Page 7 of Deadly Secrets
Roman turned back to his vehicle and saw Brooke in the front seat, staring at him. Her hair had come loose from the bun and curly strands grazed her shoulders. She looked shell-shocked. Or was that her pissed expression?
What choice did he have? One way or another, he was going to get Dr. Brooke Heaton into bed with him.
Figuratively speaking, of course.
Roman Walsh had just saved her life.
Brooke’s head swam, her ears still ringing from the gunshots inside the bar. Ronni—sweetheart that she was—thought Brooke’s brain fog was the result of hitting her head, or maybe shock.
Shock was a possibility, but she had not hit her head. Dr. Walsh had made sure of that, his strong, capable hands cradling her skull after he’d jerked her off her feet.
All of her SDSU compatriots were safe. Scared, but not injured, outside of a few cuts and bruises from the mass exodus.
As Roman headed to the car, she saw the normal swagger in his step was off ever so slightly. The flashing lights from patrol cars and two ambulances silhouetted his lean but muscled frame. He glanced at her through the windshield as he approached, then his gaze darted away and he scanned the area around them.
The memory of his body against hers, his lips murmuring in her ear, sent a shiver down Brooke’s spine.
Have mercy.
She’d never dreamed she would be held in those strong arms of his, much less hugging him tight and curling a leg around him, but that’s exactly what had happened. She’d lost her ever-loving mind, her body betraying her as bullets rained down, and her nice, comfortable world had become one she didn’t recognize.
“I don’t know whether to thank you for saving my life,” she said as Roman climbed into the driver’s seat, “or be appalled at the way you yanked me off my feet in there.”
“Too Cro-Magnon for you?” He grinned with all the nerve of a confident, egotistical shark.
“Neanderthal perhaps.”
“I caught you, didn’t I?” He started the car, the rumble of the Jeep dropping into a solid purr. “And I did warn you to exit the premises before the shooting began.”
“Yes, I had all of three seconds to do so. Thank you so much.”
His face glowed blue from the tricked out dashboard. “Are you seriously pissed at me right now?”
She held up her lone shoe. “You owe me a new pair of Steve Maddens. My other one is still in the bar.”
“I’ll take you shopping tomorrow. What time do the stores open? We can grab breakfast on the way.” He put the car in drive. “On one condition, of course.”
Oh, boy. Like she didn’t know what that was. “No.”
Seemed like that was one of the few words she didn’t have any trouble saying to him tonight.
His gaze swung her way. “Come work for me, Dr. Heaton. I need you—your expertise.”
And, oh that irritating grin was more than her heart could handle after the recent shock of the shooting.
I need you. The words sent her pulse skipping as erratically as when she’d been shot at.
A part of her wanted to smile back, maybe even grab him and kiss him to say thank you. The other part—the sane good girl, professional academic—wanted to whack him a couple times with her shoe. “I’ll send you the bill for the new pair of shoes I pick out. On my own.”
The grin fell. He shook his head and sighed, pulling out of his space. “Why won’t you consult for the West Coast DTT?”
Because you scare the hell out of me.“I’m about to leave for a dig.” The excuse came easy. “Besides, you have plenty of experts on your team.”
He drove them out of the parking lot and away from the pulsating red and blue lights, quiet for several blocks. “Are you really that vain?”
Vain?“Are you really that rude? Why would you say such a thing?”
“You won’t consider working for me because I have other experts on my taskforce? Your ego needs the spotlight that bad?”
