Her Lawman Protector

“We were poor kids. We had no power, and neither did our parents. Berto ended up like too many of our friends.”

“How is your mother now?” Liv asked.

“I take care of her and Dad,” he replied. “No worries there.”

Jack was stupid to be giving her any information about his family at all. What was it about her? Just talking with this woman made him want to open up. It felt good to let it out, and she listened so easily without judgment. But the more she knew—the more she could pass along to whoever else was working this ring—the more vulnerable he became. She made him feel out of his depth in a whole new way, which meant it was time to shut up.

“Enough about me now. Let’s move on to you,” he said with a small smile. “Are there any boyfriends, exes, casual love interests that I should be aware of?”

She shook her head. “I’m still licking my wounds.”

“Fair enough. How about your store?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “How is it financed, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“With a loan, like everyone else.” She put her cup down onto the saucer with a soft clink. “I’m hoping to be able to make enough profit to pay it off one day. Bookstores have such big competition with online sellers, but there is just something about being able to flip through a book, hold it, look at the other options on the same shelf... I’m hoping to capitalize on the tourist traffic.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I get it.”

“Anyway, I’ve dreamed of owning a bookstore for as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, I used to make books of my own with paper folded in half and a stapler. Then I’d set them up for my own bookstore.”

“So why do it now?”

“Because I needed something for me,” she said. “I’ve been cut loose, and I need something that reminds me of...me.”

Her connection to the place did seem genuine. Jack’s gaze moved to the kitchen windowsill, where a collection of books sat between two bookends. They didn’t look like cookbooks, either.

Liv followed his gaze.

“Just some kitchen reading,” she said.

“Kitchen reading.” He chuckled. “Like what?”

“A few classics—some Charles Dickens, some Shakespeare, a book on chess strategy.”

“Yeah?” He raised his eyebrows.

“I’ve always liked Dickens. While I wait for pots to boil, I reread some of my favorite parts.”

“I was more interested in the chess strategy,” he replied.

“Oh, that.” She rose and went to the windowsill, plucking out the volume and handing it over to him. “Evan used to play chess, but I stopped playing with him after a couple years of marriage.”

“Why?” Jack flipped through the book—it was thick and looked very involved.

“He’s a bad loser.” She shrugged. “He’s also a cocky winner. It wasn’t good for our relationship either way.”

“So why the interest in chess now?” He clapped the book shut. “If it were me, I’d hate the game, just for bad associations.”

“I don’t know.” A small smile came to her lips. “A girl likes to know she could win, if she were pressed.”

Was she being pressed? That was the question. Did her ex-husband have her in a corner, or did she wield more power than he thought? She was a woman who reread the classics while she cooked and used her spare minutes to learn chess moves. She was daunting.

“How good are you at chess?” Jack asked.

“Better than I look.” She met his eye with a cool smile. “And better than Evan thinks.”

“So you play for spite?” he asked.

“No, I play to win.” She shrugged. “There’s something about a well-performed strategy that leaves your opponent in the corner. No moves left. Only then realizing what you’ve done to him.”

That was ominous, and it reminded him a little too closely of the people who had been pressured into selling their family homes...they would have realized too late, too.

“It’s getting late,” Liv said after a moment. “I should really get ready for bed.”

“Sure. You don’t need to entertain me. I’m here on a job.”

Liv rose and glanced around. She seemed to spot the slip on the radiator, because she hurried across the room and snatched it up. When she looked back at him, she looked embarrassed.

“Sorry about that,” she said.

“It’s your home,” he replied. “Don’t apologize for anything. I’m not a guest here, Liv.”

She tucked the slip under her arm and headed for a cupboard. She pulled out some sheets, a blanket and a pillowcase.

“I don’t have any more bed pillows,” she said. “But we could cover a throw pillow with this pillow case, and you should be comfortable. I think.” She grimaced. “No one visits me.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Liv licked her lips. “I normally take my shower at night. If you wanted yours first—”

“Liv.” His voice came out as more of a bark than he’d intended, and he softened his tone. “I’m not a guest. Do what you would normally do, okay? I’m fine.”

She pulled a hand through her auburn waves. “Okay. If you insist.”

She disappeared into the bathroom, and a few moments later the water came on with a rattle. Jack distracted himself by making up his bed on the sofa. He made his bed at home with military precision, and he did his best to replicate that job here. The sofa was too short, but he’d make do. He noticed that even the sheets had that soft, floral scent about them.

It was all very diverting from the case that he’d rather be thinking over, as was the sound of the shower through the shut bathroom door. He was a man, after all, and Liv was a very beautiful woman. Her divorce hadn’t dampened any of her natural spunk, and he wished it had. If she were a little less radiant, maybe he could focus better on the work at hand.

Instead, as he spread the blanket on top of the sheet, he was remembering what it felt like to pull her close for the camera. She felt just as good in his arms as he’d imagined back before he’d realized she was tied up in Evan’s mess.

The water in the bathroom turned off, and Jack glanced around the living room, his gaze moving over a bookshelf, an ottoman that had a hinged lid for storage and her closed bedroom door. If she had something to hide, where would it be?

The bathroom door opened, and Liv came out with a billow of steam. Her hair was wrapped up in a towel, and the rest of her ample curves were draped in a white terry cloth robe that she held shut with one hand at her throat.

“Done,” she said, shooting him a smile.

She looked different in her robe—her face clean of makeup and her eyes all the more entrancing without the liner and mascara. She looked younger this way, softer. She was barefoot, and he noted that her toenails were painted hot pink. And he liked it.

“The towels are on the rack in the bathroom,” she said, heading toward her bedroom and opening the door. “If you’re hungry, feel free to raid the fridge. You’re guarding my life—it’s the least I can offer.”