Chapter 7: Keeping Secrets

"As little as possible," Deke said.

"Oh?" Whitney said from the doorway.

Deke hadn't noticed the water had stopped running. He hoped she hadn't heard the references to goblins. That would take some explaining, which he wasn't interested in doing. He rose. Her wet hair was slicked back from her bare face. The look on her face spelled determination. She was even more beautiful now. Even as he thought that, he reminded himself that he didn't want to see Whitney that way.

"I've made you some food," he said.

She eyed him, and then Trent, who seemed overly interested in his plate. As gargoyles—and former military—they shouldn't have been afraid of a woman who was a little spit of a thing, compared to them. Then again, the shortest drill sergeants were usually the toughest—and the smallest dogs were far more likely to attack than the biggest ones were.

With that in mind, Deke retrieved the plate and put it at the place he'd set for her. Would his fried rice soothe the savage beast?

She slid onto the stool in front of the plate, never taking her gaze from his. Her green eyes studied him, but he wasn't going to flinch under the scrutiny. The room seemed to hold its breath—until she took a bite. "This is very good, but this conversation is only put on hold." She pointed her fork at him. "It isn't over."

Deke flashed a smile. "We'll talk."

She waved a hand as she dug into the food, as if she hadn't eaten in years. "You made this?"

Deke settled back onto his own stool. "You sound surprised."

She looked him up and down. "You don't look domesticated."

Domesticated?

Trent laughed. "Oh, that he'll never be."

She put her fork down. "Now, tell me what happened tonight. You know, the thing you don't want to tell me about."

***

Whitney was a reporter, and she could smell a story. This one stunk like a three-day-old corpse in August. She didn't know what happened, but she was getting the impression the man who dropped at her feet hadn't truly stepped off a tall building.

She emptied her plate, then put down her fork. That man could cook, but she refused to get distracted by a plate of food—or his ability to fill her stomach. Stress-eating was never a great idea, but she'd been hungry—and he'd known she would be. That was sweet, but she had to remember he'd brought her there so that she could interview him. As much as she liked his culinary skills—and the way he filled out his jeans—he remained the enemy. He stood between her and a good story. She would need all her mettle to stand up to him.

Deke moved about the kitchen, cleaning up. Trent looked as if he wanted to be anywhere else.

"Well?" she prompted.

"I don't trust reporters," Deke said.

At least she knew where she stood.

He leaned against the counter, his sinewy arms crossed over his impressive chest.

Stop looking at his chest. She took in his eyes. They were so dark, she could get lost in them. Not today. "Fine. Then, I'll leave."

The two men shot each other a glance.

"That's not a good idea," Deke said.

"Am I a prisoner here?" she asked.

"No. You're here because you saw a dead body, and it may be more than we think it is," Trent said.

Deke growled.

Trent shrugged. "If you're going to keep her safe, you're going to have to tell her something."

Deke frowned. "Okay. We think the person was murdered."

"You mean someone pushed them off the building?"

"Sure."

"Okay. So, I might have been a murder witness?"

Deke nodded, then went on. "We called the cops when everyone was gone, but if that was a murder, and the murderer saw you, then you aren't safe."

She swallowed hard. When she'd thought of the story, she hadn't expected to be a part of it. "Uh, okay. So, what's the plan?"

"We'll have to do some digging," Trent said. "Meanwhile, you stay here with Deke."

"Digging? I have sources. You just pointed out I'm a reporter."

"You write for the society page," Deke said. He hadn't moved. He hadn't rolled his eyes. His words expressed everything he felt. Those words chafed at her—both because it was the truth and because of what he obviously thought of her job.

"I've cultivated other sources," she argued.

Trent rose. "Still. You're safe here."

"If I managed to get Deke's number and address, why can't someone else?" she said. "How can I be safe here? Besides, my father is important. No one would take me out." She hoped. Would her father protect her? She didn't really know.

"We've covered our tracks better this time around," Trent said. "No one will know we were on that roof. No one will know to look for Deke."

She looked from one to the other. They weren't budging. She'd have to figure out another tactic. "I guess I'm staying."

They looked relieved, but she knew she had something to hold over them. Suddenly, she was important to them, and she needed to find out why. Why were they protecting her?

"Good. I have a few guest rooms for you to choose from," Deke said.

"I'll be on my way. Thanks for the food," Trent said, then left.

Suddenly, the room grew warm. Was it the large man in front of her? Now that she was alone with him, she realized he had quite the presence. Feeling out of sorts—which wasn't like her—she asked, "You got a beer?"

A chuckle rumbled out of him. "As many as you want."

***

Deke woke from a dead sleep and knew something was wrong. He couldn't count the number of years it had been since he'd had to hone those instincts. They were still there, despite his safe life. Good to know. He strained to listen for any odd sounds. Having periodically been plagued by insomnia, he knew the normal sounds of his townhouse at night. His neighbors were early risers, so they didn't often make noise in what was most likely the middle of the night. He snagged his phone off his nightstand. Three in the morning. He listened again as he pulled on his pants and shrugged into a shirt. He slept naked but with clothing close by—just in case.

As he stood in the middle of his dark bedroom, he heard the door shift.