Chapter 5
Daniela shut the door behind her as she stepped into her laundry room. Sagged against it even as the beep beep of her alarm system reminded her that she needed to turn it off.
Sighing, she entered her code, slipped off her boots and hung up her coat and scarf. Then she stripped down to her bra and pants because screw this day. She wanted a glass of wine and a hot bath.
And to reevaluate all her life choices.
She’d moved past numb and scared and was mostly in her what the fuck stage. Because seriously.
She didn’t bother turning on lights as she made her way to her kitchen. There was enough ambient light from her neighbors—she needed to shut all her blinds but whatever.
That was the least of her problems right now.
She pulled out an open bottle of chilled pinot grigio from the fridge. “Screw the glass,” she muttered to herself before taking a swig. “Keeping it classy.” She snort-laughed to herself mostly so she wouldn’t cry.
Greg was dead. Had clearly been tortured.
And even though she shouldn’t feel guilty, not when he’d approached her and had known the risks of trying to take down so many awful people, she still did.
Because he’d been her friend. And he’d been a good man—a rarity in her experience—who wanted to make a difference in a world where too many bad men were getting away with shit they shouldn’t be.
And she’d killed the man who’d killed him. Which didn’t make her feel any better. She knew that Lebedev would have killed her, probably tortured her, maybe even raped her (men like him had no boundaries) but taking a life was still a lot to process.
She still hadn’t told her brother about what had happened that morning. He might know by now, but she was just going to claim that she was in shock later if he got pissed.
“Daniela.”
She half screamed and whirled at the familiar voice. Connor—Cormac, whatever—stood on the other side of her dimly illuminated kitchen, palms up. As if he was coming in peace—you know, after breaking into her place.
“What the hell are you doing here!” Heart racing, she set her bottle on the countertop and looked for a weapon.
Her knife rack was next to the stove. A little too far away for her to grab one before he reached her.
“Jesus, Dani,” he muttered. “I’m not here to hurt you.
” To her surprise, he stepped around the countertop, pulled the roman shade over the window down, then flipped on the light over her sink.
“I’m going to shut your blinds so your neighbors don’t see a strange man in your house.
” He was averting his eyes so as not to look at her in her bra.
Which weirdly made her feel better. He’d already seen all of her without a stitch on, but the man wasn’t a perv.
“So are we not going to talk about the fact that you broke into my house?” And had gotten past her security system. Then apparently rearmed the system so he could lie in wait.
She should probably run as he started shutting blinds, but some part of her hindbrain knew he wouldn’t hurt her.
Or maybe that was wishful thinking. Because she wasn’t sure she’d ever known him at all.
And she really hated the way her stomach flipped at the way he called her Dani.
Focus.
Ignoring sanity, apparently, she headed back to the laundry room and slipped her sweater on. Whatever conversation was about to happen, she wasn’t doing it in just her bra and pants.
By the time she made it back to her kitchen, the overhead lights were on and Cormac—whatever his real last name was—was moving around her kitchen as if he had every right to be there.
“So. Cormac, huh?” she asked, wanting to take him off guard as she sat down at her pristine, gleaming white island top.
“Yes. How are you doing?” he asked, his gentle tone surprising her as he pulled out a wineglass, sat it in front of her as if he was a bartender and she was his patron.
“How am I doing?” That’s what he’d broken in here to ask?
“I know what happened at that diner. You’ve got to be shaken.” He poured a healthy glass.
Oh. He knew. Jeez. “I’m fine.” Shaken didn’t begin to cover it, but she wasn’t going to tell him how she was a mess inside, how she felt as if nothing was real and she might come apart at the seams. How she wanted to get in her car, start driving, and never stop.
He snorted softly. “Doubt that. Have you eaten at all today?”
She was getting whiplash from this lunatic. “No. No, no, no. We’re not just going to ignore the fact that you’re a giant liar who didn’t even give me the right name, or the fact that you broke into my house tonight.”
He actually ignored her. Just full-on ignored her as he rummaged around in her pantry.
She called on her rapidly diminishing reserves of calm as she took a sip of her wine, found the last shred of her control.
Sort of. She still wanted to scream. And maybe punch him for the way he’d lied to and ghosted her all those years ago.
