Guarding the Socialite Read Online Free PDF Page B

purpose here. Where else can you spend a day at work and go home feeling as if you’ve made a difference in someone’s life?”
    â€œSo she’s on the payroll?” he asked.
    â€œYes. She’s my assistant.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you send Chick to identify Charlotte’s body? Surely that must’ve been terrible for you.”
    â€œIt was awful,” she agreed, then met his stare and held it as she said, “But why would it be any less horrible for Chick? She’d known Charlotte as long as I had. Besides, the boarders of Iris House are my responsibility. I don’t take that lightly.”
    He believed her. The fierce flare in her eyes told him thatmuch and more. Emma Vale was a mystery begging to be uncovered, and he was drawn to that unknown variable in the worst way. Was it because she reminded him so much of Tana? They seemed to share that self-contained quality that hinted at great depth but kept people at a distance with the emotional equivalent of an electric fence. Even their hair color was similar. A shocking question poked at him. Was he attracted to Emma because of Tana? He shook off the fear. They were alike in some ways, but even as much as he’d been taken with Tana, he was feeling something quite different with Emma, which was damn unsettling.
    Worse than inappropriate. Worse than ill timed. Just plain…bad.
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    Emma’s chest tightened with the need to breathe freely, but around Agent McIntyre she felt constantly on edge. Law enforcement did not generally rattle her cage, nor was she a badge bunny, prone to salivating at the sight of a uniform. In fact, often quite the opposite was the case as most times her dealings with police were taxing at best. Cops—at least the ones she’d been subjected to in her association with her boarders—were surly, obnoxious and downright rude. Prostitutes represented a mountain of paperwork for very little reward. The judges let them off because there were bigger fish to fry in the city, and the cops ended up feeling ineffectual, which was often a nasty cocktail when handling men hyped up on misplaced machismo. But she knew simply by looking at Dillon McIntyre that he wasn’t cut from the same cloth as some of the men she dealt with on an everyday basis. There was a quiet, understated strength that radiated from those dark eyes that was impossible to miss in spite of that lingering flippant sarcasm that saturated his voice when he spoke. And that accent, stubbornly clinging to his inflections, sent a thrill skipping across her pulse points,awakening her senses when that door ought to be shut, locked and perhaps padlocked for good measure.
    When had she become such a deep well of bubbling hormones? She gave herself a subtle shake and returned her attention to what he was saying in just the nick of time.
    â€œI have an idea,” he said suddenly. “You can call me Dillon and I’ll call you Emma,” he supplied as if it were the most sensible thing in the world when it most certainly was not. She couldn’t imagine that was proper procedure and she hoped her expression echoed that sentiment.
    â€œI don’t think that’s appropriate,” she demurred quietly; just the thought of feeling his name on her tongue felt delicious and sinful. Her gaze surreptitiously drifted to his ring finger and bounced away when she saw it was bereft of a wedding ring. So he wasn’t wearing a ring. It meant nothing. Many men, particularly in law enforcement, didn’t wear a ring. “I would feel more comfortable keeping the professional lines drawn,” she said truthfully. She could only imagine how easy it might be to trip over that line with too much familiarity. Yet, for a moment she allowed herself to savor the idea of such a possibility. Lord, she needed to date more often. This forced moratorium on dating and sex had pickled her brain. Painful as it was, she forced an image of