Hard As It Gets: A Hard Ink Novel

by Laura Kaye

  Not to mention the fact that until she figured out what kind of trouble Charlie had stumbled into, she probably shouldn’t be hanging out over there. His place clearly wasn’t safe.

  Becca stepped to the window covering the top half of the back door and scanned the yard, then she tugged the pale green cotton over the glass, shutting out the night’s black gaze. She shuddered. Tonight wasn’t the first time she’d found something she was initially sure wasn’t how she’d left it. But usually she managed to come down on the side of sanity and convince herself she was imagining things.

  After all, who really paid attention to the exact position of a throw rug? Or the exact angle of a stack of papers in relation to the corner of the desk on which they sat? Not her, until lately.

  Enough. Time for food before her stomach ate itself.

  She’d no more than taken a step in the direction of the fridge when she heard a soft thump. Becca froze, listened. The neighbor? Their houses were adjoined, after all. Except the noise had come from the front of the house, not the side wall.

  Pull it together, Bec. She shook her head and reached for the fridge handle. Maybe she’d scramble some eggs. Or throw together a bowl of cold cereal. Low key was all she had energy for.

  Squeak.

  Goose bumps erupted across her skin, and her heart flew into her throat. She knew that squeak. Staircase to the second floor. Top step just right of center.

  Someone was in the house. Coming down her front stairs. And he had to have heard her arrive home a few minutes before. Adrenaline spiked, sharpening her senses and kicking her heart rate into a sprint.

  Hide? Flee out the back door? Grab a knife? Confront? Was squeaky-stairs-guy alone? Were there others? Her gun taunted her from its storage box in her bedroom upstairs. It had been a housewarming gift from her overprotective father upon the purchase of the row house—but it might as well have been in Bangkok for all the good it was doing her right now.

  Thoughts ricocheted through her brain, the rapid fire momentarily freezing her between the options.

  Then she was in motion. Wincing at every little noise she made, she picked up the landline and dialed 911. Afraid to risk even a whisper, she sat the receiver speaker down on the counter to muffle the operator’s voice. When she didn’t respond, they’d dispatch the police and an ambulance to the address associated with the phone number.

  With help hopefully on the way, she tiptoed toward the back door. As she passed the butcher block, she eased a thick blade from the wood and prayed to any and every god that might be listening that she didn’t have to use it. Because the only way she could was if she were within arm’s reach of her intruder—which also meant she’d be within reach of his arms, too. Though he probably had something better than a knife.

  Shit, shit, shit. So not helpful, Bec.

  But likely true.

  Squeeeeak.

  Oh, God. That’s the fourth step from the top. Get out now!

  Holding her breath, she slipped her cell into her pocket and approached the door. The minute she opened it, the noise would tell the intruder exactly what was going on. In case he pursued, she’d have to move fast and not look back. A plan took shape—out the door, down the steps, run to the sidewalk and then back toward the alley. Then she’d just keep running until she found a place to hide or heard sirens.

  It was possible she was going to have a heart attack first, the way the damn thing was booming against her sternum.

  She reached for the doorknob.

  It started turning on its own.

  For a split second, her brain couldn’t process the information.

  And then it did. Someone was coming in the back door. She was trapped.

  It all happened in a blur.

  The door eased open. A man all in black stepped out of the darkness with a gun.

  Becca swallowed her scream and lunged with the knife.

  Chapter 4

  Light reflecting off steel.

  That was all the notice Rixey had that something sharp and bladed was coming his way.

  He holstered his gun with his right hand and reared back as he caught her striking wrist in his left. He forced her hand backward over her shoulder, the position bending her over the sink. The pressure on her joints loosened her grip, and he whipped the knife from her fingers and clamped a hand down on her mouth, his body holding hers in place.

  “Sshh, Becca, it’s Nick Rixey. Someone’s in your house,” he whispered, lips against her ear. Her pulse beat against his skin everywhere they touched. “I’m gonna let you go, but stay quiet.”

