He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not

hurried back to the kitchen to usher him out.
    He followed her, stopping behind her, close, but not touching. “Amanda, look at me.” His deep voice was patient, soothing. “Please.”
    She blew out a frustrated breath and turned around, looking up into his eyes as she leaned back against the same countertop where he’d leaned earlier.
    “I’m sorry I scared you,” he said.
    She shook her head. “You didn’t scare me. You don’t scare me.” And it was true. She felt so safe with him she wanted to wrap herself in his arms and lock out the rest of the world. She barely knew him. He was powerfully built and no doubt could easily hurt her if he chose. She was alone with him, with no one else to help her if he did want to harm her. So why wasn’t she afraid of him? It didn’t make any sense.
    “No?” His searching gaze held hers. “Then why did you run?”
    She sighed and automatically started to pull her hair forward, then stopped self-consciously when she remembered what he’d said about her hiding behind her hair.
    “Amanda—”
    “I’m sorry. Really. I can’t . . . it’s just that I . . .” She blew out a frustrated breath.
    He reached out his hand toward her but dropped it when she jerked backwards. She awkwardly folded her arms over her chest, her automatic reaction reminding her she was right. She couldn’t handle a relationship, no matter how tempting.
    His eyes were sad as he looked at her. “Don’t apologize. My actions were inappropriate. I don’t know what got into me.” His eyes took on the far-away look he had earlier when he talked about his loved ones in New York. “I really don’t.”
    He shrugged into his jacket, then pulled a small white card from his pocket and laid it on the kitchen table. “My business card. If you change your mind about speaking to the FBI, call me.” His gaze captured hers. “Even if you don’t change your mind, if you need someone to talk to, about anything, call me. No strings.”
    He crossed to the side door, gave her another one of those heart-achingly sad smiles, then stepped out onto the carport.
    By the time the taillights on Logan’s car faded in the distance, Amanda was shaking so hard she had to sit down at the table. For a few minutes tonight, Chief Richards—Logan—had made her feel attractive again. She’d forgotten how good it felt to have a man look at her with hunger in his eyes.
    Not that it mattered. She couldn’t encourage any kind of relationship between them. Her own seesawing emotions were too much to deal with.
    Let alone his.
    At times tonight, he’d looked like he was scared to death of her.
    L ogan shook his head in disgust, tilted his beer, and took a long, deep drink. He slammed the empty bottle down on the top rail of his back deck, mildly surprised the glass didn’t shatter. The gold label sparkled up at him in the porch light, mocking him, reminding him Amanda drank the same brand of beer.
    They both had the same brand of TV, the same kind of computer. About half of the DVDs in the rack beside her TV were the same movies he had next to his—action movies, not chick flicks.
    He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and looked down at the picture frame he held in his left hand. Victoria’s soft brown eyes stared up at him with that adoring look she’d once reserved only for him. God, how he’d loved her. He still couldn’t believe she was no longer his. They’d been happy together, or so he’d thought, until she asked for a divorce so she could marry someone else.
    In the year since the divorce he’d been convinced he could never love another woman like that. He’d never meet someone and again feel that hot rush of attraction, that sense of connection when he looked in her eyes, as if he’d known her forever. He never thought another woman could make him burn for her, yearn for her, the way he’d once burned for Victoria.
    Until he met Amanda.
    The moment he’d looked into those haunted blue eyes he was lost. He’d wanted to pull her into his arms, protect her, ease the hurt that caused the shadows in her eyes. Even now he wanted nothing more than to rush back to her house and make sure she was safe, even though his men were outside watching over her.
    He cursed and crossed the deck to the set of French doors and went inside. He set the alarm, discarded his beer bottle in the kitchen, then glanced at his watch. He should have been in bed long before now, but he was too keyed up to sleep. He