Risky Business

slamming the cup down, she folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t want you here.”
    With studied calm, he set his mug next to hers. When he took her shoulders, his hands were firm, not gentle. When he spoke, his voice was brisk, not soothing. “I’m not leaving you alone. Not now, not until they find Jerry’s killer. You’re involved whether you like it or not. And so, damn it, am I.”
    Her breath came quickly, too quickly, though she fought to steady it. “I wasn’t involved until you came back and started hounding me.”
    He’d already wrestled with his conscience over that. Neither one of them could know if it were true. At the moment, he told himself it didn’t matter. “However you’re involved, you are. Whoever killed Jerry thinks you know something. You’ll have an easier time convincing me you don’t than you will them. It’s time you started thinking about cooperating with me.”
    “How do I know you didn’t send him here to frighten me?”
    His eyes stayed on hers, cool and unwavering. “You don’t. I could tell you that I don’t hire men to kill women, but you wouldn’t have to believe it. I could tell you I’m sorry.” For the first time, his tone gentled. He lifted a hand to brush the hair back from her face and his thumb slid lightly over her cheekbone. Like the conch shell, she seemed delicate, lovely and damaged. “And that I wish I could walk away, leave you alone, let both of us go back to the way things were a few weeks ago. But I can’t. We can’t. So we might as well help each other.”
    “I don’t want your help.”
    “I know. Sit down. I’ll fix you something to eat.”
    She tried to back away. “You can’t stay here.”
    “I am staying here. Tomorrow, I’m moving my things from the hotel.”
    “I said—”
    “I’ll rent the room,” he interrupted, turning away to rummage through the cupboards. “Your throat’s probably raw. This chicken soup should be the best thing.”
    She snatched the can from his hand. “I can fix my own dinner, and you’re not renting a room.”
    “I appreciate your generosity.” He took the can back from her. “But I’d rather keep it on a business level. Twenty dollars a week seems fair. You’d better take it, Liz,” he added before she could speak. “Because I’m staying, one way or the other. Sit down,” he said again and looked for a pot.
    She wanted to be angry. It would help keep everything else bottled up. She wanted to shout at him, to throw him bodily out of her house. Instead she sat because her knees were too weak to hold her any longer.
    What had happened to her control? For ten years she’d been running her own life, making every decision by herself, forherself. For ten years, she hadn’t asked advice, she hadn’t asked for help. Now something had taken control and decisions out of her hands, something she knew nothing about. Her life was part of a game, and she didn’t know any of the rules.
    She looked down and saw the tear drop on the back of her hand. Quickly, she reached up and brushed others from her cheeks. But she couldn’t stop them. One more decision had been taken from her.
    “Can you eat some toast?” Jonas asked her as he dumped the contents of the soup in a pan. When she didn’t answer, he turned to see her sitting stiff and pale at the table, tears running unheeded down her face. He swore and turned away again. There was nothing he could do for her, he told himself. Nothing he could offer. Then, saying nothing, he came to the table, pulled a chair up beside her and waited.
    “I thought he’d kill me.” Her voice broke as she pressed a hand to her face. “I felt the knife against my throat and thought I was going to die. I’m so scared. Oh God, I’m so scared.”
    He drew her against him and let her sob out the fear. He wasn’t used to comforting women. Those he knew well were too chic to shed more than a delicate drop or two. But he held her close during a storm of weeping that shook her body and left her gasping.
    Her skin was icy, as if to prove the fact that fear made the blood run cold. She couldn’t summon the pride to draw herself away, to seek a private spot as she’d always done in a crisis. He didn’t speak to tell her everything would be fine; he didn’t murmur quiet words of comfort. He was simply there. When she was drained, he still held her. The rain began slowly, patting the glass of the windows and pinging on the roof. He still held her.
    When she