Chapter 3
Chapter Three
H unt kept a tight grip on his temper as he jerked the handcuffed John around.
A police cruiser turned onto the street. Hunt had called it in. A male and female officer got out. Hunt recognized the woman, a veteran in the SFPD. He handed over the now-silent but still belligerent John.
“Guy hit his wife,” Hunt said.
The female officer, Maureen Polansky, glared. The other officer shook his head.
Yeah, they’d seen it all before, but for Hunt, there was a special place in hell for a man who’d hurt someone physically smaller than them—especially a woman or a child. And especially someone you were supposed to love.
“There were lots of witnesses. And he assaulted another woman.”
The upside of that was if Marcie decided not to press charges, they could still charge him with hitting Savannah.
Hunt glanced over at Savannah, and rage stirred in his gut. Her lip was swollen and split, and there was dried blood on the corner of her mouth. She leaned against the low, stone wall marking the boundary of the property, watching John with undisguised hatred.
She’d attacked John like she was a tiger, not fifty pounds smaller than the guy.
They’d have a discussion about that later.
“Will the wife press charges?” Polansky asked.
“Not sure. Try your best.”
“We’ve got it from here, Detective,” the other officer said.
Hunt turned to Savannah. She watched him coming, those gray eyes full of secrets and wariness.
He gently gripped her chin, studied her lip, and tried to ignore the fact that he also noticed they were perfectly shaped.
She didn’t fidget or fuss, and his chest tightened. That told him she’d likely been hit in the face before.
That, he really didn’t like.
“Come on.” He took her arm and tugged her to her feet. He pulled her toward his place.
“Don’t you have to get to work?” she asked.
“I will.”
“Surely crime waits for no man.”
He unlocked his front door and towed her upstairs. As they entered his living area, she looked around with interest.
“Wow… You’re so neat. And tidy .”
His lips quirked. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”
He didn’t have much in the way of decoration, but everything was neat and tidy. He attributed that to his military training. He did have a nice, framed photo of the San Francisco skyline on the wall.
She made a sound.
Hunt’s lips twitched. “We can’t all be wild, disorganized artists.”
“I’m not disorganized. I know exactly where all my stuff is.”
“That’s impossible.” He pulled her into the kitchen, then gripped her slim waist and set her on the island.
She gasped.
And Hunt marveled at the fact that his hands almost spanned her small waist.
He reached over and opened the freezer, pulled out an ice pack, and wrapped it in a kitchen towel. Then he pressed it to her lip.
Savannah pulled in a sharp breath. “I have ice at my place.”
“My ice is better.” He met her gaze and leaned a hip against the island. “You have a problem letting someone help you?”
She shifted her shoulders, looking uncomfortable. “I’m just used to looking after myself.”
Maybe she had to, because she was never anywhere long enough to let anyone close. He noted in his check on Savannah Cole that she didn’t have a permanent place of residence.
She waved the ice pack around. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a mystery that needs solving.”
He pushed the ice pack back on her lip. “If the shoe fits.”
“I’m not a mystery. I’m a simple woman.”
He snorted.
Her eyes narrowed. “I am.”
“Sure.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Detective Morgan.”
“Call me Hunt.”
“I like Hunter better.” Then she clamped her mouth shut like she hadn’t meant to say that.
No one called him Hunter. Even his mom called him Hunt. But he liked the idea of this mysterious, gray-eyed blonde calling him Hunter.
“You can call me Hunter.” He cocked his head. “You shouldn’t have engaged John.”
Her face hardened. “He was hurting Marcie. I wasn’t going to let that asshole lay his hands on her again.”
The vehemence in her voice made him even more intrigued. “You could’ve been really hurt.”
She shrugged, waving the ice pack around again. “There were people around. I’m not stupid. And I told Ella-Mae to get you right away.” She paused. “I had to do something.”
He pushed the ice pack back on again.
“The lip is all right,” she said. “It’ll heal up fast.”
“You know this from experience?”
Her gaze shifted, and she suddenly seemed very interested in his backsplash tiles.
“Do you think Marcie will press charges?” she asked.
Hunt sighed. “I’ve spoken with her before… DV situations are difficult.”
“He’s a violent, aggressive asshole, so it seems pretty cut and dry to me.”
Hunt scraped a hand over his hair. “It should be.” But it never was. “Will you press charges?”
Her gaze dropped. “I’m not really hurt…”
“It’ll help.”
