Page 4 of When He Defends
Every muscle in Gray’s body locked down as he glared at the monster on the floor of that garage.One squeeze of the trigger, and there is one less nightmare in the world.
“Don’t.” For Gray’s ears alone. Emerson’s low, husky voice. Her soft fingers fluttered down his back and sent a weird, electric charge cascading through him in the wake of her light caress. It was a charge he felt every single time they touched. Hugely problematic.
But, then again, thiswasEmerson. Everything with her was problematic.
His breath huffed out. “You get to tase people, but I have to hold back?” In what world was that fair? Oh, wait, he knew. The world where he’d been forced to take on a partner he didn’t want.
“You got to shoot him once already.”
He had.
“And we both just got his confession.” Her fingers fluttered over Gray’s back one more time.
His teeth snapped together.
“Let’s call it a win, shall we?” Emerson murmured.
His head turned toward her. He towered over Emerson, even when she wore her heels. The womanalwaysseemed to wear heels. Even at the most inopportune of times. “He had a screwdriver shoved under your chin. That’s not a win.” Not by any definition. Anger rumbled in each word. “That’s an assault.”
Her eyes widened as she searched his gaze. “Grayson?”
He’d told her over and over again to call him Gray. Just Gray. “It’s not a win.” Flat. “It’s the last mistake he’ll ever make.”
Gray thought she’d back away from him.
She didn’t. Emerson stepped closer. “Are you okay?”
The hell, no, he wasn’t. “His last mistake,” Gray gritted out, “and yours, too. Consider our partnershipover.”
And, for the first time, real horror filled her gaze. She hadn’t been horrified when she’d been grabbed by the serial killer. Hadn’t looked horrified—or even particularly afraid when the freak had shoved that screwdriver beneath her chin but now…
Now…
Horror flashed in her incredible eyes.
So did fear.
Then she shook her head. Squared her shoulders and said, very, very definitely, “We’re not over, Grayson.”
“Gray.” Fuck. How many times did he have to tell her?Gray.If she called him Graysonand she was Emerson, they were too fucking sing-songy with their names.Too coupley.Too—ah, fuck it.“Gray.”
The serial killer at their feet began to whimper. Somewhere in the distance, sirens screamed. Emerson ignored everything else as she stared straight into Gray’s eyes and promised him, “We’re just beginning.”
Chapter Two
“Hell, no, I don’t want a partner. Someone to get in my way? Slow me down? Piss me off? Someone I have to hand-hold every single minute? Sounds like hell. Thanks, but no thanks.
I work best alone. So…fuck off.”
– Gray Stone, FBI Agent
Emerson Marlowe pacedthe small confines of her motel room. One foot in front of the other. Over and over. She reached the wall on the right, the one with the peeling paint and the slightly lopsided picture of a sunflower in the middle of it. She stared at the sunflower. Turned on her heel. Marched back across the room. Her heels made no sound as they tapped across the threadbare carpeting, but an air-conditioner—a window unit—hummed from nearby. She was in a small Tennessee town. Briar, Tennessee.
She’d helped stop a serial killer. Helped create the profile on the man. Helped to locate him after she’d been so certain that he worked at a car repair shop.Allof the victims had recently had repairs done to their vehicles, and, of course, add in the elementthat they’d also been found with oil and grease residue on their bodies…
Tied to a garage. To a mechanic. Had to be.
But the women had used different garages, so it had taken a bit of time to narrow things down. And then they’d realized that the second victim, Tara Grush, had actually broken down on the side of the road and a “Good Samaritan” had helped her to change her tire and then they’d?—
