When I walk back into the living room after leaving Olive alone for the night, all I want to do is throw my head back and roar. Or run five miles. Or put on some boxing gloves and punch the shit out of a bag until the energy racing through my veins is quieted.

Why’d I bring her here? Now that I’m out of her presence and can take a breath and think, I realize that this is going to slow down my investigation into who killed Elle. My first priority right now should be her, not Red.

Pain stabs me in the gut as I feel like I might be betraying my dead wife.

Leaning back against the cushions, I sigh. “I swear, Elle. I’m going to find the man who did this to you. And then he’s going to take his last breath.”

Maybe I could deny it before…chalk it up to curiosity or mild interest in a beautiful woman. But now that I’ve been in close proximity with Olive for the past two hours, and extremely near her for the last fifteen minutes, there’s no denying shit.

There are serious fucking sparks between Olive Alexander and me. The kind you can’t ignore without going insane.

All I want to do is throw her on that bed in my guest room and have my goddamn way with her. Get it out of my system. Make her scream my name, just for a night. I can picture how it’ll feel to run my hands all over that creamy, smooth skin and then chase the trail with my tongue. Find little places to use my teeth so she gasps as I kiss the sting away. I want to peel all of those uptight business clothes off of her, inch by inch. And I could, dammit. I can see it in her eyes, this isn’t just one-sided. I think that despite the cool, aloof signals she tries to put off, she wants me, too. Her eyes rake me over when she thinks I’m not looking. Her body turns toward mine when she talks to me, like she doesn’t even know she’s doing it. God, if I could just get my hands on her, she’d respond. My mouth waters as I picture it, and I scrub a hand over my face.

Jesus.

What’s wrong with me? I just found a clue that could lead me straight to the killer I’ve been waiting to run into for the last seven years. And Olive Alexander wouldn’t just be some woman I’d spend the night with. No, I’ve had plenty of those over the years. She’s my best friend’s sister-in-law. She can’t be a one-night stand. And I’m not the kind of man who does anything halfway but, I’m too fucked-up inside…there’s no way I can give Olive the kind of relationship she probably wants, and definitely deserves.

After I lost Elle, something inside me broke. Any piece of me that was available to love someone else? That died right along with my wife. There’s no coming back from that. Not for me.

Groaning, I stride to the couch and sink down onto the cushions, dropping my face into my hands. I take a deep breath and then another, trying to calm my raging thoughts and the hectic, almost violent passion ramping up inside my body.

A ringing sound forces its way into my thoughts, and I move my hands away from my face as I freeze and listen.

Glancing around the room to search for the intrusive noise, my eyes land on Olive’s purse. The oversize, brown leather bag is sitting on the end table at the mouth of the entry hall. Rising from the couch, I walk toward it and grab hold, pivoting and heading for the closed guest room door.

Knocking softly, I lean my forehead against the wood and wait. No sound comes from within the room, and Olive’s phone stops ringing inside the purse clutched in my hand.

She’s probably asleep. And giving her the bag tonight isn’t worth waking her up. But if it was me, I’d want my phone with me. Okay, maybe I’m just giving myself validation to go into her room because I want to see her again.

With a sigh, I gently push the door open and scan the dimly lit bedroom. Empty. Then, Olive’s soft, off-key singing voice drifts toward me. I zero in on the bathroom door, sitting ajar, and a smirk crosses my lips as I listen to her sing her very own version of Adele’s “When We Were Young.” It’s so unexpected, and it’s cute as hell, and I’m drifting forward before I’ve given my feet permission to move. The shower’s not running, but I’m not stupid enough to push open the door without knocking.

“Olive?” My knuckles meet wood again.

The singing stops. Olive’s voice, slightly panicked, rises. “Ronin?”

I lift one arm overhead and grip the doorjamb. “Yeah…it’s me. I have your purse. Your phone was ringing. I thought you might want it?”

A pause. “Yeah, thanks. I’m, um, in the tub. Could you leave it on the bed?”

My eyes slam shut. Instantly, an image of her body, soaking wet, bubbles clinging to her skin, blazes into my mind. My body reacts, my dick going painfully hard in my jeans, the zipper digging into me with a vengeance. Fuck. Me.

“Ronin?” Her voice wavers with uncertainty.

Clearing my throat, I try really hard to pull my shit together. “Uh, yeah. I’m here. I’ll put it on the bed. Let me know if you need anything.”

It takes every ounce of strength I have to turn around and stride out of that room, dropping the purse on the bed as I pass. Shutting the guest room door behind me, I lean against it and take a breath.

My mind in a slight panic, I try to bring Elle’s face into my head to replace Olive’s. When I’m able to picture my wife instead of the woman singing in the bathtub, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Having Olive in my space? It’s fucking with my head, big-time. I’ll be lucky if I don’t end up doing something unforgiveable before it’s all over.

