rustic design elements. Johnny drops my hand and moves to a whirlpool tub that looks big enough to fit three people. He turns the faucet on, checking the temperature, before turning toward me.
“I’ll grab you some clothes,” he says. “And I have to make a few calls, but I’ll be right here if you need me.”
I nod, and he moves forward, pressing a chaste kiss to my forehead. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
I wind my arms around his waist, dropping my head to kiss the top of his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re okay,” I say over his skin.
“One of these days, I’m going to tell you that you don’t have to worry about anything and mean it.”
I close my eyes, wondering when that day comes, what that point in time might look like? I can only hope it doesn’t include people trying to kill us but does include three other gorgeous men.
That’s what I would call perfection.
13
After lingering in the tub, scrubbing down from head to toe until all the dirt and grime has disappeared and my hair is finally untangled, I find a towel on the edge of the tub, wrap it around my body, and emerge from the water.
It’s been a hot minute since I’ve taken a bath, and I have to admit it was relaxing and perfect.
I pad out to the master bedroom and find a stack of clothes on the bed. They’re just joggers and a plain shirt, so I pull them on even though they’re a couple of sizes too big. I cinch the ties around the waist and roll up the hem, so the pant legs aren’t dragging over the floor as I walk.
Sticking my head out the door, I listen for Johnny. He said he had to make a few phone calls, but he never came back.
I retreat down the stairs, but no one is in the house. It’s empty. The ticking of the second hand on the clock above the living room mantle sends shivers up my spine. I hug my arms to myself as I peer out the front door. The lights are on in the barn where Mag took our captive. The functional part of my brain warns me that I won’t like what I see in there, but the dysfunctional part of my brain tells me it doesn’t matter. I’m just as deeply involved as the rest of these guys, and I don’t believe for one second it’s a coincidence that the moment Johnny gets back from Chicago, someone tries to blow up the tower.
The driveway pebbles sting my feet, but I walk crisply over the gravel, anyway. The side door is unlocked, so I let myself in. Voices, as if coming from a tunnel, sound from the corner of the room. There, another doorway looms, and it leads to a descending staircase. I take the steps, my foot hitting the bottom cement, where the voices are crystal clear now.
A single light fixture dangles in the middle of the room. The floor is tiled, and a chair sits in the center of the space with a halo of light surrounding it. Encircling the guy who tried to take me out is a ring of Heights Crew men. Johnny’s in the middle, looming over the asshole, watching as streams of blood run from a cut on his forehead. The captor’s eyes are badly bruised and swollen now. He can barely see out of his right eye. It’s so puffy it’s gross. The guy acts as if he’s not in the worst shape imaginable though. “The girl was better at this than you guys. At least she threatened to chop my dick off.”
“Actually, it was your balls,” I say, moving forward. “And there’s still time.”
Johnny and Mag both turn, catching a glimpse of me. I give them both small smiles of reassurance. Honestly, for as terrifying as the moment was, I’m not severely injured and neither are the guys. That’s all we can ask for.
Johnny leaves the circle, and the other bodyguards close rank around the chair, blocking us out. “I’m sorry,” Johnny says, giving me an apologetic smile. “I had to take care of this.”
I peer over his shoulder. The guy is leering at me between two solid bodies. Magnum whacks him upside the head with the butt of his gun, which is probably how he got the cut on his forehead in the first place now that I think about it.