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  "You sound like an expert in the field," she said, watching his back as he spread the blanket on the couch, draping it up on the back cushion so she could just pull it down on herself when she laid down.

  "You live in this neighborhood," he said, straightening and turning, finding her watching him, "you get to know a lot about drugs." He walked toward a closet next to his bed, reaching in and quickly closing the door. Like he was hiding something. "Here," he said, holding out an big blue sweatshirt and a pair of men's blue and white plaid pajama pants. "These are going to swim on you, but they're dry."

  Ellie walked closer, taking the clothes between her hands, holding them away from her wet body. "Thank you," she said, genuinely meaning it, "is there somewhere I can..."

  "Oh," Xander said, shaking his head as if trying to clear his train of thought. "Yeah. Right outside this door," he said, opening the door to the hall and pointing to another door, "is the bathroom. There are towels in the cabinet if you want to take a shower."

  Ellie opened the door, feeling around for the light switch. "Thanks." She offered him a weak smile, slipping behind the door and closing it. There was no lock. What was wrong with people and not having locks on their bathrooms? The bathroom, like everything in the building, was dated. The bathtub, sink, and toilet were all identical shades of blue-green. The floor was tiled in inch-wide white tile, faded with time, some of the squares broken. The walls were covered in larger white tiles, interrupted by the occasional square of four blue-green tiles. It was awful, Ellie decided, shaking her head. What did he have against a little updating?

  She reached in the shower and turned the water on hot, quickly stripping out of her clothes, and moving the curtain out of the way to step in. She sunk into the heat for a long time, closing her eyes, and trying to go over the events of the night, trying to find what she did wrong. She messed up somewhere along the line. Not because he found her. He always found her. But he had caught her off-guard. She hadn't been prepared enough. There hadn't been anything but her cup of tea to throw at him. And that just so happened to be carelessly left there that morning. There should have been a vase, a bat, a frying pan. There should have been something placed within arms-reach of everywhere in her apartment to grab. She should have been carrying mace, homemade pepper spray... something that she could have assaulted him with from a distance so she could run.

  She was getting sloppy. And it was going to get her killed.

  She dried and stepped out of the shower, looking around for a second, trying to figure out what felt wrong. Something was out of place. Then she looked down at the floor, a puddle where he clothes should have been. But weren't.

  She looked over at the door with wide eyes. He had actually come in while she was naked in the shower and taken her clothes. She took a deep breath, trying not to get agitated, despite what she decided was a gross invasion of privacy. He seemed like a good guy. She didn't need to be suspicious of everyone.

  The drawstring on the pants had to be pulled almost completely out and tied tightly. They still slung down low on her hips, but they would do. She looked down at her side in the mirror, seeing the deep blue, purple, and yellow bruises smattering across her skin. It was worse than she had thought. The shock and adrenaline had masked the pain somewhat and it was growing now, sharp and impossible to ignore.

  She threw on the sweatshirt, opening the door and calling out. "Hey... do you happen to have a few elastic bandages?"

  A minute later, Xander walked into the doorway, leaning against the jamb causally. "What for?" he asked, looking down at her. He tried to ignore the fact that she smelled like him and that she was naked underneath his clothes.

  Ellie saw the patient look on his face that suggested he wasn't going to get her anything until he knew why. She took a shallow breath, grabbing the hem of the sweatshirt and pulling it upward, holding it against the skin right underneath her breasts.

  She heard him exhale a breath, the sound hissing out of his mouth. He pushed off the door frame and came closer, towering over her, his head looking downward. His hand came up slowly and he looked up at her, like he was asking permission.

  "I just want to check your ribs," he explained, waiting.

  She gave him a tight nod of her head and his hands went to her skin, gentle, whisper-light at first, testing her pain tolerance. She closed her eyes, half against the pain, half trying to ignore the rush of an almost foreign sensation through her body. It worked its way from his touch to deep in her belly then moving downward. Her eyes flew open, looking at herself in the mirror, realizing with absolute clarity that it was desire. She looked down at the top of his head, his black hair shiny and soft-looking.

