She set the cup down on the side table. “Don’t get excited. It’s probably my subconscious agreeing with me.”

“About what?” He stepped back as she threw off the covers. Glanced away, probably worried about what he’d see.

Nothing here but a big fluffy dough girl in a bathrobe. But she cinched her belt tighter, just in case, as she got up. “That I’m tired of the bad guys winning. I’m tired of running and being afraid. I’m tired of hiding.”

He looked back at her, folded his arms. “Atta girl.”

“I’m not brave, Colt. But . . .” She looked at him. “I’m sorry I left without you. I’m not good at depending on other people. But I know I can depend on you.”

He opened his mouth, closed it. Nodded. But something she couldn’t place entered his eyes. “Want some coffee?”

“With every bone in my body.”

His grin lit something inside her, and she had the sense, again, of breaking free to the surface. Of breathing.

“I’m grabbing a shower. And then . . . we need to go to Shelly, Washington.”

“Why?” His voice lifted as he walked to the next room, probably on his way to make coffee.

“Because . . . I think that’s where my colleague Zoey is hiding.”

A beat, during which she drew the covers back onto the bed, picked up the pillows off the floor. A glance into the living area of the next room indicated he’d already folded his bedding, a good soldier, and put it on the end of the sofa.

Or maybe he’d never gone to bed. She wouldn’t put it past Colt to sit up all night, watching for bad guys.

Probably not, since they were ten stories up, with a glorious view of Lake Washington, but still . . .

If she hadn’t been so exhausted, she too might have been up all night circling the wild events of their escape.

“How do you think they found me?” She had thrown back the curtains, but stepped away from the window, a sort of reflex. Silly.

“Maybe they had your boat staked out,” he said, and she turned, saw him leaning against the frame of her bedroom door, his arms folded. In the daylight, he looked every bit a tough guy, dark scruff across his chin, his hair tousled, slightly wet and finger combed at best. He’d clearly showered in the other bathroom. Those arms thick with muscle against the white T-shirt. He wore his jeans low, faded, a little loose—probably had grabbed the first available pair, who knew if they were even his—and his feet were strangely bare.

He looked relaxed, but she’d met him. The man hadn’t relaxed even when he was in a near coma after his beating, so . . .

Still, having him here made her breathe easier.

“Let me worry for you.”

“Do you think they know where we are?”