Free Manhattan Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance Book 2) by Mira Gibson Page B

you’re alone. I have to assume he knows you live here and knows where you work. He probably has a good handle on when you go out by yourself to take photos.”
    “But...” she cut in, yet her point didn’t flow easily out of her. She composed herself, drawing in a deep breath and drinking more wine. “If this Reilly character is dirty, if he took my camera to cover the whole thing up, then what are Vishnevsky and Avandeyev worried about? I’m no one.”
    “But I’m not,” he said. “I’m a cop and I chased Vishnevsky last night.”
    Stunned, she felt her eyes widen and almost blamed him, but how could she? He was the only person who cared about her and the bottom line was that someone had been killed at the pier and if Kevin was the only cop actually doing something about it, then that was commendable not deplorable.
    “If Reilly really is covering this up, if he’s collecting some kind of payment to keep whatever Avandeyev and his men do quiet, then the crime family is obviously going to have a big problem with the fact that I went after Vishnevsky. I don’t know how Reilly is going to come down on me for this or when, but he will.”
    “I’m not really hearing a solution here,” she said, trying not to sound terrified.
    “There isn’t one, not yet, which is why I need you to stay safe, stay around other people, don’t wonder off on your own.”
    Again, she laughed, but this time it was out of frustration. “No one is available to spend hours with me as I take photos around the city.”
    “It’s not forever, just for a little while.”
    “I don’t have a little while,” she shot back. “I’m not going to put my life on hold.”
    She’d lost his attention. His gaze was fixed on her knees and when he reached out to touch her jeans, she leaned forward to see what he was looking at.
    There were two dark stains on the knees of her jeans. She touched the left and her kneecap zinged. Her fingertips, she realized glancing at them, were damp with blood.
    “From the fall,” she supplied and Kevin rose off the couch and took her hand, examining her palm, which was bruised, purple.
    “You hit the ground hard,” he concluded, standing.
    “I should get changed.”
    “Do you have any disinfectant?”
    “Probably,” she said, getting to her feet, which brought her chest-to-chest with him in the cramped space. “It doesn’t hurt,” she softly added.
    “That’s good.”
    As she made her way to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet, Kevin followed tightly behind.
    “Damn,” he said under his breath, glancing around at the comically small bathroom.
    The sink was practically angled over the toilet and the shower was so close that its plastic curtain billowed into the medicine cabinet.
    “It’s called affordable,” she stated. “I can’t stand living with anyone else.”
    She found a tube of Neosporin and a box of Bandaids and set them on the porcelain sink counter, but Kevin, maneuvering around her in a way that had him brushing up against her, took the items and told her to have a seat.
    She smirked, because he’d forgotten one critical step.
    “I should change out of these jeans,” she said, but he was already setting the items on the sink and taking hold of her waistband.
    Her breath hitched in her throat as he made gentle work of popping the button loose. When he drew the zipper down, she let out an unsteady exhale, their faces very close to one another, nearly cheek-to-cheek.
    With her jeans undone, he gave them a little tug downward and Tasha instinctively draped her hands over his shoulders for balance.
    She was glad she’d put some thought into her underwear that morning. As he worked the stretch denim over her hips and slid her jeans down her thighs, lowering onto his knees, he realized the lavender, lace panties she was wearing. She thought she heard him groan softly at the sight.
    Feeling his cool breath against her legs, she stepped out of her shoes and jeans, one foot at a