  Her heart started to beat a little faster in her chest and she pushed her thighs tightly together. What the hell? She couldn't seriously be into her private investigator. She shook her head. She was just overly tired, worked up from the events of the night.

  His fingers started to press into her skin then, pushing away the wave of desire and making her gasp. He looked up at her apologetically, but his fingers kept pressing, moving across her skin. She closed her eyes, feeling tears welling up, and trying to fight them off.

  His hand fell from her a few seconds later. He reached behind her and opened the closet, pulling out a bunch of still-sealed elastic bandages. "I don't think they're broken," he said, his voice softer than it had been before. "They're just really badly bruised and they're going to hurt for a while, but we are going to wrap you anyway just in case," he said, sounding almost sorry, like he had been the one to kick her. "Alright, hands up," he instructed, waiting for her to cross both her hands across her chest, holding her shirt in place, protecting her breasts from view. "This isn't going to feel great," he warned her, starting to wrap, pulling the bandages tight around her belly. He wrapped her with two bandages quickly, efficiently. He nodded, reaching for the hem of her sweatshirt and pulling it down. "Okay. You're all set," he said, stepping away, his voice sounding airy.

  "Th... thanks," she said, looking over at him as he backed out into the hallway, like he needed to get away from her.

  "Don't mention it," he said, quickly moving back into the apartment.

  Jesus. He paced the floor next to the kitchen for a moment, running a hand over his face. He hadn't expected that when she had called him in. Not the sprawling, painful marks all over her side. She must have been kicked, hard, over and over in her side for the bruises to be that widespread and deeply-colored.

  He didn't remember her saying she was kicked. He would check back on his notes, but he was pretty sure that wasn't part of her story. Which wasn't completely unusual. Plenty of people didn't recall their traumas with a lot of clarity. He was impressed she remembered as much as she did. He heard her move into the room, quietly walking over to her couch and sitting down.

  He glanced at the clock, realizing it was well after three in the morning. He needed to get some sleep. In the morning, he needed to take a trip to her apartment to see if there was anything he could find out. Then he needed to see if he could catch that cheating husband in the act if he wanted a paycheck.

  Turning, he flicked off the main light, leaving only a small glow from the one on his nightstand. He moved toward his bed, kicking off his shoes and pulling off his shirt. He was about to reach for his jean zipper when he thought better of it. He certainly couldn't sleep naked with her in the room. He sighed, getting into bed and sitting up. He reached for the remote for the stereo. "Do you sleep better with or without noise?" he asked.

  "Whatever works better for you," she answered automatically, slowly moving into a lying position, ignoring the shooting in her side.

  "Doesn't matter to me," he said, waiting.

  She paused for a moment. "I sleep better in the quiet," she said. It was another lie. She slept restlessly no matter what. But she had taken up the habit of sleeping in silence a long time ago. As light a sleeper as she had learned to be, any kind of noise would wake h
er up immediately. Just in case it wasn't a car outside, or a passerby, or the building settling. In case it was him.

  "Quiet it is," he said, putting down the remote.

  She was silent for a long time, so long he had figured she had already fallen asleep. But then suddenly, her voice, quiet and sweet, asked, "Did you lock the door?"

  "No," he said. She didn't say anything further, but the silence felt pregnant, expectant. He got up, rolling his eyes, and walked to the door, locking it. Despite not needing to. Despite the fact that no one in the neighborhood would dare to break in. Not the addicts. Not the dealers. Not the gang members. No one. He could leave the door wide open and the stash of cash in his desk would never get disturbed. No one would dare. But she had had a hell of a night. And she needed the comfort of a locked door. It would have been a stupid thing to deny her.

  He climbed in bed, knowing sleep wouldn't be coming, but going through the motions anyway.

