She smelled good. Very feminine. He had the craziest urge to reach out, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked. But he kept his arms folded, his eyes closed, his breathing deep. She was scared. Of him. But more so of the men that he’d described. So for now, she’d filed him under the category of lesser evil, which was just fine with him. When he’d seen the second Mercedes idling in the lot, hidden to the casual observer, he’d realized that she was in the middle of something big. There was some serious muscle trying to find her. He’d considered his options. He could forget what he’d overheard and seen and be on his way. He could go to the cops. Or he could barge his way into this room and try to protect this woman. Who was lying to him. Of that, he was confident. But he was also pretty sure that she was scared. Really scared. And he couldn’t forget those marks on her wrists.
