Page 40 of Shadows of Justice

“Yes—well, no,” he stammers. “Sort of. More about the Dogs, but yes, I was keeping a look out for him too. Can’t be too careful.”

“You know I carry a gun, right?” I ask bitterly. “I can take care of myself.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have to!” he says a little too sharply.

I arch a brow, and Leo looks pained, clearly trying to choose his words carefully this time.

“I know that.” He looks at his feet. “I don’t sleep much anyway, and I’m safer on the move. This is my home, but I’ve tried to avoid it as much as possible, trying not to lead any of them here. It’s worked so far.”

I peer around. “So this isn’t where a dead dog showed up?”

He shakes his head. “That was at my condo in Redondo Beach.”

I sigh, finishing my tea and setting it on the stone coffee table. I lean back against the back of the couch and close my eyes. This day has been far too long.

“Regardless, it was unnerving to have Gavin explain to me that you’ve been staking out my place. I would have liked to have heard it from you. Or, you know, just not at all.” I feel the couch dip beside me, and hear his cup set next to mine.

“You’re right. I overstepped, I apologize,” he says, and I turn my head to look at his profile. “I know you can handle yourself. I just . . . feel responsible for bringing all this heat on you. The Tim shit is just convenient timing for my ‘stake outs,’” he says, smirking and borrowing my earlier term.

My insides warm at the idea of him acting protective over me, but I instantly shove the concept away. I shouldn’t rely on him for anything. Getting comfortable with this man in any role in my life is just naïve.

He turns to look at me fully, and his warm gaze unnerves me. My breathing grows shallow as he studies my face with absolutely no sense of urgency. He is shockingly good at eye contact. Like, probably wins every staring contest that he’s ever been in.

He leans forward and my breath catches, unsure of what he’s about to do, but completely unwilling to not just find out. He tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and every nerve ending awakens under the gentle touch.

“I’ll bet that you haven’t eaten today,” he says softly.

“I’ll bet that you’re right.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I cooked.”

He hops up off the couch and heads into the kitchen. I follow, bringing our mugs, and set them in the sink. I turn to watch him lean over the steaming pot on the stove. The scent it’s emitting is already borderline orgasmic, and as he uncovers and stirs it, the smell of the seasonings waft even thicker into the air. He dips a wooden spoon into what looks like a dark broth soup with meat and vegetables and brings it to his mouth, tasting the flavors. His corded, muscled forearms flex, the scars covering his skin catching my eye. I watch as his tongue slides over the bottom of the spoon and I feel my head tip in a daze. It’s oddly erotic.

I can’t stop my mind from wondering what other things he can do with that tongue.

I’m mesmerized for a moment, probably staring at him like a fool. When he looks over at me I check myself and quickly look away, making sure I didn’t leave any drool on my chin.

He stirs the soup again and brings the spoon out once more, and then turns to me, his face endearingly shy.

“Would you like to try?”

“Mmhmm,” is all I can muster, my heart rate climbing through the roof.

Why does this feel so intimate? Maybe because the last time I did this exact thing with a man it was with one that I was in a relationship with? Or maybe it’s because everything that Leo does I find utterly sexual.

He comes close to me, his body wash or shampoo or just fucking natural scent wafting toward me, making my eyelids flutter. He slowly brings the spoon to my lips and I open my mouth for a taste. An extremely obscene sound escapes me when the flavors explode on my tongue, but I can’t help it. It’s so damn good.

Leo’s pupils dilate as he watches me with unblinking focus, making my mouth water for more than just the delicious soup. In a moment of stupidity or bravery or—maybe you’d call it brazenness—I take another taste. Slowly this time, intentionally holding his burning gaze, I run my tongue over the bottom of the spoon, exactly where his had been. I’m very satisfied to observe his breaths come faster, the T-shirt stretched across his broad chest at odds with his heaving bulk.

I decide in that moment, that despite who we are, and how different or how destined to opposite futures we may be—I like it very much when Leo watches me.

Suddenly, the idea of him parked outside my apartment at night isn’t such a bad thing.

The soup—or, Sopa de Pollo, as Leo calls it—is absolutely incredible.

I shamelessly have seconds, and have to physically restrain myself from having thirds.

Leo and I eat on the balcony. The sun has long-since set and a pleasant breeze wafts us as we dine, and talk, and sip impeccably made old-fashions. He asks about my mother—Collette—and after downing the remainder of my drink, I tell him. I tell him about how she was very young and from France, and came here to dance. She fell in with a bad crowd and ended up losing her spot at the academy. She was a key witness in one of my father’s cases, and they fell in love.

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