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“I’m just trying to be clear.” But even as she peered up at him, he asked himself: clear about what? “All I know is our connection is different than when we worked together on Natalie’s case. It’s different from what it was when I first showed up at your office.” Though he vividly remembered how she stole his breath. “It’s growing, and I’m good with that.”

The walk back to the hotel was over in a blink. Bailey floated the entire way, hand in hand with Wes, the oversized stuffed animal in his other hand. God, she wanted to invite him into her room. A rollercoaster of indecision had wrecked her; she’d thought about falling into bed with him, his rough hands undressing her, his mouth tasting her. Since their first kiss, she’d been on top of the world, freaked out, only to build to the top of the world again.

Wes kissed her and inched back, not letting her out of his arms. “Guess this is where I say good night.”

Invite him in. Don’t say good night. God, she was so nervous she wanted to scream. She couldn’t ask him in. Could she?

Saying good night was responsible. She was responsible. Responsibility absolutely sucked. Responsibility could also be inviting him in and not letting herself get caught up and heartbroken when they went their separate ways.

His lips quirked as if he could hear her warring inner monologue.

Her heart fluttered. “Good night, Wes.”

She liked saying his name. He made her feel safe. He made her feel alive. He did all of that, knowing her flaws. As though, in his eyes, her stubbornness was tenacity, and her guardedness was being careful.

Wes watched her swipe her key card and let herself in. The door clicked shut, and she backed against it, eyes closed, and sank to the floor. Tonight had been perfect. Wes was perfect in a way that she didn’t know existed outside of her romance novels. Protective, possessive, and unbelievably attentive to what she liked.

A noise jerked her to attention. She jumped to her feet and rounded the corner of the short hall. Her stomach plummeted. The files had been rummaged through. Someone had emptied the trash can onto the desk, and her computer was gone.

A blur of motion charged from the bathroom, throwing Bailey against the wall. Her head slammed against the wall, her shoulder and elbow too. She collapsed on the ground, pain radiating, her head swimming, as a large figure darted away. Vision blurred; opening her eyes hurt too much. She curled into the fetal position, hands holding her head. Bailey needed help. “Wes.”

She staggered to her knees, to her feet, head spinning. She heard Wes beating on her door. She heard him shouting her name. “Coming.”

She leaned on the wall and couldn’t catch her breath. Shocked at how badly she was hurt, she forced herself toward the door. Her head throbbed as if it had its own pulse.

“Bailey, open up!” Wes pounded on the door. “Bailey!”

The door was only a couple of feet away. The distance felt like a mile. She trudged toward his voice. She gripped the handle to steady herself before swinging it open. Pain radiated from her arm. Bailey stumbled back. Wes caught her. She tried to point and shove him into the hallway. “He just left.”

“Fuck, Bailey. What happened?”

“Get him.”

Wes barely budged, but he scowled down the hall, one way and the next, focusing his attention on her. “You’re hurt.”

“Caitie’s killer.” Was she slurring?

His frown deepened. He looked down the hall again but returned his hard gaze to her. “Bailey, baby. You’re bleeding.”

“I’m not.” Though she thought she had been. She pressed her fingers to the spot on her head that hurt and winced. Blood coated her fingertips. Yup, she was bleeding. “He pushed me. Threw me. I mean—” She shook her head to clear her thoughts and squeezed her eyes shut at the headache. “You have to go. The person who was in here—he’s the one who killed Caitie.”

Wes backed her into the hotel room. “You don’t know that. Whoever was here is gone.”

She swayed, pressing her hand against the wall.

“You’re hurt more than you realize.”

“I’m not,” she protested. “You need to—”

“I need to take care of the woman in front of me.” He took her hand and pulled her toward the door. “Come with me. Don’t touch anything on the way out.”

Her fingers wrapped around his powerful grip. He wasn’t listening to her. They had two different agendas. She wanted to find Caitie’s killer. He wanted to keep her safe. She would have screamed in frustration, but it would’ve only made her head hurt worse.

They walked through the hall into his room. Wes sat her on the couch across from his desk. “Stay.”

“Not moving.” But if she could, she’d run down the hall and find the man who’d been in her room.

Wes picked up his cell phone and dialed 911. He paced while he spoke. None of this felt real. Calling the cops. Bleeding from her head. Someone breaking into her hotel room. What did Caitie’s killer think she had on her stupid laptop?