  She nodded, her breath puffing fast over his knuckles.

  Dropping his hands, he eased off her. Her eyes were wide blue saucers in her face, and her pulse visibly jumped on the side of her throat. Distrust poured from her gaze as it raked over his face, but then she pointed a shaking finger toward the arch that led to the next room and mouthed, On the steps.

  “Stay here,” he whispered, pushing the knife back into her palm to give her a sense of security. He was going to do his best to make sure she didn’t need it. Gun in hand, he sidled up to the wall where the kitchen met the dining room. In a smooth set of motions, he swept his gaze and his gun over the room, clearing it.

  A snick sounded ahead of him, followed by a rattle. The door.

  Leading with his gun, Rixey followed the sound in time to see someone jet out the front door. He bolted in pursuit. He reached the stoop just as a body dove into the back of a dark-colored sedan sans lights. Tires squealing, the car sped down the one-way street, ignored the stop sign, and careened around the corner.

  Sonofabitch.

  Rixey secured the front door, eyeballed the dark stairs, and hustled back to the kitchen. “It’s Nick,” he said before he turned the corner. Didn’t want to have to dodge that butcher knife again.

  Air whooshed out of her as she lowered her hands, her knuckles white around the hilt of the weapon. “Gone?” she said, her voice little more than breath.

  “Someone left out the front door, but I haven’t cleared the rest of the house.” She smoothed back wisps of hair that had fallen loose from her ponytail. The movement drew his gaze to a mark on her temple, and ice crawled down his spine. “What happened to your face?”

  She fingered the angry red scrape, barely touching it, as if it was as tender as it looked. “Long story.”

  Later. Becca would tell him that story later. Along with the rest of it. Everything he hadn’t let her say when she’d first come to him at Hard Ink yesterday. Guilt flooded acid into his gut. Jeremy’s assessment was right. He was a dick. And worse. Had he given Becca a chance, she wouldn’t have been standing there hurt, scared, and clutching a knife like it was the only thing that stood between her and the great white beyond.

  She blew out another breath, and her muscles went all loose. She turned, dropped the blade, and bent her toned body over the counter, elbows on the laminate surface and shaking hands holding her head. “Holy shit,” she rasped. “Okay. Okay.”

  His gaze skated down the arch of her back and landed on the round swell of her ass, jutting out toward him. The thin material of the green scrubs left little of her curves to the imagination. His fingers twitched and his cock stirred with interest.

  Which was wrong on about forty-seven levels.

  “How is it that you arrived to my house right when the intruder was here?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.

  Rixey didn’t blame her for the distrust he saw in her still-wide gaze. “I should’ve listened yesterday, and I’m sorry I didn’t. I decided to keep an eye out for a day or two. Make sure you were safe.” Which, of course, she wasn’t. Had something happened, that would’ve been on him.

  A series of emotions flitted over her expression. “So, you’ve been . . . watching me?”

  Aw shit, in for a pound . . . “Basic surveillance. But, generally, yeah.”

  For a long moment, she didn’t say anything, just seemed to study his face. Would be perfectly w
ithin her rights to come at him with all kinds of accusations, and he’d have to take that shit lying down. “You were on my dad’s Special Forces team?”

  Rixey schooled his expression. “For five years.”

  After another moment, she nodded. “Well, thank you. I’m glad you’re here.”

  Twin reactions coursed through him. Admiration that she’d taken the high road when no one would’ve begrudged her a bitch fit, including him. And irritation that she’d apparently just used her father as a way of measuring his trustworthiness. The fucking irony. “Look, I should clear the house. The way he bugged out, probably no one else here, but I should make sure.”

  She stood, hands braced on the counter, and nodded. “Okay. What do you want me to do? I have a gun, but it’s up in my bedroom.”

  Sweet, innocent-looking Becca had a gun?

