“What was that for?” she said, pressing her hand against her throbbing cheek.
“Consider it a warning,” he replied. “You work for us now. We won’t tolerate insubordination.”
“I didn’t say anything,” she protested.
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You have a very expressive face, Dr. Sandoval. You must learn to control it. The next time, I will not be so kind.”
Logan Murray pulled into his driveway with a sigh, glad to finally be home. It had been a beast of a day, and he was looking forward to a cold beer and a little mindless TV to help him unwind. Most days, he enjoyed his job as a DEA officer. Taking out drug dealers and breaking up smuggling rings was incredibly satisfying, but not every day was an adventure. And after spending the last week buried in paperwork he was ready for something—anything—to break the monotonous routine.
He climbed out of the car and headed for his mailbox, glancing at the house next door as he walked. The windows gave off a warm glow, indicating Olivia Sandoval was home. One of these days, he thought wryly. She was an attractive woman, and he’d been meaning to connect with her for a while. But the timing was never right. He was off on assignment, or she was out of town. Or they were both too busy to run into each other. Still, part of him held on to the fantasy that they’d magically connect and just click, the way his friend and his soon-to-be-fiancée had while in line at the grocery store. If it could happen to Greg, it could happen to him. Right?
He peeked into his mailbox and tugged out the pile of papers shoved inside. Bill. Junk mail. Card from Mom. He really should call her—it had been too long since they’d talked. And what was this? More stuff for Olivia.
A groan escaped his throat. He needed to call the post office to complain—he’d lost count of the number of times the mail carrier had delivered Olivia’s mail to his box. He had a pile of her stuff on his kitchen counter, just waiting to be delivered. Casting another glance at her house, he decided it was time to hand over her correspondence.
Ducking into his house, he dropped his bag on the kitchen table and scooped up Olivia’s mail. Maybe he could talk her into having dinner with him while he was over there—it was a long shot on such short notice, but worth a try.
He rang her doorbell, then wiped damp palms on his pants. Why was he nervous? He faced down drug dealers and violent criminals every day in his job, so why did the thought of talking to a beautiful woman make his heart pound in his ears?
Probably because it’s been a while, he thought wryly. Five years, to be exact. Ever since he’d arrived home to find his fiancée, Emma, in bed with his best friend, Chris.
Make that his former best friend.
The old, familiar anger began to well up in his chest and he pushed it down, dismissing the pair of them from his thoughts. He’d dated a few women casually since Emma’s betrayal, but his heart hadn’t been in it. Still, maybe it was time to try again, to let down his guard and give love another chance. He knew Olivia was a doctor. Maybe he’d tell her his story and ask if she wanted to help heal his broken heart.
Real smooth, he thought, mentally rolling his eyes. Shaking his head at his foolishness, he waited for a moment. Had she heard the bell? Maybe she was busy—in the back of the house, or in the garage. Or the bathtub, he thought, the image popping into his head before he could stop himself. He strangled the fantasy before it could take flight, unwilling to think about her tawny skin, wet and glowing in candlelight, her heart-shaped face framed by damp ringlets of dark curls...
Looking for a distraction, he pressed the bell again. He’d give her a few more minutes, then come back another time. They were bound to run into each other eventually.
He had just about given up when he heard a soft sound coming from inside her house. Music? No, that wasn’t right. He stepped closer to the door, angling his head to hear better. It was the sound of a woman, that much was clear. But something seemed off. Even though the noise was faint and muffled, he could tell from the tone that it wasn’t laughter or arousal he heard. It was distress. Something was wrong.
“Olivia?” He raised his voice, hoping she could hear through the thick wood of the front door. “Olivia, it’s Logan. Are you okay?”
The noise stopped, so he spoke again. “I just came by to drop off some of your mail. I can leave it on the porch if you like.” He hated to go, knowing she was upset, but Olivia struck him as a private person and she probably wouldn’t want anyone to see her crying. Besides, what could he really do to help?
After a few seconds of silence, he knelt to place the mail on her welcome mat. Just as he set it down, the lock scraped and she opened the door.
If she was surprised to see him kneeling on her porch, she didn’t show it. She stared down at him, her eyes dull and red-rimmed, the tip of her nose pink. Logan gathered up the mail again and slowly rose to his feet, sensing that any sudden movements would spook her into retreat. “Hey, there,” he said softly. “Are you all right?”
Olivia merely shrugged one shoulder in an elegant gesture that managed to both answer his question and convey a sense of hopeless surrender.
“I have some of your mail.” He extended the bundle, but she merely stared at it for a few seconds, as if trying to recognize what he held and why he was trying to give it to her. Then she reached out to take it, her movements jerky and painful-looking.
“Thanks,” she said, her voice as subdued and lifeless as her eyes.
“No problem.” He cast about for something to say, but before he could come up with something comforting or helpful, Olivia shrank back into the house, her expression one of horror.
Logan whirled around to see a car driving past, its headlights sweeping up the yard as it turned. The illumination showed nothing amiss—no lurking stalkers hiding in the bushes, no threatening dogs slavering up her driveway, hungry for a bite of her flesh. Just a normal lawn on a normal street. Why then did she look like she’d seen a ghost?
He turned back to see her leaning against the wall, hanging on to the doorknob for support. Her knuckles showed white under the skin, betraying the strength of her grip. It was clear she was on the verge of falling, so Logan reached out to steady her. As soon as his hand made contact with her shoulder, Olivia jerked away, her dark brown eyes going wide and unfocused.
“No!” She took a step back, stumbled over a rug and went down hard on the tiled floor of her entryway.
Wincing, Logan moved forward and crouched down next to her. His arms ached to pull her up and support her, but given her violent reaction to his touch, he didn’t want to risk hurting her. “Olivia,” he said softly. “Please let me help you.”
She was curled in a ball, her arms wrapped tight about her middle. Had she hurt herself? Or was she simply trying to protect herself from him? His heart twisted at the thought that she was afraid of him—never in a million years would he want to give her that impression. Her actions reminded him of children who were left behind in the aftermath of some drug busts, those innocents who were so traumatized they turned inward to block out the world. “I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder and help you sit up,” he continued, keeping his tone even. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to get you off the floor.”
She didn’t speak, but he caught her quick nod. Good. She wasn’t going to panic. Moving slowly and deliberately, he did as he’d said, moving her into a sitting position. He let her adjust for a moment, watching her face for any signs of newly realized pain.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
She shook her head. “Just my pride,” she muttered, pushing her dark brown curls away from her face.
He offered her his hand, and she pulled against him as she rose to her feet.