“No.” She shook her head.
“Savannah—”
“I can’t. I…” She bit her lip.
“Well, let’s see how it goes with Marcie, or the asshole will get off.”
Savannah’s gaze moved back to his face. “I am sorry. You must see assholes get away with all kinds of stuff.”
“Yeah.” It was the hardest part of his job.
“It sucks that sometimes the bad guys are clever enough to avoid consequences.” There was resignation buried deep in her voice. “Life is never fair.”
“Hey.” Hunt put a finger under her chin. “Life isn’t always fair, but it isn’t all bad.”
She didn’t respond, but her fingers circled his wrist. She pushed his hand away, but her gaze locked on it. She got a focused look.
“I want to sculpt your hands.”
Hunt frowned. “What?”
“Your hands.” She turned his hand over. “They’re so strong, and you have long fingers.” She stroked her fingers over his knuckles and the scars there. “You have strength. You’ve lived. Worked. It shows.”
“Savannah…”
Her gaze flicked up.
“You’d better stop stroking my hands like that, because it’s giving me ideas, and I have to get to the station.”
She dropped his hand like it was on fire. “I need to go.” She leaped off the island and dumped the ice pack in the sink. “Um, thanks for the ice, and the help.”
“Try not to take on any more abusive assholes today.”
That got him a faint smile. “The day is young, so I can’t make any promises.”
“Keep an eye on that lip.”
“Right.” She headed for the stairs.
“And Savannah?”
She paused and looked back at him.
“I’m a detective. My job is to solve puzzles. And it’s too late, because I’m planning to solve yours.”
Her eyes widened, and he caught a flash of strong emotion. Fear, but something else, as well. “Hunter—”
“I’ll see you later.”
She stared at him for a beat, then fled.
Oh yes, she was definitely a mystery he planned to solve.
* * *
Savannah hunched over the table, moving her hands over the clay.
It was coming to life. Matching the picture in her head exactly.
She’d been working feverishly, and lost track of time.
After the drama of the morning, she’d worked at her computer for a bit, and then had finally given in to the urgent, growing need to sketch.
To sketch Hunter.
She’d finally made herself stop, and paint. But those hands—those strong, steady, scarred hands—wouldn’t leave her alone. She’d had to capture them.
And not with charcoal or paint.
She’d pulled out some clay and gotten to work.
His strong hands were coming to life for her.
She’d captured the strength of the man who stood for others. Who protected. Her sculpture had morphed a little. In it, those strong hands were cradling a set of smaller, more feminine ones between them. She hadn’t used her own hands as the template on purpose. It was just the easiest option.
She stroked the clay. Dammit . She couldn’t hold everything in place in order to get it just right. And she didn’t want to use a vise.
A thumping sound interrupted her thoughts.
She frowned.
The thumping came again. She realized someone was hammering on her door.
With an irritated huff, she carefully set the sculpture down and headed down the stairs. She swiped her hands on her shirt.
She yanked open the door. “What?”
Hunter stood on her doorstep. He was still in the suit pants and blue shirt from this morning, but his tie and holster were gone.
“I’m checking on you,” he said. “I saw your light on.”
She frowned.
“It’s midnight,” he added.
“It is?” Then she shook her head. “Come here.” She grabbed his shirt and yanked him inside.
She realized that her hands were still mostly covered in clay, which was now smeared on his shirt.
But she didn’t care about that right now. Her mind was whirling too much to be sorry she’d messed up his shirt. She needed to finish her sculpture.
“Savannah—”
“Shush. Just hurry up.” She bounded up the stairs.
She moved back to the plastic-covered dining table. She worked the clay again. She felt almost delirious. She had to finish it.
“Here.” She grabbed his hands—the real ones. Those big, strong hands that had inspired her. “Hold here. Don’t press too hard, or I’ll have to kill you.”
He made a sound. “I’m a detective, remember? You’d get caught.”
“I’d be justified, if you ruin this.”
She shifted, her body brushing his. Now that he was holding it, she could work on crafting the female hands clasped gently, but possessively, by those larger male ones.
She lost track of time again, following the vision in her head.
Then finally, it was done.
Savannah straightened, and felt how stiff her back and neck were.
“Can I let go?”
She blinked, Hunt’s deep voice bringing her fully back to reality. “Yes.”
He stared at the sculpture of the hands. “It’s incredible, Savannah. So lifelike.”