  Sirens echoed off the buildings in the distance. Becca’s eyes went wide, and she shot to the other counter and grabbed the phone receiver lying beside its base. “Hello? Hello?” She sagged and lowered it to its cradle. A shrill screech sounded right out front, and red lights flickered off the dim dining room walls. “I called nine-one-one. When I first realized someone else was here.”

  “That’s good.” Rixey holstered his weapon and zipped his jacket.

  She’d called for help. Armed and defended herself. And held it together when help arrived. Smart fucking girl. Becca clasped her hands on top of her head, heaving another deep breath that drew his gaze to the lift and fall of her breasts. Make that woman. Jesus.

  “Come on,” he said, leading the way to the door just as the knocking commenced. He glared up the steps, his nerves rankling to have uncleared spaces at his back, as Becca jogged to the door and pulled it open.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said to the pair of uniforms standing on the other side. “There was an intruder, but he ran out this door just a few minutes ago.” The cops urged them outside onto the stoop as a second squad car arrived. The new uniforms went through the house to secure the scene and ensure no one else remained inside. She answered the officers’ basic questions about her identity and the incident.

  Rixey eyeballed the street in both directions. Realizing they weren’t needed, the EMTs were reloading their equipment onto the back of their rig. Here and there, neighbors gawked on stoops.

  “And who are you?” one of the cops asked.

  He turned his attention to the conversation. “Nick Rixey. Friend of the family,” he said, managing not to choke on the word friend. Once, it had been damn true. Frank Merritt had been more than a mentor; he’d become a friend and confidant. Right before the old man had violated every principle they’d ever held dear: loyalty, trust, integrity, honor.

  “Nick’s a friend of my late father’s. They fought in Afghanistan together,” Becca said, the casual familiarity of her words aggravating him. She didn’t know shit about him or what had happened in Afghanistan. The Army had made damn sure of that.

  “Oh, yeah? I was there in ’06 and ’07. Marines. Reserves, now. You?” Cop was late twenties. Stocky. Hair high and tight. Shoulda guessed he was a jarhead.

  “Army Special Forces. Whoever broke in picked the lock on the back door,” Nick said, steering the conversation back where it belonged.

  “Crime scene techs will be here soon. They’ll give the place a full once-over,” the Marine-cop said.

  “Soon” turned out to be thirty minutes later. Two more uniforms carrying briefcases of gear disappeared inside. Nick’s gut said Becca shouldn’t be standing out there in the open, but there was little they could do but wait to be readmitted to her house, which surprisingly only took another fifteen minutes.

  “Okay, Miss Merritt, why don’t we walk through and see if you can tell if anything was stolen,” one of the uniforms said.

  Inside, Becca made for the upstairs first. Apparently nothing was off in the bathroom at the top of the steps or in the neighboring bedroom, but her gasp in the front bedroom-turned-office brought Rixey right to her side.

  Several desk drawers stood open, and papers protruded from one file cabinet drawer as if the guy hadn’t wanted to take the time to right his handiwork. So, he’d been rifling through her drawers and files. What the hell for?

  “It doesn’t look like anything’s been stolen,” she said, bewilderment plain in her voice. “At least nothing valuable.” She turned to the officers who had followed her upstairs. “This can’t be a coincidence, though, can it?”

  “What’s that, ma’am?” the older cop asked.

  “I filed another report this afternoon. I went to my brother’s house looking for him. I haven’t heard from him for a few days. And his apartment had been completely ransacked.”

  Rixey heard the words as if she’d spoken them through a tunnel. What in the everliving fuck was going on? His instincts lit up all over the place and pointed to one undeniable fact: Becca Merritt was in some sort of worst-case-scenario trouble. And so was her brother, by the sound of the story she was telling the police.

  Goddamnit.

  Another fifteen minutes passed with Becca answering questions and getting some damn-near useless advice from the cops. Keep your doors locked. Call a locksmith in the morning and get the locks changed. Ever consider a home-security system? Or a dog?

