He looked up and, somehow, into her.

“I understand,” he said quietly.

He understood.

While Paige could not understand the balm his voice spread inside her, the medicine his simple words provided; he understood. He stood close enough to touch, and as she stared into those solid, riveting eyes, he could’ve been holding her, the moment felt so profoundly intimate.

She was the first to break eye contact, unsettled to her core. Who was this man? The detective cleared his throat and within minutes he’d called up one of his team—the stocky blond who’d earlier introduced himself as Detective Nordstrom—who efficiently bagged both the torn page and her yearbook. Then Paige was once again alone with him.

Stalker. She did not even want to know the reason he was called “Stalker.”

His relentless green eyes skimmed the walls of her room, studied the window overlooking the street, covered the length of the plush bone-colored carpet, and Paige found herself examining the tall, lithe man while he assessed her room. She could not remember ever stroking a man’s hair. She couldn’t remember ever wanting to feel someone’s breath, or skin, or … God, his hands. As he tugged off the latex gloves, the sight of his large bronzed hands and the long, skillful fingers made her womb clench.

“Do you have someone to stay with tonight?” he asked.

Paige hesitated.

How sad to admit she had no one to call. Then she reasoned that whether or not she should find a room in a nearby hotel wasn’t this officer’s problem. She would clean up the mess downstairs, let the Realtor earn her commission and sell the house, book her return flight to Seattle for perhaps sooner than later, and all would be perfect. All would be perfect.

“I’m okay,” she assured, smiling with a confidence she didn’t feel.

She must have convinced him, though, for he just nodded.

On his way out, he set a business card down on the vanity. “I’ll keep you apprised of anything we find.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

When he left, Paige stared at the empty doorway for the longest time, then crossed the room to lift his card.

Zachary Rivers.

Zach slid into the front seat of the SUV and shut the door. Okay. Breathe, motherfucker, breathe!

Instead, he grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and dropped his forehead until it banged.

Ahh, fuck. He was shaking with a need so violent, so pent-up, so festered, he thought he would break apart. The sight of her sitting on the edge of her mattress, her little breasts heaving, her pretty mouth slightly parted as she realized he could damned well see the tiny pink tips of her nipples poking out, had made him want to cover her body with his, delve his hands under her blouse, and suck her nipples until she cried out “Zach!”

She’d cried out for him before. Oh hell, she had screamed for him. Every Friday night she was not at Francine’s, he would kiss her until she was writhing in his arms, moaning his name into his marauding mouth, their bodies grinding and rubbing and so damned hungry for each other they’d—