  Four

  Ellie woke up early, her mind too restless to sleep soundly. Xander was sleeping, an arm draped over his face, on top of the sheets. She tried not to look. She really did. But in the end, curiosity... and maybe a little of the leftover sexual frustration, won out.

  He was ridiculously good-looking. He was built like a lumberjack, all thick muscles under taut skin. Silently, she tip-toed closer, trying to get a better look. There was an angry red scar leading from his hipbone and disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. She wondered, a little bit embarrassed at herself, how far it went down. She knew his line of work must have been dangerous and a part of her wanted to know how he had gotten it. Chasing down some scumbag? Or was it from a personal fight? Over a woman? Over money?

  Then she noticed a scar higher up, above his collarbone and snaking halfway around his throat. Pink still, like it wasn't as new as the one down his side, but wasn't old either.

  What led a man into a job like his? Was it passed down to him from his father? Did he just happen upon it? Had it been an actual choice he had made? She knew from the other private investigators that she had made appointments with that Xander Rhodes wasn't what you would consider 'by the book'. He operated just under the radar of the law, taking more liberties than he could if the license people ever found out. Noses could be broken, asses kicked, less than legal spying and digging around in someone's personal lives carried out.

  Had he just been a brute as a teen? Blackmailing people for money? And then a career grew from it?

  Xander shifted in his sleep and she jumped, moving away from him and back to the couch. She carefully folded the blanket and put the pillow on top of it, placing them on the top of the back cushions. She moved into the kitchen, quietly putting coffee on and searching for something to make for breakfast. In the fridge, she found eggs, an assortment of yogurt, butter, milk, and six pack of beer. She grabbed the eggs and butter and the loaf of half-stale bread off the counter, moving around as soundlessly as possible.

  "Are you cooking?" Xander asked from right behind her shoulder, making her yelp and drop an egg onto the counter, she turned quickly, instinctively, one hand curled into a fist at her side, the other on her rapidly beating heart. "Didn't mean to scare you," he said, reaching for paper towels and wiping up the egg mess on the counter.

  "Sorry," she said, trying to help him, but he brushed her away. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

  "I wasn't sleeping," he said, throwing the paper towel into the garbage and reaching for the coffee pot, smirking devilishly. "Did you like what you saw?" he asked, watching her face twist into a mask of mortification. He smiled wider, almost as if enjoying her embarrassment. "Relax. I got to see you half naked last night. You got to see me half naked this morning. We're even."

  "I wasn't half naked," she objected, turning and flipping a piece of French toast in the pan.

  "Alright," he said, pouring coffee into two cups, "a third naked. We're not square then. Care to even it up?" he asked, his tone amused, teasing.

  "Ha ha," she said, deadpan, shaking her head.

  She seemed different in the morning, more calm. Collected. Efficient. She had pulled her long hair into one of the bands she kept wrapped around her wrists, making her profile seem younger. He looked down at her cracking eggs into the bowl, seeing the wrist left naked and saw for the first time scars. They were white, long healed. Some were almost superficial looking, small scratches. But there was one thick, bracelet-sized band that wrapped around her wrist in a complete circle, slightly thicker at one small spot. What the hell was that from? He looked up to her face, not quite believing that she was the type who might have cut in the past. And, from what he knew about it, no one actually cut a complete circle. It was always lines. Across the wrist. Or up the arm if they were serious about finality. But how else could she have come by them?

  "I hope you like your eggs scrambled," she said, feeling his gaze on her, shifting uncomfortably under it. "I always burn them when I try to make them over easy."

  "Any way," he said, turning away from her. "I'm not picky." He rarely ever had breakfast. It was usually just half a pot of coffee and he was on his way. His stomach grumbled as if objecting to the pattern. He looked back at her. "Did you sleep well?" he asked, feeling a little uncomfortable in the silence.

  She waved a spatula out to the side. "It was hard to find a comfortable position with my ribs," she admitted, shrugging a dainty shoulder, "but well enough. Thanks for letting me stay here," she said, glancing at him over her shoulder.

