Chapter 7 #2
Her belly curdled and she looked away. “No. It’s just a hobby.”
“We both know it’s not just a hobby, Susannah.”
Ice flowed over her, locking her chest. She turned slowly, unable to breathe. “What did you call me?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I know that you’re really Susannah Hart.”
She backed up and shook her head. “No.”
“Hey, take it easy.” He held out a hand.
She couldn’t be Susannah. If she was, she’d be dragged back to that horrible place. She’d be Andrew Walkson’s victim.
Walkson would get her. Hurt her family.
“Susannah—”
“Don’t call me that.” Her vision swam.
Hunt studied her for a beat. “Savannah.” He nudged her into a chair. “Head down. Just breathe.”
She did as he ordered and clutched her paintbrush like it was a lifeline.
“I didn’t kill her,” she whispered.
Poor, poor Amelia. Nausea whirled. Would she get locked up? Walkson had said he could reach her, even in jail.
“I know you didn’t kill her,” Hunt said.
Savannah’s head jerked up. “You do?” Her chest filled, impossibly tight.
He cupped her jaw. “I’m a cop, Savannah. I know killers.” His face darkened. “We need to talk about Walkson.”
She flinched.
“You said you didn’t know your attacker.”
“I didn’t. The man who choked me was not Andrew Walkson. He was bigger. Believe me, I know.” She gave a hysterical laugh.
“He hurt you,” Hunt said quietly.
She shuddered. “Yes. But he hurt poor Amelia worse, then tried to frame me. And then he terrorized my family. My father died about a year before Walkson started sending me letters. We were all still grieving and finding our feet without Dad. Walkson threatened my mom and younger brother, Ezra.” She bit her lip hard.
“He told me in great detail just what he’d do to them.
” She’d had nightmares about it for months.
“Jesus.”
She grabbed the front of Hunt’s shirt with her free hand. “He’s not sane, Hunt. He’s obsessed.” She swallowed. “Do you think the attack has to do with him?”
Hunt frowned. “I don’t know.”
“He must’ve hired someone.” She gasped. “And for the shooting at the Bean.” She leaped out of the chair, her paintbrush clattering to the floor. “God. He’s found me, and a whole new way to terrorize me. I have to go.”
Hunt grabbed her arms. “You’re not going anywhere.” His voice was a gritty growl.
“I have to. He’ll hurt more people.” Oh, God. What if Walkson hurt Hunt?
She couldn’t let that happen.
“I have to go.”
“ No . We don’t know it’s him for sure. Let me help you.”
She tried to pull away. “No!”
“Let me rephrase that. I’m going to help you.”
“Hunter—” anger sparked “—you don’t get to boss me around. I’m an adult. I’ve been protecting myself for a very long time.”
“Not anymore.”
She saw the stubborn glint in his gorgeous green eyes.
Argh . He was going to dig in.
“You aren’t listening. Andrew Walkson is dangerous.”
“So am I.”
His tone made her pause. She knew he was, but Walkson was sneaky. He wouldn’t take Hunt head-on. He’d hide in the shadows, behind fake smiles and his ordinary face, and attack from behind.
She had to protect Hunt, but he wasn’t listening. She made a strangled sound. “Don’t go bossy on me.” She shoved against his chest.
And splattered blue paint all over his white shirt.
She gasped, and saw him look down.
Suddenly, laughter bubbled up inside of her. “There goes another shirt, and it’s totally your fault.”
He made a sound, part growl, part something else. “I think it’s your fault, and you owe me two new shirts.”
She shook her head. “You brought it on yourself.”
He reached out and dipped his fingers in the paint pots on his desk. Then he smeared his fingers over her face.
Savannah gasped. “You did not .”
His lips twitched and she reached past him, dipped her fingers in red, then swiped at his face. He tried to dodge, but she got him, smearing color on his collar.
Then it was war.
They both went at the paint. Savannah got green, and pressed handprints all over his shirt, and started laughing.
His paint-covered hand grabbed her shirt and hauled her in.
She hit his chest and gripped his arms.
They looked at each other for a beat, then their mouths collided.
Oh. God .
Heat. Need. Lust.
It felt like a wild explosion. She pressed into him, trying to climb that big body of his.
He groaned deeply in his throat, intensifying the kiss. One hand clamped on her ass, and she slid both her hands into his hair. She wound her tongue against his, desperate for more of his taste.
Then the sound of a choked female laugh made Savannah blink.
Hunt lifted his head. They were both breathing heavily.
“Hunt, I didn’t know you were a budding artist.”
Savannah looked over. A highly amused Brynn stood in the doorway.
Then she looked back, and barely controlled her own laugh. Hunt had paint on his shirt, streaked on his face, and in his hair.
Savannah guessed she hadn’t fared much better.
“Not a word,” Hunt growled.
Brynn smiled. “That’s going to be impossible.”
“Quiet.” His gaze moved to Savannah. “You aren’t leaving.”
She didn’t respond.
He gripped her chin. “You aren’t leaving. We’ll sort out the stalker who’s after you together.”
Savannah trembled. She wanted it so much. To not be alone. To lean on someone who cared.
“You can’t get hurt,” she whispered.
“I won’t.” He yanked her in for a hug.
“Well, Hunt, you have paint in your hair,” Brynn said. “And Savannah has a lovely handprint on her ass. So why don’t the two of you get cleaned up, and I’ll take you out for lunch? I want all the details on Savannah’s stalker.”
“And you think I’m bossy,” Hunt muttered.