Page 47 of Liberated By Sin
That struck me as unlikely, considering the kid could barely speak three words.
“Does he?”
When a smile stretched across the Detective’s face, neither confirming nor denying his claim, I knew it was bullshit. He simply needed a reason to talk to me. I could read men and their intentions like a book. But I had to admit, this one confused me because when he looked at me, his eyes never wandered from mine, his grin was never seedy, and he never crept into my personal space like the men at Illusion or life in general. Raymond Braga had ulterior motives, and I was suddenly intrigued about what those were.
“I’m sorry to be blunt, but I have to ask. Have you been avoiding me?”
There it was.
“Should I be avoiding you, Detective?”
His jaw twitched slightly, and his eyes thinned just enough for me to notice.
“Absolutelynot…”
“But?”
“Amara, these streets are not kind to pretty girls alone at night. I’ve gone to one too many crime scenes where luck didn’t fall in their favor. I’ve noticed you coming and going at strange hours, and—”
“Detective, with respect, you’re not my father. And I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”
He looked away from me, lips in a tight line. It was obvious he was biting his tongue.
“I’ll see you around,” I said, ending the conversation.
“Amara…”
Or not.
“Are you hurt?” I followed his gaze, fixed on the back of my leg, to a dried streak of blood.
Shit.
“Yeah, I caught myself on some metal at the park. I must have missed this when I was cleaning up.”
Raymond glanced at his watch. “You were at Hyde Park this late?”
Questions, questions. What was it with everyone and their damn interrogations?
“Sometimes I have trouble sleeping. That’s all,” I bit out, harsher than intended.
“What keeps you up at night?”
Something about Detective Braga forced me to keep my sharp tongue in check, maybe because he reminded me of home. His kind eyes crinkled at the corners, similar to my father’s. And he spoke my native language. Apart from Lorenzo, he was the only man who expected nothing of me but conversation.
“Life.” Traces of grief laced my voice. “That’s what keeps me up.”
The strict lines of his face softened at my confession.
“Amara, my wife was murdered on her way home from work two years ago. You remind me a lot of her when we first met. I’m not trying to pry into your business. I would just hate to see something bad happen to you.”
Everything bad happened to me.
His eyes misted unexpectedly, and his throat bobbed as he seemed to fight back emotions.
“I appreciate your concern. I really do. And I’m sorry about your wife.”
Detective Braga gingerly tipped my chin, like a father would his child, and I let him. Maybe I was losing my edge, or Santino had chipped away at the walls around my heart.