“Because I was his therapist. And, whether I should have been or not, something like his friend.”

Winters sat there for a moment and watched her eyelashes flutter. Her eyes grew moist and tears welled. Agony overtook her innocence. He reached out to her arm, trying to soothe away the pain in her. Her skin was so warm whenever he brushed it. And each time, it shocked him how fragile she felt. His fingers traced down her bicep.

Mia’s downturned head shot up, panic flashing across her face and a clear warning to back the hell off.

He snatched his hand from her as fast as he could. His finger singed, the tips tingled. Why the hell did he reach to her? Thinking of him as a good guy only recently began to solidify. At least he hoped.

“Sorry about that.” Erratic behavior wasn’t his norm. “I don’t know what that was. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Anyway…” She rubbed her arm. “My client said something would happen to him. That if he turned up dead, I needed to go to the airport. To those chairs.”

“And when did he die?”

She put the chicken down on the napkin and wiped her fingers. “Two days ago.”

Winters’s jaw flexed. He’d gotten his marching orders two days ago and had headed out from DC. She bit her lip, uncertain maybe if she’d admitted too much.

The woman needed reassurance. Comforting. And he itched to provide it, but instead forced his hand to keep away from her. He needed to keep his paws off of her. Christ.

Think about work. “Do you know what’s in the package?”

“Yes, do you?” Her hesitant eyes said she told the truth. No abnormal pupil dilation, no increase in her respirations.

“No.”

“Well, that’s probably why you haven’t killed me yet and dumped my body.” There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm.

“You’re having a hard time seeing me as one of the good guys, huh?”

“You don’t look like a good guy. You look like a killer. You look like you enjoyed that whole thing back at the motel.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment, doll.” He drew up a half-smile in an attempt to lighten her mood. “And truth be told, it was fun.”

The window cracked. The wiz and thud of a bullet smacking the back wall took him by surprise, only inches away from Mia’s head. He dove on her, shoving her to the side of the bed.

“Get down!”

CHAPTER FOUR

Winters rolled across the bed, drawing his Glock from his back holster. He pounded off two rounds, holstered it, and snagged his M4 assault rifle perched against the wall. He drew it up to his shoulder. The smooth metal and solid weight in his hands was grounding and washed away the awkward, apologetic mess he was earlier. He scanned through the scope, giving off short bursts of semi-automatic fire into the parking lot, in the direction the bullets came from.

Whoever was out there was messy. They should have been able to take both of them out with a clean shot. Hell, they should have gone after him first.