Tara Quinn - Trusting Ryan

Had she done that?

And left that love mark on his neck, too?

Was he going to be angry when he saw that?

Guiding his head gently back down to her chest, she ran her fingers slowly back and forth through his hair. It was full and thick, even for its shortness. And surprisingly soft.

So many things about this man were surprising to her. And yet, not surprising at all. He fit her so exactly, not only where they were still connected, but in all ways. He approached his job as she did, with everything he had, sparing little for any other life. He cared. He didn’t give up. He saw reality and still believed.

He had unbounded energy and had found a way, in spite of the experience and time it took to make detective, to avoid cynicism.

The weight of his head grew heavier and she hoped he’d allowed himself to rest. The man had worked all night. And if she had to guess, she’d figure he’d been up all day today, getting ready for tonight.

Everything in the apartment had been perfect. He’d dusted since she’d been there last. Vacuum marks had still lined the carpet. And the furniture outside was new, added since her previous visit when she’d peeked outside to the empty patio.

Dinner had already been prepared, other than the cooking of the steaks. Even the meat had been marinated.

It all spoke Ryan to her. Attention to every detail. Few mistakes. Dependable.

And she couldn’t fall prey to the tugs he was making on her heart. Neediness had cost her part of her soul.

A part she’d never get back.

As she continued to stroke his hair, Audrey glanced around the bedroom. As pristine as the rest of his apartment, and as sparsely decorated, the room was what she would have expected of a man whose priority was not his home, but rather, in getting the sleep he needed to do his job.

A bed. A dresser. Another big-screen television—for those sleepless nights? No window treatments other than the standard white blinds that were on every window in the condo.

And in every other unit in the complex, as far she’d been able to tell.

Nothing that really spoke of the man’s life. His past. No pictures of parents—or any other family. No obvious mementos from past girlfriends.

Not even a receipt on the dresser or a belt hanging from the doorknob.

He didn’t put himself out there.

And that was just fine with her.

“I want to make love to you again.” The words were uttered against her skin. Other than his mouth he hadn’t moved.

And she was already filling up with the moist heat that threatened to flood her lower belly. With a hand on his buttocks, she pulled him more fully inside her again.

“Then I think you should,” she whispered, needing him so badly she ached for him.

But only physically.

Please, God, let it only be physical.

CHAPTER FIVE

RYAN GOT UP in time to make it to the meeting with Scott Markovich. The kid, fearing that his stepfather would hurt his mother if he was in detention and not there to protect her, admitted that the woman had been home the afternoon the bastard had come after Scott in a way a man should never come at a boy.

She’d been drinking since early morning and had been plastered enough that her husband thought he could get away with a little on the side with her son.

He’d miscalculated Scott’s determination never to be touched that way again.

He’d also overestimated his wife’s stupor. She’d come into the room soon enough to keep Scott from killing the son of a bitch.

And she’d promised him that from that moment forward she would never, ever let another drop of alcohol pass her lips.

Scott believed her.

Ryan didn’t. As much as Scott wasn’t going to like it at first, being separated from his mother was the best thing that could happen to the boy. There was a relative, an aunt on his father’s side, who desperately wanted him.

None of that was Ryan’s business, however. His business here was almost done. A report to the prosecutor and he was out.

Another job done. A successful outcome this time.

Not something he ever took for granted.

Just as he didn’t take for granted the woman who, on Saturday night, he was once again holding in his arms.

Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. His sudden need for Audrey was not something he was comfortable with. It didn’t fit at all with his life plan. With his self-concept.

But one thing he’d learned in life—sometimes the things least understood were the most important.

“Thank you,” she said now, her voice sleepy.

“For what?” They’d been talking for more than an hour, lying there naked in his bed, the covers up around their waists.

They’d been in bed almost three hours.

“For Scott.”

He shrugged. “It’s my job.”

“Maybe.”

There was no maybe about it.

“But there’s something different about you. Something that makes you, I don’t know, more accessible. I don’t think Scott would have talked to anyone else. He’s not very trusting of cops. As a rule, every time they’ve come around, his life has been painfully disrupted.”

Because of his mother’s drinking. And because when he’d reported his stepfather’s earlier abuse, there hadn’t been enough solid evidence to charge the man with anything. And now, when Scott had been defending himself from a horror that must have seemed worse than death to him, he’d been arrested and detained on charges of manslaughter.

They were all doing their jobs. Enforcing laws that were in place to protect society, the people. So why was it so often that the victims were the ones who had the fewest rights?

With a brief flash of his birth mother, and a briefer one of his birth father—a man Ryan still struggled to accept for so many reasons on so many levels—Ryan said, “I think maybe my age helped us out this time. Most times it’s the other way around.”

He could say this here, to her. She’d understand. Audrey must have to fight many of the same battles he did, having so much responsibility, being capable of a maturity that was uncommon at such a young age.

Being forced into it by life’s lessons.

Maybe someday, he’d even be able to tell her about the circumstances surrounding his conception.

Maybe someday. Not today. Other than a few brief conversations with the parents who’d raised him, Ryan hadn’t talked about that particular case since they’d solved it the year before. Not even to the biological grandfather who was a law-enforcement icon in this state.

“How would your age have had anything to do with Scott’s ability to trust you?” She turned onto her back, her head in the crook of his shoulder, pulling his hands around her to rest across the flatness of her belly.

“Maybe it doesn’t. I just figured I’m probably closer to his age than any other detective he’s had to deal with. I figured that might have helped him relate to me a little bit.”

Her skull dug into his flesh as she turned to look up at him, grinning. “What, they give out some kind of memo at the office listing detectives’ exact ages?” she asked.

“No.” Suddenly Ryan wasn’t feeling so good. Surely she knew…he just assumed she knew. Everyone seemed to.

Shit. What if she didn’t know? His skin grew cold. Clammy. Worse than when he’d been facing that freaked-out druggie with the sawed-off shotgun the previous month.

“Then why would you say that?” she asked again. He could tell, from the frown marring her brow, the confusion in her gaze, that she was catching on to something.

And had no idea what.

Disentangling himself as gently, but as quickly, as possible, Ryan stood, skipping underwear as he pulled on his jeans and zipped them.