Wherever he’d lived before, the sun had kissed the heck out of this guy. His hair. His lips. His arms. Even his green eyes. Bottle green. Bright, as if they stored sunshine. They shone like that pretty bottle of sparkling water she’d ordered at her favorite restaurant for lunch the other day. Tiny, darker, emerald spokes radiated from huge, black pupils.
When he blinked, she fell in love with the lashes that fanned like smoky paint brushes against the sheen of his perspiration-dampened cheeks. The contrast between the green of his eyes and his sweat-slick, sandy-blond hair, made Mr. McClane a little overwhelming to behold. Yet there she stood, like a star-struck teenager—beholding.
Ashley hadn’t expected her first notification of the day to be so, so good. She ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip and a steamy heat flickered to life in those beautiful, crystal-clear greens. Something crackled in the air between Mr. McClane and her. Felt like electricity—or lightning.
She slipped her free hand into her messenger bag and clutched her secret weapon, in case he wasn’t as nice as he acted and looked. But if he were...
“I’m… ah… I’m… I’m…” —Here to notify you that you might have an STD— “Ashley. Ashley Cox. Your n-n-next door n-n-neighbor.”
Way to go, girl. Should’ve led with your job title, not your home address.
The sunshine inside those gorgeous eyeballs brightened, and she was entranced all over again. This job wasn’t so bad at all.
He stabbed his thumb in the direction of her place. “You’re the lady with the birds.”
She nodded. “Yes, well, just one. Peewee. He’s not disturbing you, is he?”
Peewee was her Moluccan cockatoo, a pretty boy who loved to greet the mornings, evenings, and sometimes, afternoons, with enthusiasm, that, unfortunately, sounded like shrieking to everyone but her. She used to keep him covered until the dangerous times of day passed, but he’d shriek the moment he spied her anyway. Right now, he had the run of the place. He was her favorite silly boy.
Her handsome neighbor crooked one elbow into the corner of the door jamb over his head, framing the opening with a magnificent bicep, the underside of it embellished with thick ropes of purplish veins and more muscle. His forearm draped casually over his head. All by himself, he filled the space like a beautiful, golden door.
“He always that noisy at the butt-crack of dawn?”
That description of sunrise made Ashley laugh. She nodded, fully aware she hadn’t stopped by just to chat. She wasn’t one of those gregarious, exuberant women, who had to know everything about their neighbors. Introverts were a closed nation unto themselves, convinced they didn’t need most other people. Ashley certainly didn’t. For the last two years, she’d been extremely introverted. She could count the number of friends she had on one hand and still have fingers left. And one of those friends was a bird. But this guy was something else.
“His noisy times are usually sunrise and sunset,” she explained, in awe of the drool-worthy male watching her intently from beneath thick, sooty lashes. “Otherwise he’s quiet. You just moved in?” The oddest question popped into her head. Why did this green-eyed Greek god have black eyelashes when his hair was kissed-by-the-sun blond? How’d that work?
A lazy, crooked smile curled one corner of his mouth. While his top lip was thin, the lower was lush and slippery looking. Wet, as if he’d run his tongue over it before he’d opened his door. She wanted to run her tongue over it.
Say what? Heat slithered up her neck at that salacious thought. Where it came from, she had no idea. It’d been years since she’d had anything positive to say about the opposite sex. Her savior from Friday night didn’t count. She’d decided he hadn’t been that great after he’d deserted her like he had. Besides, she’d been overdosed with adrenaline then, and everyone knew adrenaline made you see and think things that weren’t real. Her sexy, avenging angel was now just some guy, like he’d said he was. He wasn’t a superhero, and he hadn’t even been that good looking. But this man was surely worth looking at. Possibly, even thinking about. Later...
“Nah. Moved in a while ago, but I’ve been back and forth between here and Seattle the last couple weeks,” he replied, licking that lush bottom lip again. “Sorry. Where are my manners? Name’s Tripp McClane.” He stuck a well-muscled arm and hand in her face. “Sure nice to meet you, Ashley Cox. I’ve seen you around. We should grab a cup of coffee sometime.”
