The Obsidian Collection Read online

  The door clicked closed behind him.

  Jackson banged his head lightly on the cabinet, while he watched the coffee maker drip the brew into the carafe. He shook his head, paused and shook it again.

  Why did he admit that? What in the name of hell made him admit he thought the woman up there was sexy? She didn’t have enough to deal with: her husband, her injuries, her own misgivings, and her guilt, so let’s pile on some more crap?

  Whitney didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve any of this. Not her husband, not her father, not the detective sitting in her kitchen with a raging hard-on and thoughts to match. Thankfully, his dick was probably the least threatening of the three.

  The coffee finished, and he almost wished he had something stiffer to pour in instead of milk and sugar. But now he was semi-officially on duty, drinking was no-go. He was going to get his ass walloped when the chief found out what he was doing. Inside the witness’s house? That was a write up. At least he hadn’t been directly told not to stake out her house. That saved him the suspension.

  Jackson sat at the table. He peered around the room and really took it in. The Florida room’s door was closed. The back door was destroyed between him and Sean, and he’d propped a chair under the remains of the knob to keep any errant wildlife out. The room was yellow. The cabinets looked like they could do with a good cleaning; he remembered how Lana would wash theirs once a year and lemon oil them. He couldn’t give a crap, but apparently, it made the wood healthier.

  The table he sat at was dinged, but it looked as though it was either a floor sample or a Big Lots deal. Not in terrible condition. The stove was old, battered, and there was very little chance of the evidence of use ever coming off again. There were holes in the linoleum where the nails in the floor were lifting. The fridge was loud; the compressor was probably going to need to be fixed soon. The room was worn, tired. But he could see the remains of hope in it. The curtains were red plaid—uh, gingham? Lana had blue ones because they reminded her of Dorothy’s dress in the Wizard of Oz.

  Why the hell was Lana crawling into his thoughts so much?

  Because you miss her, asshole. He could see all the little things that she would have done in the room, and all the things that she would have asked him to do. Like the floor.

  The room shifted, and he suddenly didn’t see it as a place to improve on. It was suddenly a place where slowly and surely, Whitney was slipping away. These weren’t beginnings or improvements to be made, but the last vestiges of hope, of whom she was, fading away. The nails that held her together were lifting from being walked over. She couldn’t clean away the stains anymore; it was harder and harder to try and keep up with the person she needed to be. Everything in her marriage was not just imperfect, which was acceptable, but it was tattered, beaten. Bought second hand. And unless she moved on, she would slowly continue to disintegrate.

  The gorgeous creature upstairs deserved better than a kitchen—a life—that was falling apart. She had so much life to give, so much still in her, if he could just get her out. Convince her to walk the fuck away from this lousy-ass investment. She didn’t need Sean to get away from her father. She was bright, sweet and people would help her. There were deeper holes he’d seen people climb out of.

  But, then again, if he could lower her a ladder…

  Are you really thinking about this?

  He took a gulp of coffee, really wishing it was spiked.

  Apparently, he was really thinking about this.

  He’d felt a connection when he first laid eyes on her. He thought it was simply that she had been so badly beaten by someone who promised to love, honor and cherish. Straightforward: no one deserved to be treated as she was.

  But each time Jackson saw her, there was something else stirring. Something else drew him to Whitney. She was so different from Lana, and yet the same feeling was there. A primal draw towards her, a craving—for her body, for her mind, for her.

  He wanted to know what she thought about, and what she tasted like.

  He wanted to kiss her. Hard. Senseless. To turn her to putty in his arms.

  He wanted to dress her up and take her out, only take her home and undress her.

  He wanted to treat her like a woman, show her what that meant in his world.

  He wanted hear to scream his name as he made her come on the tips on his fingers.

  He wanted to protect her through the night, and wake up next to her.

  God.

  Fucking.

  Dammit.

  He was falling for Whitney Geddings, hard. He couldn’t even say it was just a physical thing—she had an identical twin sister who stirred nothing in him. Jackson was sitting in Whitney’s kitchen, thinking about what he wanted to do to her, and his dick was at full attention.

  What the hell do I do about this? He put his head in hands, willing the hard-on away.

  “Don’t you deserve a chance to be happy?”

  Jackson’s head snapped up. That had sounded like Lana. He shook his head. Not enough coffee? Too much coffee? Too many nights sitting awake, staring at his dead wife’s picture.

  …but then again, didn’t he deserve a chance? He and Lana had loved each other. They were young when her cancer took her away. Too young.

  Every fiber of his cop-being was screaming at him not to do this. Going after her, asking her out, courting her, whatever the fuck it was, was only going to risk his badge. He wasn’t supposed to get involved with his case on a personal level. And every fiber of his human-being was screaming back at him to stop calling her a case. Or a victim. Or anything but his Whitney.

  His. Whitney.

  He slumped in the chair. Stupid goddamn heart made up its mind. He never stood a chance at resisting this; from the instant he saw those gorgeous, bright hazel eyes peeking out from behind her swollen face, he was gone.

  Don’t fuck this up, Ogden.

  That time…it was his heart talking.