“How do you know about what happened this morning?” It felt weird to admit aloud that she’d shot someone, so she didn’t say the words.
He stepped out of her pantry holding a box of pasta and a jar of pesto. “Someone told me,” he murmured and pulled out a bell pepper, mushrooms and a block of cheese. “Where’s your shredder?”
“Cabinet above the coffeepot.” Wait, why was she telling him that?
Oh yeah, she actually was starving and it was starting to hit her now.
She needed sustenance before her blood sugar fully dropped.
“You know what, knock yourself out cooking. I’m going to shower.
If you leave while I’m gone, make sure you lock the door. ”
“We’ll talk once you shower and eat.” His tone was still maddeningly calm.
And yep, she wanted to punch him. Hard. So very hard.
It annoyed her that he was still as good-looking as she remembered. Maybe even more so. Ugh. Granite all over thanks to whatever workout routine he did. When they’d been practically living together, he’d gone running every morning, at least five miles.
He’d always returned in time to make her coffee and breakfast too. Had been so insistent on feeding her, taking care of her. Something she’d never had in her life. Sure, her father had employed a chef but that was incredibly different.
Another round of sadness ripped through her as she forced herself up the stairs. He’d left her. After lying about his true identity. One day he’d been there, they’d been planning a future, then poof. She’d woken up to a shitty note and that had been that.
She couldn’t think about that now—ha ha, kind of impossible not to, considering Tall, Sexy Green-Eyes was in her kitchen looking good enough to jump.
But she had a lot more to worry about than a ghost from her past. Like figuring out how Dima Lebedev had known about her arrangement with Greg. And who else knew. And god…she needed to let someone know about Greg.
He’d just been lying there, eyes wide open, blood…
She swallowed back bile as she remembered exactly how he’d looked, shook herself as she stripped and started her shower.
Maybe the asshole downstairs was right. She needed a shower and food so she could think clearly.
Ever since killing Lebedev this morning she’d been going on autopilot.
Her phone buzzed in her pants pocket, and she ignored it when she saw who it was.
Logan Brown.
Ugh.
She was never going to voluntarily talk to her brother’s second-in-command.
Logan had made it clear that he wanted to date her or…
whatever. No thanks. He’d been working with her brother for two years, had moved up the ranks quickly.
She was still surprised Julian had given Logan so much power, considering the guy was such a hothead.
She could only deal with so much crap in one day, thank you very much. Hearing his stupid voice. Ugh.
There was no way she would tell Co—Cormac that he’d been right, but a steaming shower was exactly what she needed. She wanted to wash off all the emotional trauma of the day.
She even brought her glass of wine in with her, drank as the jets pounded against her back, and tried to decompress. Part of her wanted to cry, but she knew that if she let the floodgates open, she might not get them shut again.
She had to be strong, in control. Like always.
Once her hair was twisted in a turban and she’d wrapped up in her thick robe, she felt more clear-headed than she had all day. Ironic, since she’d had a healthy-sized glass of wine.
Before she even made it to the bottom stair, she could smell the vegetable pesto pasta. She wasn’t grateful to him or anything, but fine, she was glad he’d cooked. It was the least he could do after breaking into her house and ambushing her.
As she stepped into the kitchen, he moved the large pot off the stove onto a trivet.
“I was just keeping it warm,” he murmured. “More wine?”
She shook her head and grabbed a sparkling water from the fridge. She needed her wits right now. “Tell me why you’re here. Cormac,” she added.
She hadn’t even had time to try and do a search on his real name. He’d been at the Sanctuary Falls sheriff’s station. Maybe he was a cop or something? She’d thought he must work for the DEA or the FBI once he’d disappeared.
Her family had never suspected that. No, they’d simply believed that he’d moved on to greener pastures in Europe like he’d told everyone.
Even when her father hadn’t been able to find anything about him being linked to any of the government agencies, she’d still suspected he’d been working undercover.
She’d been with him seven months. Enough to get to know someone.
There had been something different about him compared to her father and the men he worked with. He’d had a soul, had shown real kindness, the kind that you couldn’t fake. She wasn’t even sure if she was making sense, but at his core he’d been nothing like the men she’d grown up around.
Except he’d deceived and abandoned her in the end.
After he set a bowl of food in front of her, he leaned against the countertop across from her, watched her with hooded eyes.