One look at those callused fingers and that work-roughened palm, and Ashley’s reason for being there came back to her. There was no way she’d touch this guy. Who knew where that hand and those fingers had been.
He kept talking, waiting for her to accept his friendly gesture. “Yeah, I’ve got a year’s lease here, but I moved to Seattle for my job, then had to move right back. Family problems.” He shrugged. “Guess you’re stuck with me a while longer.”
How horribly nice was that? But, oh, darn. Coincidentally, those rowdy street urchins were also from Seattle, the hotbed of the year’s civil unrest and, well, apparently a lot of other things. That had to be where he’d caught his—disease.
Mr. McClane’s much larger head canted onto his shoulder. His hand fell back to his thigh. Those mischievous eyes made him look like an adorable, but very naughty, little boy. “What’s wrong? You don’t like coffee? Hell, hot chocolate then. Or wine. Name your poison. I’m not choosey.”
Which brings us back to the reason I’m here today…
Ashley closed her eyes, fighting the fierce attraction for her neighbor strumming through her body. Lifting her right hand to her forehead, she scratched a tense fingernail over her brow, praying for strength to do what had now become an enormously distasteful job. Wishing this man didn’t look as breathtakingly fantastic as he did. But he did, and that was probably why he was now carrying around a nasty STD in his pants, that she—God, why me?—was here to tell him about. Please don’t let him ask me for a lesson on where STDs come from and how they work.
He leaned into her. Closer. “Hey, neighbor. How’d you get that bruise on your cheek? Is there something you want to tell me? Is some guy—? Is your boyfriend—?”
“No. I mean, no, I don’t have a boyfriend, but yes, there’s something I need to tell you, only…” Darn. Darn. Darn! A gasp of exasperation sent a loose strand of her hair flying, and Ashley clenched the mace in her bag, again, just in case. There was no way she’d tell this guy what happened Friday. That was her business. Her mistake.
“Read this,” she ordered in her most professional voice, slapping the incriminating, folded-in-thirds, official notification into that hard, made-for-sex-that-was-never-going-to-happen, chest. “I’m an outreach coordinator for the Health Department. That makes me just the messenger here, so don’t blame me. There’s a phone number on the bottom line if you have questions. Whoever answers will explain. Not me. B-b-bye.”
That was as much as she could squeak out. Like a chicken, once he slapped his hand over his chest to keep the notice from falling, she turned tail and ran for home, the apartment next door to this Adonis with a sexually transmitted disease. What a shame!
“What the fuck? Hey! Wait up!” he called after her. “Wait! Ashley!”
“Forget we ever met,” she tossed over her shoulder. “I’m not your type!”
Obviously. Because I’m no man’s type. Not anymore. What kind of guy would want to face her after this debacle of a first meeting? Yeah. That kind. The kind who had unprotected sex with strangers and shared STDs like twitchy addicts shared needles.
Slamming her door behind her, Ashley locked it, then stood with her back against it, out of breath and shaking like a ninny. How unprofessional was that, to dump this mess on him, then run away like a chicken with her head cut off? So unprofessional. Hardly even couth. She still had two more men to face with this awful news. Could she do it? Probably not.
Ashley squeezed her eyes shut, embarrassed for herself and for Mr. McClane and… and… for Peewee
! Why not? His lovely Indian-style headdress was now standing on end from her startling, door-slamming entry.
The wood behind her vibrated with the powerful energy of an angry male’s knock. “Ashley?” Mr. McClane asked politely, his voice rough and rumbly. He didn’t sound as perturbed as she’d expected, and he hadn’t really knocked that loudly. Fear magnified everything, that was all. “This is what you wanted to tell me? That I need to get a blood test? Is this all? I can explain.”
Ashley didn’t reply, just turned to face her locked door.
Did she dare open it?
Chapter Six
Tripp stared at the paper Ashley had thrown at him—for all of ten seconds. Shit, damn, and son of a bitch! Another official Health Department notice, like he hadn’t seen this exact kind of bullshit before. Trish had done it to him again. Damn her. This lying piece of trash was her work, her stab at him for being the good twin. The nerve of her to name him—her one and only flesh-and-blood brother!—as one of the many lowlife sleazebags she had sex with. He didn’t have STDs, gawddamn it! And he’d never paid for sex, but now his pretty neighbor thought he did? Jesus H Christ.
