“Holden?” She whispered his name, her belly tightening as she anticipated his touch. Since he’d kissed her literally senseless behind the stage curtain, all Bella thought of when she looked at him was how it would feel to go beyond the kisses and into the full depth of Holden’s lovemaking.
At first she thought she heard wrong, that maybe he’d said an endearment instead of her name. Until she leaned over him, straining to hear, and recognized that Holden wasn’t talking.
He was snoring.
* * *
Holden woke to the aromas of coffee and bacon, two of his favorite scents. Second and third after the scent of female, which now took a place behind the scent of one particular woman.
Bella.
He looked at his watch, an antiquity he refused to give up even though most agents relied on their phones. He’d slept eight hours solid after Bella went back to her room, waking only when his alarm vibrated every two hours for him to do a house check. He trusted MVPD and the officers patrolling the yard to keep them secure, but he still wanted to check the inside regularly.
It’d taken every iota of bearing he had to not move when Bella came into the room. He’d started to doze off but immediately alerted when he heard her steps, then picked up her scent. A soft floral scent, belying the tough-skinned reporter image she projected. Mingled with what was undeniably her scent—musky, sexy, the epitome of feminine. Pure Bella.
It felt like it had been years instead of days that he’d had to keep his arms crossed, make himself not reach for her, grasp her waist, pull her to him, have her straddle him and allow him to press his erection against her until she writhed and they went back to her bedroom. Because he was going to make love to her in her bed, all night long.
Just not last night, or tonight, or anytime that he was on duty with the serial killer case. It was a rookie mistake to get involved with a civilian during an open investigation. He wasn’t about to compound it by risking her safety.
“You’re finally moving. Here’s your coffee.” She greeted him from the kitchen but stayed there, didn’t come close to him again. He felt like a class-A jerk.
“I was up every two hours, checking around.” He stretched, got up, walked to the counter. “Thanks.”
“I’m making eggs, if you want some.” She deftly cracked a brown egg against a clear glass bowl and looked at him.
“Sure, but only if you’ll let me make lunch.”
“Your job is to protect and serve, not cook.” She added more eggs, tossed in salt, pepper, cayenne and whisked them into a frothy concoction with a fork. Her defensive posture reflected what he’d feared.
“You know I wasn’t sleeping last night.”
“Yeah. Got that figured out.” She ignited the burner under a large pan, melted butter, poured the eggs. All without looking at him.
“It’s not that I don’t want to—”
“Spare me the integrity routine, Holden. My brother’s a cop, remember? I know the rules as well as anyone. You can’t get involved with someone during a case, especially one like this with the stakes so high. And you’re protecting me, so you don’t want to get distracted in any way, especially that way. Even if we did decide to pursue a connection it’s pointless, in the long run. You live two hours away in a big city—I’m here in Mustang Valley. You’re a big bad federal agent and I’m your nemesis, a reporter.”
“You’re a blogger.” Wasn’t that reporting light?
“A blogger and a journalist who is trying to get a job as an investigative reporter. Geesh, Holden, you still grimace whenever the word reporter comes up. What is your exact problem with the news media? It has to be more than what you told me in the diner.”
“I don’t have a problem with the media. The public needs information and it’s the best way to deliver it. My problem is that I don’t appreciate anything but the truth when it comes to reporting.” He paused, then decided to just say it. “And I am not impressed with the dishonesty reporters utilize to get their story.”
“Hmm.” She moved a spatula around the pan, scrambling the eggs into fluffy clouds. He noticed the sexy robe from last night—he’d peeked—was replaced by yoga capris and a tank top. Her hair was up in a high ponytail and she had zero makeup on. And was more startlingly beautiful than ever.
Discomfort had him lean against the counter, eager to figure out what she was thinking.
After she dished up the eggs, she slid a plate and fork to him and took her plate around the counter. They sat at the same small table as yesterday.
Holden had no idea how it’d happened, but one day felt like years. As if Bella had always been a part of his life. What did Grandma St. Clair used to say? That it only took a minute when it was the right one? She’d say that whenever she told the story about meeting Grandpa in Paris right after World War II.
Was Bella his match?
“Stop it.” She sipped her coffee, ate a few bites.
“What?” He decided to dig into the food before he said something more inflammatory.
“You’re trying to figure out why I’m not exploding at your nasty dig toward reporters. I don’t know a lot, Holden, but I do know that it’s never smart to generalize or label. I’m not some jerk trying to get a story by hurting anyone or lying to them.”