  "Don't mention it," he said, moving the papers off of the card table.

  "So... why couldn't you sleep?" she asked, pouring the eggs into a greased pan.

  "I don't sleep," he grumbled, noticing his voice sounded surly and coughed. "I had a case a few weeks ago that didn't go well. Haven't been able to sleep well since," he admitted, surprising himself. But, God, it felt so good to say it.

  Ellie stopped midway through soaking a piece of bread in egg and glanced at him, her blue eyes full of sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear that. What was the case?" she asked, a part of her sensing he needed to talk about it. Maybe because she had that same need. But she had no one to talk to. No one she was willing to put in danger like that.

  Xander hung his head. "A stalker case," he said, noticing she jerked slightly and turned toward him, expecting an explanation. He took a deep breath. "It was the girlfriend to a big venture capitalist. Someone at her work was stalking her. But she waited a long time before contacting me. I got nowhere with it and then she was kidnapped and held and tortured..."

  "Wait," Ellie broke in, quickly stirring the eggs and turning back around, "that was in the papers," she said, her brows drawing together, trying to remember the article. "EM Corporation. The CEO... Elliott something-or-other..."

  "Michaels," Xander supplied, knowing she was from out of town and didn't know him. Not like everyone else in the city knew him. He was constantly snatching up businesses and growing them, then selling them off. He heard that his newest project was two brand new apartment buildings, one upscale and one in one of the bad neighborhoods. Low income for single parents. There was some speculation that it was a project with some personal meaning.

  He was a real son-of-a-bitch in a lot of ways, but the man loved his girlfriend.

  "Right," Ellie nodded, "and the girl was his assistant..."

  "Hannah," Xander finished, feeling a bit of a pang at the mention of her name, the memory of her in the hospital bed flashing into his mind. Arms and head bandaged, the unmistakable bruises on her throat from being strangled nearly to death.

  "Yeah. Hannah. That was a huge story." She looked over at Xander, feeling suddenly sorry she even brought it up. He looked absolutely devastated. "I heard she is doing great now, though," she said, her tone a bit too sweet sounding even to her own ears. Xander made a non-committal grumbling sound in his throat. "Well..." she started awkwardly, "breakfast should be ready in like five minutes. I'm afraid you don't have any syrup though." />
  Xander got up quickly, almost knocking over his chair in the process. "I'll go get some," he said, grabbing a shirt and moving toward the door.

  When he got back a few minutes later, seeming calmer, they ate breakfast in silence, Xander dutifully reading one newspaper, and handing her the adverts to look through. She shook her head at his presumptuousness, thinking all women always had shopping on the brain, but took the glossy pages and flipped through them just to have something to do.

  He got up quickly, his plate clear, his notepad half-filled with notes from reading the paper. He brought his plate over to the sink, running water on it for a second, then squirting soap on it and leaving it to soak. "Alright," he said, not meeting her eyes. "I have a lot of work I need to get done today," he said, choosing not to tell her that clawing through her personal belongings at her apartment was one of them, "so I need to get going. You want to follow me out and lock the door behind me?"

  "Yeah," Ellie said over a mouthful of food. She was always such a slow eater. She watched him walk into the main room and got up to follow behind. When she walked in, he was stuffing the gun into the waistband of his jeans again. "Here," he said, grabbing cash out of the drawer. "I'll leave this if you want to run to the bodega around the corner..."

  "I'm not going anywhere," she squeaked, too quickly.

  He looked up at her, almost smiling. "Alright. Well, I will leave it anyway. If you want to order food or anything," he said, grabbing an expensive-looking camera out of the bottom drawer. "Just hang low," he said, watching her shift from foot to foot. "No one. And I mean no one will bother you in here," he said with such authority that she felt like she could believe him. "I don't know when I'll be back. I need to catch some dude boinking his mistress," he said, shrugging like it was the most normal job to have.