  Man’s best friend aside, that back door had been unlocked when Nick had tried it. Knob hadn’t been damaged. Glass hadn’t been broken. And she sure as shit hadn’t left it open, not with the paranoid behavior he’d observed the previous night. Someone had picked the sonofabitch. Bad guy wanted in again, a new lock wasn’t likely to keep him out. Not unless she seriously stepped up the quality of the hardware.

  And someone clearly wanted something from the Merritts.

  The cops left Becca with some vague pronouncements about what would happen next. If anything. The eighth most dangerous city in America, Baltimore had fourteen hundred violent crimes and nearly nine thousand property crimes, burglaries, and thefts a year—statistics that kept Nick busy serving papers five days a week. And statistics that also meant Becca’s seemingly victimless B&E wouldn’t get a lot of attention from the authorities.

  The despairing expression on her face told him she knew it, too. As she thanked the police, Rixey took stock of his late commanding officer’s daughter. Weariness had settled onto her shoulders and dampened the light in those baby blues. Wisps of hair had fallen haphazardly from her ponytail, and exhaustion painted dark circles under her eyes. But Becca Merritt was still a looker—a real sweetheart of a face, curves in all the places women were supposed to have curves, toned but real. And he found her even more appealing for the fact that some seriously stressful shit had gone down here and she’d held it together better than most civilians would.

  Nothing was happening to her, not on his watch. And at the moment, his was all the help she was gonna get.

  Wasn’t that a pisser.

  She closed the front door and flipped the dead bolt, then turned to him.

  Before she said a word, he gestured toward the steps. “Go pack a bag. Enough for a coupla nights, at least. I’m getting you the hell out of here. Now.”

  BECCA BLINKED. NICK’S expression was dead serious, the intensity of those pale green eyes daring her to argue. God, he’d looked like her worst nightmare as he’d come through her back door earlier—tall, muscled, and armed. A lethal menace all in black. But he’d helped her. And her father must’ve trusted him if they’d fought side by side for so long. Still, she wasn’t going to be ordered around. “Where would I go? This is my home. Besides, I don’t really know you to be going anywhere with you. No offense.” She couldn’t run scared. No matter how frightened she was right now. And she was. Her joints ached from trying to hold it together.

  His expression didn’t register any response to her refusal, but his tone turned frosty. “Wasting time, Becca. Go get some things together.”

  Screw being scared. Somebody had invaded her space. Anger flooded in behind the fear. S
he planted her hands on her hips. “I’m not letting some asshole chase me out of my own damn house.”

  The skin around his right eye ticked, just the littlest bit. “And what if that asshole comes back in the middle of the night? He didn’t force entry. He picked the lock. Which he can easily do again. And next time, he might not stop at digging through papers.”

  She frowned, a dozen weak defenses against his logic springing up even as his words trickled ice down her spine.

  Nick rushed in to fill the silence her hesitation created. “Pack a bag. Now. Everything else we can figure out later.”

  We? She crossed her arms. “What, so, now you’re helping me?”

  He gave a single tight nod.

  Yesterday, he refused to even talk to her. Now he wanted to call the shots? What happened in twenty-four hours to bring about this one-eighty? Could she really count on him? “Why? What’s changed?”

  He stepped closer, close enough that she could make out the gold flecks in his eyes. “You, being in danger.” His deep voice emphasizing the word you, combined with his intense gaze, spread warmth throughout her tired body. With a sideways nod to the stairs, he said, “Go pack a bag. Or I will.”

  The image of those big hands rooting through her panty drawer sprang into her mind’s eye. Butterflies made a quick loop around her stomach. “Fine.” She couldn’t help Charlie if anything happened to her, so she walked past Nick toward the bottom step, hoping he didn’t see the pink she suspected colored her cheeks. Three steps up, she felt movement behind her. She stopped and looked over her shoulder.