  “Good morning, Detective.”

  He turned around and found Whitney, fully dressed, packed and looking extremely refreshed. And gorgeous. Jackson took a slow, deep breath. “Good morning, Whitney.” He smiled. “Would you like something to eat before we get going?”

  “Coffee, please,” she answered.

  “That’s a drink, not food,” he said, confused.

  “It’s the nectar of the gods; therefore, enough for me.”

  Jackson laughed and poured a cup. He placed it on the table in front of her. “Milk? Sugar?”

  Whitney smiled at him. “This is my house, detective. I can get my own sugar.”

  “Jackson.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Please call me Jackson.”

  She considered him a moment. “Isn’t that a little familiar?” she questioned.

  How the hell do you say this? He let out a breath. “I kind of like that idea.”

  Whitney’s eyebrows raised just slightly. Jackson groaned inwardly; she had cute facial expressions, too. “You…were serious last night.”

  He nodded and sat down across from her. Non-threatening. Gretchen was going to fucking hang him for this.

  Whitney stared down at the coffee and ran a thumb over the lip of the mug. “I’m confused, det—Jackson. I don’t know where my life is going, and I apparently have a psychopathic husband to deal with.” She looked up. “I’d like to think that if things were different, I’d fling myself across this table and have my way with you. Or vice versa.”

  Oh, shit. Instant hard-on.

  “But things aren’t different. I do appreciate your being frank, but…will you be patient with me?”

  “Of course,” Jackson nodded. “I just want to be honest with you. I will see you through this, no matter what.”

  She reached across and caught his hand with hers. “I really do appreciate everything, Jackson. Your dedication, your honesty, your protective overdrive setting.”

  He laughed. “Nah. Standing guard for crazed husbands and wildlife is just another
service provided by your local police department.”

  Whitney laughed. “Somehow I doubt that. Oh! The back door.”

  “I called a friend,” Jackson said. “He’ll be here shortly to replace the door and lock.”

  Whitney looked at him, crookedly. “You’re being too nice.”

  “I kicked your door in,” Jackson said, gesturing to the wrecked door. “I should fix it.”

  “Well, I was going to temporarily—”

  “Whitney. I kicked your backdoor in with my shoe. The absolute least I should do is get it fixed.”

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “I broke it. I’ll fix it on my own dime.”

  “That’s…very kind.”

  “That’s common courtesy.”

  “Sean—” Her voice hitched, and she cleared it. “Sean would make me board it up and wait until I had enough to fix it.”

  He stared at her across the table. “I am not Sean.”

  She looked down and quickly took a drink of the coffee. A moment went by and she looked back. “Thank you. It’s very nice of you do that.”

  Jackson smiled. “Finish your breakfast. The hotel is on the other side of the city.”

  Tom showed up just as they were getting ready to leave. He gave Whitney a new key and promised to put the old one on the table and lock the door on the way out. They all agreed a temporary patch on the door would be fine until Tom could order the correct door. Jackson wheeled Whitney’s suitcase to the car, and in less than twenty minutes, they were pulling up to the Residence Inn, on the complete opposite side of the city from where she lived.

  “Jackson, I can’t afford this,” she whispered, as they walked down the hall to the room.

  “Whitney. You’re not paying. Your house was burgled, and I destroyed the door. I talked to the chief this morning and it’s being partly reimbursed by the city. I’m paying the rest because I broke the door.”

  “Why are you being so nice?” she whispered.

  “Because this is what men do!” he roared. “Real men don’t beat their wives, try to rape them and step out and have affairs on them! They make sure they are taken care of and comfortable, and they give a damn!”

  Jackson stormed down the hall. Damn damn damn! He took a deep breath, and ran a hand through his hair. He spun back around, and saw Whitney still standing at the door, her hands over her face, shaking. Running back, he took her elbow gently and pressed her against the wall. “Whitney, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It utterly slays me that you can’t trust anyone. It hurts that you don’t believe I could be doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I need nothing in return—nothing but the chance to get to know you better.”

  “I’m damaged.”

  “We’re all damaged,” Jackson said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You did, badly.”

  “I know. I saw you flinch. I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “That’s a good place to start.”

  “I might even like you.”

  “That’s a better place to start.”

  Whitney laughed and wiped tear from her eye.

  Jackson jumped at the opening. “Let me show you how a man is supposed to treat a woman.”

  “What?”

  “A date,” he said. “Let me take you out. My treat.”

  “Jackson…”

  “No strings. Nothing. Just you and me and dinner.”

  “I’m married…”

  “To a man who finds it convenient to break his vows whenever he likes. No strings, Whitney.”

  She took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. “All right, yes. Fine. A date.”

  Jackson couldn’t help the smile that took over. He plucked the keycard out of her hand and swiped the door open. “My lady, your chambers.”

  Whitney took the keycard and walked into the room. Walking in, she trailed the luggage in behind her. She parked it next to the door and turned to look around. Glancing back, she let the door go, to allow it close on its own.

  She peered out at Jackson standing there. “My goodness, that’s a big bed.”

  Click.

  Shit. Little tease.

