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Chapter Four

“You think Watson suspects I’m your WITSEC handler?” Marshal Conor Wildman stepped around the corner of the kitchen peninsula in the house where she’d lived before accepting the job as Seamus Watson’s home-care nurse and moving into one of the upstairs bedrooms at the Watson house.

Jane took a seat on one of the stools furnished—just like the house itself—for her by the US Marshals Witness Security Program. “I think he thinks you’re my ex-boyfriend—and maybe not a very nice one.”

Conor grinned, unbuttoning his shirt collar and loosening his tie as he pulled coffee from the cabinet and started brewing a pot. Although the house off Thirty-Ninth Street was still listed under her Jane Boyle identity, Conor had probably spent more time here over the past few months, checking security or planning meetings with her. It was an easy cover to have to return to her own house to pick up clothing or supervise yard work or home repair, and then meet with the man whose job it was to maintain her identity and make sure she was safe. “Well, that would explain that goodbye peck on the cheek before we left the restaurant. The big guy’s jealous of you leaving the scene with another man.”

Thomas’s strong fingers sifting into her hair and the warm press of his lips against her chilled skin had felt like more than a peck on the cheek. It had felt like, if she’d turned her head a fraction, those firm, gentle lips would have been kissing her mouth instead. Jane’s breath caught in her chest as she remembered the heat that had suddenly suffused her at the older man’s touch. And now, for some inexplicable reason, she felt cheated that she hadn’t turned that fraction of an inch. “I don’t mean anything to him.”

Conor was still amused as he pulled two mugs from the dishwasher. “He’s very protective of you.”

“Thomas is protective of everybody. It’s in his blood. He’s been a cop for a long time. You said the Watson house was a good place for me to be because they’d be more alert to their surroundings than the average family.”

Nodding, Conor poured them each a mug of coffee, then went to the fridge to pull out a carton of half-and-half. “It’s helpful to have an extra set of eyes watching out for you. Even if the lieutenant doesn’t know he’s assisting with a WITSEC project.”

Jane added the half-and-half to her mug, trying to forget for a few seconds that she was considered a “project” by the FBI and US Marshals offices after witnessing her husband’s murder at the hands of a serial killer known only as Badge Man. Think about something else. Anything else.

Her thoughts instantly turned to the memory of how her skin had tingled and all the blood had rushed to the spot where Thomas had kissed her. She hadn’t been kissed in three years. Hadn’t been held in strong arms. Hadn’t had any man looking out for her unless he was being paid to do so. Not since Freddie’s death.

She rolled up the sleeves of the black nylon jacket she still wore. The creamy coffee she sipped was warming her up, but she wanted to keep the jacket on. Thomas’s straightforward scent, a blend of spicy soap and laundry detergent, might be the most masculine smell she’d ever inhaled, and having it surround her reminded her of his strength and calmed nerves that had been frayed to the point of snapping lately. She hadn’t had a man offer her his jacket in years, and for a little while at least, the gallant gesture made her feel normal, as if someone cared about her. Not as a valuable witness, a tool the FBI wanted to use to help them bring a dangerous man to justice—but just as her, a woman, a human being who hadn’t had anyone care about her on a personal level for a very long time.

Her thoughts took her into some dangerous territory as she considered her employer. Like the finely aged wines she used to drink after dinner with Freddie—before his murder, before she’d stopped drinking altogether to keep her senses clear and alert to the danger she feared could strike again at any given moment—Thomas was mature perfection. Sure of himself, but not arrogantly so. Handsome in a rugged sort of way. The lines beside his rich green eyes bespoke wisdom and life experience, laughter as much as heartbreak. And she’d known young bucks, maybe about the same age as Marshal Wildman, whose toothy smiles and perfect bodies and charming flirtations couldn’t ignite a fraction of the heat inside her that a single, purposeful look from Thomas Watson did.

“You’re thinking about Lieutenant Watson right now, aren’t you?” Conor braced his elbows on the counter across from her and leaned forward. “You know, Boyle, as long as you don’t reveal your real identity or mine, you’re allowed to have relationships in this program.”

A relationship? She’d scratched that off her future wish list, first out of grief, then out of necessity. “Is that why you’re not married? Because opening your heart to someone when some creeper wants you dead is so easy? My life is a sham. And the moment I give up that sham, I and the people I care about become targets of a dangerously sick serial killer. I don’t see any happily-ever-after in that scenario.”

He laughed. “Touché. I guess it’s hard to have an honest relationship with someone when you have to lie about who you are every day. I know that’s why my fiancée broke off our engagement. She wanted complete honesty—she deserved it. But the job wouldn’t let me do it.”

Her heart beat with a compassionate thump. Conor shared very little about himself with her. After all, she was a job more than she was a friend. But she suddenly felt a little more like a kindred spirit to hear he’d lost someone he’d loved, too. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.” He grinned again. “But you could still, you know, fool around.”

“With my boss?”

“I saw how you looked at him. You think the ol’ boy’s still got it.” Jane snapped her mouth shut, realizing she was still gaping at the suggestion she have a fling with her attractive employer. “Hey, I imagine what he lacks in speed, he more than makes up for in experience. From everything you’ve told me about him, Watson seems like a good guy.”