unnecessarily.
Mike believed the break-in justified sounding the alarm. But as much as he wanted to share his suspicions with her, to make sure she understood how serious the situation could be, he had to talk to his client first.
“Please,” she said. “I’d like you to go.”
“Okay.” He relented to her request only because he had no intention of going any farther than the hall and he wanted to call Dylan without Shannon overhearing the conversation.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly.
He wanted to reach out to her, to offer her comfort and reassurance. But her spine was rigid, her arms crossed over her chest in a defensive and distinctively hands-off posture. He turned away. “Lock up behind me.”
He stood outside the door, waited to hear the lock click into place, then reached for his cell phone. He powered it up, only to have it beep once and shut down again.
Damn.
The battery was dead and the spare was in his room upstairs. He tucked the useless phone back into his pocket and leaned back against the wall. The door directly across the hall was clearly marked Stairs. He could run up to his room to retrieve the extra battery and be back within five minutes.
But still he hesitated, his instincts warning him not to leave her, not even for five minutes. Was it worry about Shannon’s safety that made him so reluctant to step away from her? Or were his instincts off-kilter because of the desire still pulsing in his veins?
He mentally cursed again.
This was exactly the reason he’d tried so hard to keep his distance from her. Because personal involvement interfered with objectivity, and emotional responses led to mistakes. It was a lesson he’d learned in Righaria, when his mistake had cost his best friend’s life, and when his guilt over Brent’s death cost him the woman he loved.
He pushed aside the past to concentrate on the present. He was here now to protect Shannon—everything else was secondary.
But he’d be better able to protect her if he could tell her the truth, and he couldn’t do that until he’d spoken to Dylan Creighton. And he couldn’t talk to Dylan without returning to his room for the spare battery.
He glanced back at her door, hesitated.
He’d checked the locks on the windows himself, heard her flip the security bar into place. She was safe inside, probably already in bed—
He shoved that thought aside and headed for the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time.
Only five minutes.
Shannon stared at the back of the door for a long moment after Michael had gone, wishing she’d let him stay. She already missed his comforting presence, his reassuring strength, but she wasn’t used to relying on anyone else or asking for help. Despite his offer, she was determined to stand on her own.
But somehow that conviction was harder to find when she was alone.
She made a quick tour of the room again, confirmed there was nothing missing. That fact bothered her more than if she’d come back to her room and found all her personal items gone. Not that she had much, and certainly nothing of significant value, but she couldn’t believe a thief wouldn’t have at least scooped up the loose change on the dresser.
Maybe Michael was right. Maybe no one had been in her room except a member of the hotel staff. She wanted to believe this explanation, but she still couldn’t shake the unease as she moved into the bathroom to get ready for bed.
Looking into the mirror, she was startled by the reflection that stared back. Her hair was tousled from Michael’s fingers running through it, her mouth red and swollen from his kisses.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, hard, trying to erase the feel of his mouth against hers. She looked like a wanton woman—hardly surprising considering the fact that she’d acted like one. And although she knew she should be embarrassed by her behavior, she only regretted the way the evening had ended.
But despite her resolution to live for the moment and regardless of how much she wanted him, she knew that having sex with Michael would have been a mistake.
The knowledge was little comfort when she continued to ache with wanting, when something inside her cried out against the injustice of a promise unfulfilled. Shannon shook off the feeling and moved back into the bedroom. Hopefully everything would be back to normal in the morning.
She opened the drawer to retrieve her nightshirt, her heart rising in her throat as her fingers tightened around the silk garment.
It was inside out.
Again, it was a small thing, but she knew without a doubt that when she’d put it away, it had been right-side out. Someone had definitely been here, gone through the dresser, pawed through her things.
Another shiver snaked up her spine.
Why?
She shoved the silk back into the drawer, trying not to think about the possible answers to that question. She would sleep in her clothes tonight. If she slept at all.
The knock at her door made her jump.
She pressed a hand to her heart as she glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was almost midnight.
The knock sounded again.
Michael?
An unexpected and comforting warmth spread through her as she considered the possibility that he’d come back. This time she promised herself as she walked on unsteady legs to the door, she would swallow her pride and ask him to stay. Not to have sex, but just to keep her company—just so she wouldn’t need to be alone.
Disappointment replaced anticipation when she looked through the peephole.
It wasn’t Michael.
In fact, she was sure this man wasn’t anyone she’d ever seen before. She hesitated, reluctant to respond to the summons of a stranger at this time of night.
He knocked again, impatience evident in the rap of his knuckles against the wood.
She swallowed. “Yes?”
“Ms. Vaughn?”
“Yes,” she said again.
“My name is Michael Courtland,” he told her. “I’m a private investigator from Fairweather, Pennsylvania. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Michael Courtland? A private investigator?
She shook her head to clear away the questions that came at her from all directions.
“It’s late,” she said.
“I apologize for that,” he said easily. “But this really can’t wait.”
She hesitated again. “Can I see some identification?”
“Of course.” He pulled a wallet out of his pocket and withdrew something the size and shape of a credit card. “I’ll slide this under the door so you can take a look at it.”
She bent down to retrieve the laminated rectangle. It was a private investigator’s license bearing the name Michael Andrew Courtland.
She’d never seen this kind of identification before and wondered if it was legitimate. Or was she being paranoid to even suspect it might be fake? Since her unfortunate experience with her ex-husband, she found it difficult to trust anyone.
“I also have a driver’s license and several credit cards if you need further proof,” he said.
His offer, and a glance at the photo, reassured her that he was who he claimed to be. The picture bore a distinct likeness to the man standing outside her door and none at all to the man who’d been in her room with her earlier. A man who’d also claimed to be Michael Courtland.
Nausea rolled in her stomach.