The big warrior stepped around Jack and extended his hand with a friendly smile that changed his whole face from forbidding to surprisingly approachable.
Haltingly, she held her hand out to him, and they shook. “Morgan O’Malley.”
“Jack, you ass**le. Hoarding the pretty girls again. I really ought to beat your ass for that.”
He snorted. “Yeah, you try.”
Deke grinned. “Later. Outside. You, me, and the gators.” He turned to Morgan with a conspiratorial whisper. “Ask me, and I’ll tell you who to place your money on. Better yet, maybe I can convince you to grant the winner a kiss. Then I promise it won’t be any contest.”
His gentle teasing set her at ease immediately. Despite the awkward situation, she felt herself relax and smile back.
“I’m not the human equivalent of a poker chip,” Morgan teased with a roll of her eyes.
“Good girl,” Jack praised. “And if my business partner doesn’t stop messing where he hasn’t been invited, he’s going to find his face one bloody blob—uglier than it already is.”
Deke laughed and sauntered back toward Jack, slapping him on the shoulder. “You’re so damn subtle, Jack.” He cast another heated look in her direction, gaze lingering on her bare legs and the outline of her unbound br**sts through the sweatshirt. “And you’re one lucky bastard.”
Morgan bit her lip under his appraising gaze, at once discomfited. And shamefully intrigued. Deke looked like something out of a hard-core war film—not at all her type. Neither was Jack, for that matter. But… never mind; she wasn’t going there.
“Did you come here for a reason? Or just to torment me?” Jack shot back acidly.
Morgan saw through the sarcasm immediately. It was clear he and Deke were great friends. Jack didn’t trust many people, but she’d bet he trusted the big blond guy with his life. At this moment, however, Jack was tense, watchful, even a bit angry. He pretended to take Deke’s teasing well—but he wasn’t.
“Well, you know I never pass up the opportunity to torment you. Not that I need the practice.”
“Nope, you’ve got it down to a fine art.”
“Years of effort.” Deke sighed. “But I did come here for a reason.” He glanced back at Morgan, all business now. “You might want to hear this, too. It’s about your stalker.”
She sucked in a breath. In all her tangled emotions and the easy banter, she’d lost sight of the murderous lunatic. Silly her.
“Okay. Um, one minute. I can’t face this without something to eat.”
“And coffee, I’m sure,” Deke added.
Morgan made a face. Jack laughed.
“She doesn’t drink it,” he told Deke.
He raised a tawny brow. “Is she human?”
Rolling her eyes, Morgan padded back to the bedroom. If she was going to face the testosterone inquisition, she needed something more than a flap of sweatshirt covering her ass. Once she’d retrieved Jack’s oversized bathrobe, she padded to the bathroom and brushed her teeth and hair.
When she made her way down the hall again, Jack and Deke both sat at the round kitchen table, cups of strong coffee resting on the smooth pine surface. A piece of toast and a glass of orange juice waited for her.
She glanced at Jack in surprise. He merely guided her into a chair without comment.
He’d made dinner last night, and now this? The man who tied her up and told her exactly how to behave in the bedroom so he could send her straight to mindless orgasm did something as menial as cook for her? Like he was taking care of her?
“Thanks,” she murmured, totally confused, as she settled into the chair across from Deke.
Jack sat on her left, then with a nod, turned to his business partner. “Deke has some pals at the FBI who have studied copies of the photos the sick bastard has been leaving you and the pattern of his behavior.”
Deke gripped his mug of coffee and leaned across the little table, a formidable presence even in the large, airy room. Morgan found herself holding her breath, hoping that he knew something, anything, to help catch her personal Norman Bates before he became a full-fledged Psycho.
“Your stalker is likely a man somewhere between the age of twenty and forty-five. He’s someone you know. His behavior…he functions like an intimate-partner stalker, someone who is a little obsessed and can’t let go.”
“But if he’s someone I know, wouldn’t I know who? I mean, wouldn’t he want me to be certain who he is?”