frown on his face an indicator of how much she’d confused and frightened him. She’d managed to frighten the fearless Jackson McGraw. That was a first. Or at least she remembered him as fearless, even at age twenty-three and even though he’d been a rookie back then. But he still looked that way—fearless, intense, completely serious and devoted to his job. Only now, he also looked self-confident and sure and a bit weary. His eyes were still that crystal-blue that reminded her of a deep, still lake, but his hair, once a golden brown, now held hints of glinting gray. It suited him.
Her fearless protector. And the man she’d trusted with her most precious possession—her child.
“I’m all right,” she said, wiping at her eyes. She didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. She’d never had that luxury. “You just…surprised me.” She waved a hand at him. “I saw the irony of my situation and it…seemed so funny. But we both know it’s not so funny, is it?”
“Not that I can see, no,” he replied, his eyes scanning her, obviously looking for signs of delusional behavior. “You were late for work. I was worried.”
“How’d you know— You’ve been spying on me?”
He nodded. “I’ll explain.” Then he turned to stare straight into her eyes, his look telling her more than the official report ever could. He was here for a reason; that was how Jackson operated. No need to read more into that intimate look. No need to hope for anything more.
“I’m sure you will.”
From habit, she moved a hand down the right side of her face. Had he noticed the scar she’d tried to cover each and every day since the last time he’d seen her? She didn’t care about how it looked—but the why bothered her—the jagged, circular imprint left from the near-death of Eloise and her baby always reminded her of a rose just about to bud.
And roses only reminded her of Salvatore Martino.
“I knew they were coming,” she said. “Someone sent me roses yesterday. They were delivered at the café.”
“And you think they’re from the Martino family?”
She nodded. “Remember how he loved roses?”
Jackson grunted. “He liked to send them to his enemies, just as a polite way of reminding them who was in charge.”
“Yes, and he also sent them to funerals, Jackson. There was a big spray at Danny’s funeral. I saw them when you took me there before the mourners came in. But I never said anything about them.”
He sat back on his heels. “And the roses you got yesterday look like those?”
“Yes. Kind of ironic, don’t you think—that my scar looks like a budding rose. Salvatore never knew it, but he left his mark on me.” She turned her head, showing the scar to Jackson. “White with traces of pink. It didn’t heal very well.”
Chilling, considering Salvatore had no qualms about murdering people and letting them bleed, their blood as bright as any red roses she’d ever seen.
Jackson’s gaze followed her hand as she rubbed it over the scar.
“You’re still beautiful,” he said, the words so soft she almost missed them. But she couldn’t miss the way his gaze settled on her with a protective warmth. “Listen, I’ll check on the roses—find out where they came from, okay? Are you sure you’re all right?”
She bobbed her head. “Just peachy. And how about you?” She remembered reading his identification and his badge. “Special Agent in Charge now, huh? You’ve come a long way.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, but I’ve still got a long way to go. And a lot to talk about with you.”
She didn’t tell him that she’d often thought of him knocking at her door, that she’d dreamed of a moment such as this where they’d be free and clear and together again. She didn’t dare tell him any of that. But in her dreams, she hadn’t imagined a madman tracking her down at the same time she’d just witnessed another man killing his wife. What were the odds? Hysterical laughter bubbled in her throat again but Eloise forced it back down. It became like bile sitting cold in her stomach.
Willing herself to stay still, she looked back up at him. “What do I do now?”
He looked at his watch. “You should have been at work an hour ago.” Before she could respond, he pushed at a tiny wireless earpiece in his left ear, then clicked at his wrist. “GQ, Roark, you read?”
Apparently GQ and Roark did read. Jackson lifted an eyebrow then spoke into thin air. “Subject has been apprised of situation. Stay put. Watch my back. Thea, go back to the command post. I’ll update when we meet back up.” Satisfied, he looked back at her then turned off the two-way communications device.
“You brought a posse?” she asked, calmer now in spite of the tiny shivers that refused to leave her body.
He nodded, glanced at Duff. “And you bought a dog.”
“He’s my second one. Do you blame me?”
Jackson didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stalked around the confines of her tiny living room like a giant cat, his nostrils lifting, his eyes scanning her minimalist existence with a laserlike scrutiny, his expression blank and unreadable. Reaching out a hand toward Duff, he let the big dog sniff his knuckles. “What’s upstairs?”
“A bedroom and a bath,” she replied, amazed that her highly trained guard dog seemed to accept Jackson as an immediate ally. But then, Jackson was that way—quiet and calm, and capable, offering a solid security to anyone who needed his help. “Half bath down here and a small laundry and storage room off the back. Two entries—the front door here and the back door off the laundry room. Dead bolts and chain locks on both. And I have a security system and an upstairs exit route. I know the rules, Jackson. And you still haven’t answered my questions.”
He pushed at his thick, spiked hair, a long sigh his only answer for now. After a minute of looking the place over again, he said, “First, we need to move you.”
“I don’t want to be moved,” Eloise responded, digging in her heels even as the words came out. “I’m settled here and as you apparently already know, I have a good job.”
“Risky, opening your own business.”
“I took the risk. I set it up under a corporate name and I was very careful with all the paperwork. I needed something to focus on. And baking is the one thing that brings me a sense of peace and normalcy.”
The unspoken things hung like high clouds there in the air between them. But Eloise knew he was thinking the same thing she was. Finally, because she knew she might not get a straight answer from him on anything unless he decided she needed to hear it, she dared to ask one more question.
“Jackson, I need to know. Just tell me…is she safe? Is she okay? Is my daughter okay?”
Jackson turned to face her, his hands on his hips, his frigid eyes turning a liquid blue. “She is now.”
Eloise’s brief joy turned to a familiar dread but that dread brought her courage back. “What do you mean—she is now? And stop evading me, Jackson. You came to me. And if you want to protect me, you’d better level with me. I need the truth—not just the ‘need to know.’ You owe me that even if I did leave my baby with you to keep her safe. Even if I did leave the witness protection program.”
He tipped his chin then sat down across from her, his eyes flittering around the room. “She goes by the name Kristin Perry now. Her adoptive parents were Anna and Barton Perry. I handpicked them then pulled a few strings to go through the proper procedures. They were good people.”
Eloise swallowed then closed her eyes, trying to imagine what Kristin looked like now. “Were?” she asked, the dread congealing in her stomach.
“They were killed in a car accident several months ago.” At her gasp, he held up a hand. “It was a