Nichole Severn - Rules In Defiance

Officer Ramsey read the document, then lowered it to her side. “You’re suing the department?”

“Not yet, but if you insist on trying to charge my client of Alexis Jacobs’s murder without evidence, my firm won’t have any other choice than to take you and the entire department to court.” Blake wrapped a strong grip around Waylynn’s arm and lifted her from her seat. A rush of heavy cologne churned her stomach as he escorted her to the door. “You, of all people, can’t afford that, Officer Ramsey.”

Was her lawyer threatening an Anchorage PD officer? Before Waylynn had a chance to say anything, he’d directed her into the hallway, his hand still tight around her arm.

“Doc.” In the blink of an eye, Elliot was there, and a flood of relief washed through her. Elliot with his handsome face, dark brown hair, strong jaw, broad shoulders and athletic build. Elliot, the only man she’d ever let give her a nickname that actually made her feel better whenever he said it. No cuffs. He hadn’t been arrested, but his normally gleaming stormy-gray eyes darkened with an edge as his attention locked on her lawyer’s hand. “There a problem here?”

Waylynn wrenched her arm out of Blake Henson’s hold. “I’m not being charged. Yet.”

“Thanks to me.” Her lawyer switched his briefcase from one hand to the other, then offered his hand. “Blake Henson. Dr. Hargraves’s attorney. And you are?”

“Me?” Elliot closed in on her, ignoring Blake’s extended hand, his shoulder brushing along hers as though he intended to possess her. His clean, masculine scent dived into her lungs. He looked angry, which was odd considering her next-door neighbor usually went to great lengths to hide what he was thinking by layering everything out of his mouth with sarcasm or a joke. This wasn’t like him. Too serious. Too…dangerous. “I’m her damn bodyguard.”

“You won’t be able to go home. Police tend to frown on someone living in the middle of an active crime scene.” Elliot pushed the SUV harder. The faster he got her to safety, the faster the knot behind his sternum might let up. He never looked for trouble, but he had no problem befriending it. And Waylynn Hargraves had been trouble since the day he’d moved in next door. The most recent example would be her dead assistant’s body in the tub. And the fact he’d nearly torn a man’s arm off and beat the bastard to death with it for putting his hands on her.

Not very professional. But the moment he’d seen Blake Henson’s hand on her arm, it’d taken every ounce of his control not to kill the lawyer in the middle of Anchorage PD’s station. Possessiveness unlike anything he’d experienced before had clawed up his throat and taken control. Nobody—not her lawyer, not the police, not him—touched Waylynn without her explicit permission.

“I remembered something.” Exhaustion clung to her words. The sweatpants and sweatshirt someone at the station had lent her hung off her narrow frame, but nothing could detract from her overall beauty. The light in her ordinarily bright eyes had dimmed over the past few hours. Finding a dead woman in your bathtub could have that effect on a person. “When Officer Ramsey was questioning me, she showed me a handwritten note, and I remembered writing it. Only, in the memory, there was a gun pressed to my head.” Her voice dropped as she stared out the passenger-side window. “Somebody forced me to write it.”

“You’re being framed for your assistant’s murder, but I have a sense you already knew that.” Someone had been in her home. Drugged her. Forced her to do hell knew what. And he hadn’t heard a thing aside from her scream. Right next door. Elliot strengthened his grip around the steering wheel as downtown Anchorage passed in a blur. Working for Blackhawk Security certainly had its benefits. Use of the company’s SUVs, health coverage, an armory of weapons, not spending the rest of his life behind bars in the middle of nowhere thanks to the founder of the firm. None of it did a damn bit of good if he lost the closest person he had to a friend. Snowy peaks along the Chugach Mountain Range glistened in the sun as they headed east, and he pushed one hand through his hair. Even in the middle of June, Anchorage gave him the proverbial middle finger. He missed the desert. He glanced toward Waylynn, then back to the road as the signal ahead turned red. “Anything else?”

“Nothing. Whoever drugged me knew what they were doing. I can’t remember what happened in my apartment and the drug didn’t show up on a toxicology screen. I guess I’ll take that as a win-win situation. I’m not sure I want to remember what happened.” Color drained from her face as she leaned her head into her hand and her elbow against the passenger-side door. Disheveled blond hair slid over her shoulder as she shook her head. The weight of her attention fell on him, hiking his awareness of her—of her flowery scent—to an all-time high. Geraniums. Her favorite. But not just from the bottle. Almost as though the scent had become a permanent part of her over the years. Now he couldn’t smell the damn things without thinking of her. “Why did you tell my attorney you’re my bodyguard?”

“I know you, Doc.” And not because it was his job to know. He’d spent the last year as a private investigator for Blackhawk Security, uncovering the secrets his targets hid from the world, declassifying documents for his own curiosity. Hell, he kept files on every one of his teammates. His former navy SEAL boss, Sullivan Bishop, and the fact he’d killed his own serial killer father, forensics expert Vincent Kalani and the accusations filed against him back in New York, their resident computer geek, Elizabeth Bosch—Dawson, whatever she went by now—Anthony Harris’s classified missions for the army, and the saddest of them all, their psychologist, Kate Monroe. But digging into Waylynn’s past had never crossed his mind.

The light turned green in his peripheral vision. Car horns blared for him to get moving, but he didn’t give a damn. “You’re a scientist. You’ve spent your entire life in search of the truth and there’s no way I’m going to let you get yourself killed going after this guy on your own.”

“My boss was right.” She hugged herself a bit tighter and stared out the windshield. “You and I spend way too much time together.”

“Or maybe Dr. Stover wants you all for himself.” Couldn’t blame the guy. Waylynn had a pull to her, a sort of gravity that was hard to fight. Even now, something about her urged Elliot to close the small distance between them, but he’d never cross that line. Not with Waylynn. She needed his help now and that was as far as it would go between them. Ever. He stepped on the accelerator, barely making it through the light. Her mouth parted as though she intended to deny it. “Trust me, Doc. Bosses don’t usually call lawyers when their employees are being charged with murder.”

Helping them escape out of an Iraqi prison was another thing.

“I think Matt is more interested in my research than what’s under my lab coat.” Fingers spread wide, a combination of passion and excitement controlled her hands as she spoke. She did that a lot—spoke with her hands and he couldn’t do anything but pay attention. “The research we’re doing is important. Have you heard of the warrior gene before?”

“Is that the movie about the boxer?” he asked.

“The warrior gene,” she said. “Nearly every human being alive has a monoamine oxidase A gene, but, in several cases, individuals with low activity in that specific gene were found to have higher aggression in certain high-stress situations. It’s a variant and has come to be known as the warrior gene. Identifying the subjects who possess the warrior gene has the potential to save thousands of lives a year. Active shooters could be stopped before they picked up a gun because they wouldn’t be able to get one in the first place. Homicide rates would plummet. Army, navy, air force, the entire military would benefit from our research.”