Slamming his door shut, he raced down the hall to intercept Ashley before she got away. What an unreal coincidence, that the woman he’d rescued Friday night was his neighbor. He’d known that then, but deliberately hadn’t let on. Thank fuck she hadn’t recognized him. That much was good. He’d meant his asking about her bruise as a segue into what he’d hoped would have been a real convo. Guess not.
Too late. Her door slammed in his face. Of course. What’d he expect? She thought he was a douchebag, like any smart, upstanding woman who thought he’d engaged in risky sex with hookers, would. He knocked anyway, convinced she hadn’t recognized him. Which gave him a second chance to make a better first impression than the ones he’d made Friday night and two seconds ago.
“Ashley?” He pleaded through the sturdy wooden barrier between them, one fist still against the door. “This is what you wanted to tell me? That I need to get a blood test? Is this all? I can explain.” Please answer.
Tripp bowed his forehead to the door, embarrassed for her more than for himself. He’d been down this road before. She, obviously, had not.
Because the last two nights on the street had been tough, he’d called in late to work this morning. Saturday night, two punks harassing a homeless veteran, found out how hard asphalt could be. The vet found himself warmed and fed in a local shelter; the kids found themselves in the river, alive, but well-warned not to try that shit again. Sunday night, he’d patrolled the riverbank in case the kids came back, looking for another target.
Which was why’d he’d been giving his home gym a good workout this morning when Ashley knocked. He’d turned his two-bedroom apartment into one bedroom and a modestly equipped weight room with Parkour bars up the walls and over the ceiling. He was lucky. His employer demanded his team maintain above-average physical fitness. To that end, Alex Stewart maintained an on-site gym that provided plenty of strength, core, and cardio, including a more rigorous Parkour workout track than Tripp’s. Vigilantes couldn’t afford to go soft. They had identities—and women, like Ashley—to protect. The world needed men like him to be all they could be, all the time.
She was a helluva lot tougher than he’d expected. Yes, she was banged up. He’d known which hospital she’d been taken to. He also knew she’d come home early Saturday, but he hadn’t expected she’d be back to work today. Or that after what she’d gone through Friday night, she’d still be smiling. Ashley Cox was definitely one of those indomitable morning people. Usually, chipper people annoyed the living shit out of Tripp until he’d had at least two cups of coffee. But not Ashley. She was different. He’d known it the second he’d laid eyes on her. Just seeing her made him smile.
Until now, there’d never been time for anything but quick, hurried greetings. His move to Seattle, then back again to Alexandria, hadn’t helped. Seattle was the primary location he’d signed up for when he’d hired onto The TEAM, a locally-owned security business. Working out of the Seattle office would’ve given him the distance he craved from his troublemaking twin. He’d trained hard, and he’d deserved a break from his family drama.
But he’d no more than settled into that spacious loft overlooking Elliot Bay, when Trish pulled her latest disappearing act. He’d moved back a week ago to help his mom locate his sister. Now this official piece of crap notice. Once again, Trish had screwed his chance to be free of her sorry ass. When hadn’t she been a pain in his butt? In everybody’s butts? Including his mom’s? Short answer, not in this lifetime.
Tripp stared at the crumpled letter in his hand. Mom always said things happened for a reason. Could Ashley please be the reason he was back on the East Coast this time? Not Trish?
Because as much as Tripp didn’t want a relationship, he still meant to keep Ashley safe. She didn’t have to like him for him to watch her back, uh-uh. She just needed to keep on breathing. He was her shadow, and that would be enough. It had to be. Because he was the night, not a hero. If she knew half the things he’d done… Yeah, not going there.
“Ashley?” he asked again, keeping his tone sincere and pleading. More than anything, he wanted a chance to explain. What better way than by taking her out to coffee or drinks or hamburgers or… man, anything? Maybe just a walk in a public place where everyone could see them. Where she’d feel safe. That was important to her and now, to him.
