Page 28 of Shadows of Justice

“You don’t think I was born in Pasadena?” he asks playfully, quirking a brow. He releases the knot of my hair wound in his fingers, making me shiver as the strands brush over my exposed neck and back.

I roll my eyes, a smile tugging at my lips at his coy tone. “I guessed Argentina?”

“Colombia, esmeralda,” he says, so softly that it’s hardly above a whisper. With his free hand he reaches up and lightly traces the curve of my jaw with his thumb. My skin tingles under his touch, but I feel my forehead pinch at the name he just called me.

I know I’m drunk, but I didn’t misunderstand that.

“My name . . . is Genevieve,” I croak, slightly irked. “I thought you knew that.”

He chuckles deeply, and I feel the vibrations emanate through me from where he’s pressed into my back. “Sí, Genevieve, I know your name.” His thick eyebrows draw together. “It means . . . gemstone of green. But I cannot think of the word in English with you staring at me like that.”

My knees feel as though they’ve turned to pudding. I love it when this man says my name. I want him to whisper it to me over and over again while pressed against me—nothing but sweat in between our bodies.

“Emerald?” I offer, but it comes out as more of a squeak.

“That’s it,” he says, smiling softly. The featherlight touch of his finger comes higher, up near my eye, his hand lightly brushing through the hair by my temple. “That is what I think of when I see your eyes.”

I feel myself lean toward him and then stop, thinking how unattractive it must be for a strange woman that just nearly puked to make a move on him.

Then, I chastise myself for even having the thought. I still have no evidence that all that he says is true and that he’s not a dangerous, drug-peddling criminal.

Get it together, Schaeffer.

I clear my throat and my thoughts, only then realizing that he’s stopped stroking my arm, but is still holding it. I remove it from his grasp and smile tightly.

“That actually worked,” I say. “Not nauseous anymore. Thank you.”

His eyes clear and he seems to remember himself and who we are as well, because he straightens and sucks in a breath, backing up a step.

“Of course. Glad I could help,” he says with a tight smile. He suddenly zeroes in on my throat and his gaze darkens. “What happened to your neck?”

My hand instinctively goes to my throat, the marks still raised. The skin burns when I touch it.

“My ex. He attacked me here, yesterday. Or, two days ago. What time is it?” I look at the oven, seeing the time. 2:51 AM.

“He attacked you?” Leo suddenly looks murderous, and surprise flickers in me. “Did you fucking kill him?”

I huff a laugh. “No, I didn’t kill him. But I’m filing for a restraining order tomorrow. Err—today.” I clutch my brow, a headache suddenly forming.

“Oh great,” Leo drawls bitterly, walking away from me. “A piece of paper should do wonders for the safety of your neck.” I narrow my eyes, his tone starting to get irritating.

“Excuse me? I can handle Tim myself. What the fuck does it matter to you?”

The moments tick by, a confusing mixture of dangerous satisfaction and white-hot annoyance combining forces inside me. Leo takes a breath, his hands on his hips, staring at me like he wants to say something.

But . . . he doesn’t.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit disappointed.

“You’re right. That was out of line. Not my business,” he says gruffly.

I tip my chin, the alcohol in my veins daring me to challenge his aloofness. Because everything about the look that had just been in his eyes had said that he’d wanted to make it his business.

But I don’t. What would be the point? I take a breath of my own to calm my nerves.

“Anyway, you said you needed my help,” I grit out. “So how do I factor into any of this?”

“The MG-T12 design was stolen from my home tonight. I assume you can guess who stole it.”

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