  Jackson wasn’t sure what to expect. Especially after the episode in the hall yesterday. He’d put the scare on her, and then begged her to go out with him.

  The door to Whitney’s room edged open and she cautiously peered through the slim crack allowed by the security latch. “Safety first, right?” she said, giggling.

  “Absolutely.” Jackson liked the lighthearted greeting. It sounded good on her. He refrained from telling her that a standard-issue hotel-room safety lock provided only a modicum of safety. In fact, he didn’t even want to think about it. He wasn’t relying on the hotel safety provisions to keep her safe. He was relying on the fact that, aside from him and her sister, no one knew where Whitney was staying. And—face it—he wanted to be the one to keep her safe.

  She closed the door again and heard the lock slide over. “It would be horrible if something happened after you spent all this money to keep me here,” she said, throwing the door wide this time.

  Not horrible, he thought. It would be damn near debilitating.

  “Come in. I just need to grab my purse.”

  Jackson walked all the way into the room and gave it a once over. There was nothing particularly special about the room. Like the lock, it was a standard issue, middle-of-the-road hotel room. But, he hoped it was nice enough and she was comfortable. He’d hated ripping her out of her home, but there hadn’t really been any other option. Until Geddings was locked away, her safety was the most important thing.

  “What?” Whitney asked, looking around to appraise the room with him. “It’s nice.”

  Jackson shrugged. “It’s adequate. I wish I could put you up somewhere nicer.” And safer.

  Whitney reached for his arm. Though her touch was light, it nearly burned through him. “It’s better than okay, Jackson. It’s amazing. I swear; that’s one of the most comfortable beds I’ve ever slept in. You should try it out.”

  Jackson’s gaze narrowed on the king-size bed. It suddenly felt like it took up all the space in the room. It was almost as if it was nudging him to come closer, to lay down and get comfortable. He couldn’t stop the natural progression of his dirty mind. Hell, she’d practically invited him into her bed. Hadn’t she?

  In an instant, he imagined stretching out on it with Whitney straddling him. He would let her take control at first, because that’s what she would need after living with her tyrant of a husband. Then he’d lace his fingers through her hair and gently pull it back to expose her neck. He would kiss his way up, starting at her delicate collarbone and ending at her perfectly plump lips. She would taste sweet. He knew every bit of her would taste oh, so sweet. There were so many places he would like to run his tongue. He would savor every second of it. But once he got started, he knew he wouldn’t stop until she was screaming his name.

  Screaming his name? What the fuck was he thinking?

  Talk about putting the cart before he horse.

  Whitney had no business straddling or being flipped over by anyone right now. She’d been put through the ringer not more than a few days ago. Besides, this was just their first date. He knew things had changed a lot since he’d dated Lana, but he didn’t think you usually got horizontal on the first date. Not if you wanted it to go somewhere later.

  How far did he want this to go?

  All the way. He wanted something to happen with Whitney Geddings. Something inappropriate. Something that could possibly get him in a lot of trouble. But he wanted to get to know her first. He wanted her to know him.

  Whitney followed Jackson’s gaze, and as though she were reading his thoughts, turned a deep shade of crimson. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t saying you should get in bed with me. I just meant, I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and the bed
is actually very comfortable. The room’s nice. It’s not like I’m used to staying at the Ritz Carleton.”

  Her nervous chatter only made her more irresistible, causing Jackson’s pants to grow a little tighter. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to try to make it a little less noticeable, but all it did was draw Whitney’s attention to his crotch. When her eyes nearly popped out of her head, his dick wasn’t the only bulging thing in the room.

  “My pleasure,” Jackson said, trying to diffuse the situation with a nonchalant shrug. Whitney looked at his face and then looked at his crotch again, her eyes still bugging out of her head.

  “Pleasure, huh?”

  Christ on a cracker. Could this get any more awkward? I am definitely rusty on this dating thing.

  “I think we’re getting off track here” He cleared his throat. “Shall we go before I say something that makes you more uncomfortable than you already are?”

  Whitney regained her composure. She grinned wickedly at him. “I’m not uncomfortable, Jackson. It appears that you’re the one who might be uncomfortable.”

  “You have no idea,” he mumbled, pulling the door open for Whitney to pass.

  Whitney smiled easily. “Such a gentleman,” she offered on her way out the door.

  “Yeah, right,” he snorted. “You’re not wearing the sling. Is your arm feeling better?”

  “Much, thank you,” she said.

  “Good. Because you’re going to need it for what I have in mind. You have your key, right?”

  She patted the clutch stowed under her arm. “Yep. Ready to roll.”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Whitney asked, eyeing the gun suspiciously, as if it were going to attack her at any moment.

  “I’m positive,” Jackson said, slamming the clip into place.

  “I’m pretty sure I have no business touching a gun.”

  “No. You have no business not having a gun. Don’t be intimidated. You’re in control here. This is just a piece of equipment. It has no purpose until you give it one. However, you always need to be mindful of where your safety is. That’s this here.” Jackson leaned closer to her to make sure she had a good view of where he was pointing. “And always, always know where you’re pointing it. Don’t aim it at another person unless you mean to use it.”