More Than Friends (The Warriors) Read Online Free

nothing heavy. Perhaps some soup or a salad."
    Leaning down, she studied the nametags on two of the bags. Leah Holbrook. She vaguely remembered someone calling her Leah at the clinic. She also noticed that the third piece of luggage, a battered black leather carry–on, was untagged. She straightened, her eyes repeatedly straying to Brett as she wandered around the spacious sitting room.
    She watched and listened as he picked up the phone and asked the operator to ring room service. After giving their order, he re–cradled the receiver.
    "Stay put. I’ll be right back," he promised.
    He disappeared without another word, swiftly checking the layout and potential security problems of the suite’s bedrooms and bathrooms. Along the way, he discovered a window that needed to be secured. He stepped back into the sitting room a few minutes later.
    Leah, seated on the sofa, shrugged out of his leather jacket just as he re–entered the room. Her expression intent, she inspected the contents of the purse he’d handed to her earlier. She considered the wallet the most logical place to start as she tried to cope with her mounting anxiety.
    Who am I?
she wondered as she unsnapped the wallet and flipped it open.
Damn it, who am I?
    "Leah?" he said, as though in response to her silent question.
    Startled by the sound of his voice, she glanced up at him. She gripped the wallet with both hands until her knuckles turned white, and she smothered the apprehension threatening to overwhelm her by the sheer force of her will. "Yes?"
    "Need anything?" he asked.
    She shivered and thought,
just an encapsulated version of my life.
"Not at the moment," she lied, determined not to reveal her escalating inner panic. All she really wanted to do was crawl into his arms and be held until her fear retreated and she recalled the life attached to the name Leah Holbrook.
    Brett crossed the room and paused in front of the French doors that led out onto the suite’s balcony. She used the time to study him as he tested the sturdiness of the locks. Broad–shouldered, narrow–hipped, long–legged, and tall, he reminded her of professional athletes who trained regularly.
    Her gaze dipped. She saw that his gun was still wedged into the back waistband of his jeans. He seemed unaware of it, and Leah concluded that carrying a weapon must be a part of his everyday life. She also decided that it suited his manner, which was that of a man who insisted on total control of his environment, not just the people in it.
    Although she suspected that he was a cop, she thought his hair seemed a bit long for someone in law enforcement. She wondered then if he worked undercover. An unexpected thought entered her mind. Had she broken the law? She immediately rejected the notion, because she knew on some instinctive level that she wasn’t a criminal.
    She met his intense expression when he turned to look at her. And, once again, Leah took in the strong lines of his hard–featured face and the almost fathomless darkness of his eyes.
    The structure of his face provoked a vague memory of a painting she must have seen at some point in her life. The artist had captured her subject with boldly aggressive strokes. Leah sensed that this man was bold and aggressive, but he also reassured her in an odd, indefinable way. Yes, he made her feel safe, but he also made her insides melt like heated honey atop a flame every time he looked at her.
    Had she correctly read a hint of sensual knowledge in the sweep of his gaze? Were they lovers? she wondered suddenly. He’d touched her like a lover. She imagined for a moment what intimacy between them might be like, and the erotic images that filled her mind stunned her. Heat flooded her veins as she stared back at him in the silence of the sitting room.
    Leah forced her attention back to the wallet, which contained a California driver’s license, several credit cards, and a few photographs. Even though her head still hurt and her senses remained