Did he recognize his own hands? She cleared her throat, and grinned. “It’s gorgeous. Just like I pictured it.”
He cocked his head. “Is that how it works? You have a picture in your head?”
She nodded. “Like a vision. But usually, I find nothing ever works out quite how you imagine it. That’s the struggle of an artist, having this vision, but not having the skills to realize it as perfectly as you want. But this one worked out.”
“Does it have a name?”
She met his gaze. “ Strength . Ah, thanks for the help.”
“You didn’t give me much choice.”
Her smile widened. “And it looks like I owe you a shirt.”
He glanced down at the smears and grunted.
Savannah took a step, then swayed.
“Hey.” Strong arms slid around her.
“I’m fine. Just lightheaded.” The room spun a little.
He guided her to the couch. “When was the last time you ate?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Um, I’m not sure.”
“Did you eat dinner?”
“Um…”
“Lunch?” he asked more forcefully.
“Maybe?” She sagged against the cushions. She was pretty sure she’d grabbed a piece of bread and honey at some stage.
Hunt made an unhappy sound and strode to her kitchen. She noted that he always strode, like a man on a mission, a man with a purpose. No lazy stroll for Hunter Morgan.
He washed his hands, then opened her refrigerator. “You know you have one wilted tomato, some juice, butter, and a hunk of cheese?”
“Yep.”
He glanced her way. “That’s it.”
“What are you? The refrigerator police? I need to get some groceries. I have some bread from Mrs. Romero.”
Hunt brought her back a glass of water, and a healthy slice of sourdough slathered with butter. He also had a wet cloth.
He sat on the ottoman in front of her, and grabbed her hands. He then set about wiping the clay off them.
Unwelcome heat pooled in her belly. When was the last time someone had taken care of her like this?
Needing a distraction, she snatched up the bread and devoured it. “You’re a bit of a mother hen.”
A line formed on his brow. “Making sure you don’t collapse is just being nice.”
“Uh huh.” She licked her fingers.
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
A flicker of heat danced in Savannah’s belly. Okay, more than a flicker, but less than a raging inferno.
But she knew herself well enough, even if it had been a tragically long time since she’d been with a man, that this thing could grow into raging-inferno territory in a heartbeat, if she let it.
“I had to get the art done. It’s a compulsion. When I’m like that, I don’t eat, sleep… I just work.”
He turned his head to look at the sculpture. “It is impressive. I never considered my hands as artwork.”
Ah, so he had recognized them. She fought back the heat filling her cheeks. “I felt inspired. Thanks for the help. I was frustrated that I couldn’t get it finished. What time is it?”
“Nearly one in the morning.”
“Shit. Well, at least I didn’t stay up all night.” She eyed him. “You just got home from work?”
“No.”
Her stomach did a funny circle. “Date?”
“Dinner with my brothers.”
“Oh. Are they cops like you?” She instantly thought of her brother, Ezra, and missed him dreadfully. He’d been a smart-ass, funny, and so much fun. Her heart clenched.
“No. Ryder is a paramedic, and Camden just got out of the military. He’s working in private security.”
“A family of protectors.” Her gaze moved back to the sculpture. God, it was so good. She leaped up. “Look at this. It’s so gorgeous.”
He came up behind her. “I know nothing about art, but it’s amazing, Savannah. You’re very talented.”
Giddy, she spun, grabbed the collar of his shirt and kissed him.
He froze.
She was feeling too good to process the consequences, and pulled back, smiling. “Thanks again for the help, Detective.”
“Wait.” His hands clamped on her waist. Then he yanked her forward.
She registered a hard body, but then all she could think about was the firm, mobile mouth capturing hers.
And the deep, slightly bossy kiss he laid on her.
She clung to him, tasting him, her head spinning.
He lifted his head.
“Right. You’d better go. I need sleep.” She eyed the clay on his shirt. There was even more now. “Oops, I made it worse. I really owe you a shirt.”
“It’s fine.”
An image of Hunt, with no shirt, lodged in her head. He’d have a tough, muscular body, she could tell. Her throat went dry.
She had to get him out of there before she did something stupid.
Then she grabbed his hand, and towed him down the stairs.
Yes, she needed him gone, before she made a mistake of epic proportions.
He stayed quiet on the journey to her front door.
She yanked the door open. “Good night, Detective.”
“Simple woman, my ass.” He ran his thumb over her lip, gently moving over where it was cut. “Good night, Savannah.”