When Olive enters the kitchen the next morning she’s in her full work attire. Her charcoal-gray skirt smooths over her hips and my eye is drawn there first as she sashays into the room on nude heels. Then the olive-green blouse she wears pulls my gaze because she’s left two buttons undone at the top and there’s an expanse of creamy skin exposed above the valley of cleavage that calls out to me like a goddamn song. When I finally find her eyes I discover them locked on mine, two pools of evening sky searching my gaze with a question in them. Her hair is piled up on her head the way it normally is. She’s sleek and polished and put together, because, as I now know, it’s rare that anyone ever catches Olive in any other way. Last night was a huge exception to the rule, and it isn’t lost on me, now that she’s staying here, that I might get to see her undone more and more. A small thrill zings through my body at the thought.

“What?” I’m leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in my hands. I got up with the sun this morning the way I always do, heading down to the fitness center for a workout.

Clothed now in nothing but black sweatpants and a smile I observe the drag and pull of her eyes as they skitter across my bare torso, almost like it’s against her will.

“I…” She clears her throat. “If you’re not ready I can totally drive myself, Ronin.”

Sipping my coffee I refrain from rolling my eyes. “Actually, you can’t. Your car is at the office. And I want to keep an eye on you until we figure out who wrecked your house last night.”

Jeremy’s warning about the fact that Olive might have something going on that we don’t know about decks me in the gut. If she’s in trouble…

No. Don’t go there. You don’t know anything yet. It’s not like before.

She huffs out a breath, two spots of color glowing in her cheeks. The sight of her flustered and frustrated brings a smirk to my lips. I don’t know why; it’s a jerk move for sure. But seeing her getting wound up makes me want to see just how far I can push her.

The thought surprises me, because it’s not my usual style. I’m not the guy who pushes a woman’s buttons. I’m the kind of guy who finds out what makes them feel good and then leaves before anything gets complicated.

Her hands rest on her hips. “I don’t know why all you ex-army men think your one job in life is to ‘protect the womenfolk.’ I can take care of myself, Ronin. I don’t need a bodyguard.”

My mind instantly spins toward the faint memory of another woman, standing with her hands on her hips, miles of dark, wild hair floating all around her. Her words were so similar to the ones Olive just uttered.

“You don’t have to worry about me while you’re deployed, Ronin. I can take care of myself.”

But Elle’s lilting tone was full of tease and tenderness. Olive’s is full of sass and fire.

Shaking my head and brushing off the memory, I school my expression and push off the cabinet. “Wait here. Grab coffee. I’ll be ready soon.”

With that, I turn on my heel and stride to my bedroom. I don’t mean to slam the door shut as hard as I do, but my muscles twitch when the door rattles in the frame. Marching into the bathroom, I jerk the handle on the shower until the water is running full blast and whirl toward the sink.

Gripping the gray marble with both hands until the pressure causes pain, I stare at my reflection.

She’s right. Who the fuck are you kidding? You can’t protect her…if she’s in trouble, you’ll fail her. Just like you failed Elle.

The words in my head mock me as I stare at my reflection. The emotion building inside my chest is almost too much for me to handle, and I clench a fist in preparation to shove it into the glass with every ounce of power I have.

Trembling, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. In through my nose and out through my mouth. Again.

Again.

When I open my eyes my heartbeat is no longer slamming through my ears. My breathing isn’t ragged and heavy. My fingers have relaxed against the granite. I sigh, shoving my hands through my hair.

“She’s not Elle. She’s not in the kind of trouble Elle was in. I’m not going to fail her. Olive is going to be fine.”

It’s a mantra I’m going to have to keep repeating, keep telling myself, until I actually believe it.

Olive is not Elle.

Dropping my sweatpants, I step into the shower. The warm water cascades over my shoulders and down my chest, and I stand there for a minute to gather my thoughts.

Remembering the irritation on Olive’s face when she basically told me she didn’t need me sends a shot of annoyance through me. Why does that bother me so much? The last thing I need is for someone to rely on me, right? But thinking about Olive wanting me, depending on me, needing me? That brings another element of interest to the table. I realize I want this woman to want me, and that realization shoots an unexpected surge of need straight to my dick.

With a groan, I lean forward until my hands meet tile and squeeze my eyes shut. Growing stiffer by the second, images of the gorgeous redhead standing in my kitchen start to roll through my mind on a loop. Unable to help myself, I take my steel-hard length in one hand and stroke. My bottom lip gets caught between my teeth as I imagine her hand gripping me tightly, her little fist working me the way I imagine she can: hard and fast. Sparks crackle in my veins, my blood heating as I jerk, my stance widening and my other hand fisting against the tiled shower wall.

It only takes a few minutes until my imagination combined with my movements brings me to the fucking edge. Hissing through my teeth as I come, the warmth of my release mixes with the heat of the water streaming down all around me and stars explode behind my eyes with the sheer force of it.

Goddamn. I can’t remember the last time I exploded with this kind of force on my own. Whatever Olive Alexander is doing to me is quickly becoming undeniable, no matter how hard I’m trying to downplay it.

It’s unnerving as hell. Because all I ever do is fuck. There’re no feelings and there are no attachments. It’s the only thing I’m capable of. When I lost Elle, I knew I’d never be the same. I’d never again be the kind of man who could allow a woman to worm her way into his heart, because all that’s left in my chest where my heart should be is a gaping hole.

At least that’s how it’s been for the last seven years.

But if that’s still true, then why, after all this time, is the nonexistent muscle starting to beat again when I think of Olive?