ll be with you until the trial. I hope you won’t give him any more trouble.”

She forced a sweet smile and slowly rose. “That all depends upon Detective Quinn’s behavior. As long as he can stifle his Neanderthal tendencies, it will be pure bliss.”

Wright looked back and forth between the two of them, then nodded before hurrying out of the room. Left alone with Quinn, Olivia wondered whether she might be better off taking her chances with Keenan’s hit man. It would be best to keep Quinn off guard, to refuse to give in to his bullying. Twelve days of “yes, sir” and “no, sir” would be completely intolerable. She shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it his way. “You might as well take it,” she said. “Do you want my socks as well?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched and he didn’t speak for a long time. “I don’t want to be here any more than you do, Ms. Farrell. But it’s my job to keep you safe. If you let me do my job, then we’ll get along just fine.”

When he wasn’t yelling at her, he had a very pleasant voice, deep and rich. His accent was working-class Boston, but there was something else there, a hint of something exotically foreign. “You said that you’re being punished,” she ventured. “What did you do wrong?”

“Nothing you have to worry about,” he muttered. “As long as I don’t lose my temper again, you should be safe.” He wandered around the room, checking every window and door, then disappeared into her bedroom. She imagined him rifling through her bag, plucking at the lacy scraps of underwear and smelling her perfume. She could always tell when a man was attracted to her, but Quinn was impossible to read. He was probably telling the truth when he said he’d just as soon shoot her.

When he returned, he had a pillow and comforter in his arms. He set them on the back of the sofa. “You’ll sleep in here tonight,” he murmured.

“I sleep on the sofa and you get my bed? That doesn’t seem fair.”

“No,” he said, “you sleep on the sofa and I sleep on the floor. We sleep in the same room, Ms. Farrell. If that doesn’t suit, we can sleep in the same bed. That’s up to you. I just need to be able to get to you quickly.”

Olivia scowled. “Listen, Quinn, I-”

“Conor,” he interrupted. “You can call me Conor. And there’s no use arguing. I’m not going to change my mind.”

Olivia opened her mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. She’d never felt entirely safe with Detective Wright. But with Conor Quinn, there was no doubt in her mind that he’d do what he had to do to protect her, regardless of her feelings in the matter. When he’d grabbed her on the beach, she had to admit she’d been scared. What if he had been one of Keenan’s men? Chances were she’d be floating facedown in the bay right about now.

“I’m going to make a fresh pot of coffee,” she said grudgingly. “Would you like a cup?” He nodded, but when she got up, he followed her into the kitchen. He methodically checked the windows and doors, then sat down on a stool at the breakfast bar. “Are you going to follow me around all day?” she asked as she filled the pot with cold water.

“If I have to,” he said. His shrewd gaze skimmed over her body, blatantly, as if he were trying to see right through her clothes. “Why did you climb out the window?”

Olivia sighed. “You have to understand that I’m used to my own space, my own life. I never wanted this, never wanted to get involved. I shouldn’t be here.”

“But you are involved,” he murmured, his eyes probing, his expression curious.