Dead silence was his only answer, but his gut told him that Ashley was standing on the other side of her door. He knew it. She hadn’t struck him as being one of those flighty women who wallowed in drama. Delivering the poisonous notice had been hard for her. He’d seen the trepidation in her eyes. She’d been worried how he’d react. He didn’t blame her. What a shitty job for a petite, pretty woman, to have to confront full grown men with devastatingly intimate news. But for a moment before she’d handed over that deceitful notice, he had felt a connection. Hadn’t he?
Guess not. She wasn’t opening her door.
This debacle was his fault. He’d been crazy-busy moving in and getting back to duty at TEAM HQ. Not to mention his nightly activities. Now that Trish was officially missing, his mom was worried out of her mind. Worse, some kind of hooker convention had recently flooded Alexandria’s streets, and that kind of action was right up Trish’s ally. Damn her. The girl never knew when to leave drugs and hooking alone.
This carefully worded letter was his only clue. Ashley might be the key to his sister’s whereabouts. Oddly, as much as he disliked his twin for her destructive behavior and foolish decisions, Tripp worried about Trish. She was, after all, just a woman, and the streets were hard enough on men.
Tripp tried one last time. Putting it all on the line, he ran back to his apartment and snagged the copy of the results from his last physical, off the unopened stack of mail on his kitchen counter. His new boss, Alex Stewart, was a stickler for order and transparency, crap like that. Since Tripp had spent a couple weeks in Seattle, the notorious hotspot in the nation for STDs, Alex had insisted on proof of a clean bill of health. Not that he thought Tripp was stupid or desperate enough to pay for sex, but because that was The TEAM’s number one rule: Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Just do what you’re told.
Out of breath and with his apartment door left open, Tripp slipped the results of his physical and the bloodwork that went with it, under Ashley’s door. Either she’d believe him or she wouldn’t. The next move was hers.
He stepped back and waited, wondering about that phrase, bated breath. Now he knew what it meant. One minute passed. Two. Then three, four, five, six. He gave her enough time to read over the damned thing before he called it quits. But then, because this was Ashley, and he really wanted to get to know her, he took a deep breath and waited another five minutes. It’d taken him a while to read through all the medical mumbo-jumbo. Might take her a few minutes, too.
At fifteen minutes, he jogged ba
ck down the hall, shut his door, and ran back to Ashley’s apartment. At twenty, he leaned against the wall opposite her door, folded his legs, and sat his butt on the floor. He could be patient. She was worth it.
Each floor in this five-level building, the sixth of the apartment complex, offered four separate bachelor-size apartments. He lived on the fourth floor. Ashley’s place was closest to the elevator; his was next to hers, beside the fire doors and the stairs that led to ground level. Across from him, a sweet elderly woman, Mrs. Harrison, lived with her dog. Tripp didn’t have a clue who lived across from Ashley. He hadn’t met that tenant yet.
Mrs. Harrison exited her place, closed her door with a firm click, then double-checked the knob, rattling it to make sure it was locked. This morning, she was dressed in black slacks with a black-and-orange-flowered print blouse, and her usual low-heeled dress shoes. Her silver hair was always curled, trimmed, and proper. She was a widow, close to eighty, one of only two people Tripp knew in the entire apartment complex—if he counted Ashley.
Mrs. Harrison had knocked on his door one night before he’d left for Seattle. She’d needed help opening a jar of green olives. Poor thing. That meeting led Tripp to giving her his numbers in case she needed another jar opened, and inviting her over for dinner a couple times before he’d left town. She was lonely, and he’d had zip for a social life. Three moves in a couple months guaranteed that. But he didn’t mind. She and her little dog were two of his favorite people.
“Tripp. What are you doing on the floor? Did you lose something?”
“No, ma’am, just waiting.”
“For who? Ashley Cox?” Why did Mrs. Harrison sound surprised?
“Yes, ma’am. How’s Chipper?” Chipper was her smelly little dachshund that loved his tummy scratched.
Sighing, she shook her head. “I’m afraid his time has come. He ate one of my new slippers. He’s at the vet now, but the prognosis isn’t good. Doctor Myers said his gut’s twisted, and he’s got gastric dilatation-volvulus. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
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